{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5114/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5114","id":"gutenberg_5114","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5114","summary":null,"tags":["Angels -- Fiction","Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Paranormal fiction","Reincarnation -- Fiction","Religion -- Fiction","Time travel -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nARDATH\n\nTHE STORY OF A DEAD SELF\n\n\nBY MARIE CORELLI\n\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THELMA,\" ETC.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART I.--SAINT AND SCEPTIC\n\n\n     \"What merest whim\n     Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame\n     To one who keeps within his steadfast aim\n     A love immortal, an Immortal too!\n     Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true\n     And never can be borne of atomics\n     That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies\n     Leaving us fancy-sick. No, I am sure\n     My restless spirit never could endure\n     To brood so long upon one luxury.\n     Unless it did, though fearfully, espy\n     A HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!\"\n\n             KEATS.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE MONASTERY.\n\n\nDeep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was gathering.\nDrear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of Dariel,--that\nterrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to hang between the\ntoppling frost-bound heights above and the black abysmal depths\nbelow,--clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green and white, drifted\nheavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks where, looming largely out\nof the mist, the snow-capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose coldly white\nagainst the darkness of the threatening sky. Night was approaching,\nthough away to the west a road gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the\nbreast of heaven, showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now and\nagain the rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral\npines that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluctant earth,\nclung tenaciously to their stony vantageground; and mingling with its\nwailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse roaring as of tumbling\ntorrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard the sweeping thud\nof an avalanche slipping from point to point on its disastrous downward\nway. Through the wreathing vapors the steep, bare sides of the near\nmountains were pallidly visible, their icy pinnacles, like uplifted\ndaggers, piercing with sharp glitter the density of the low-hanging\nhaze, from which large drops of moisture began presently to ooze rather\nthan fall. Gradually the wind increased, and soon with sudden fierce\ngusts shook the pine-trees into shuddering anxiety,--the red slit in\nthe sky closed, and a gleam of forked lightning leaped athwart the\ndriving darkness. An appalling crash of thunder followed almost\ninstantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly grand echoes on\nall sides of the Pass, and then--with a swirling, hissing rush of\nrain--the unbound hurricane burst forth alive and furious. On, on!\nsplitting huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws, swelling the\nrivers into riotous floods that swept hither and thither, carrying with\nthem masses of rock and stone and tons of loosened snow--on, on! with\npitiless force and destructive haste, the tempest rolled, thundered,\nand shrieked its way through Dariel. As the night darkened and the\nclamor of the conflicting elements grew more sustained and violent, a\nsudden sweet sound floated softly through the turbulent air--the slow,\nmeasured tolling of a bell. To and fro, to and fro, the silvery chime\nswung with mild distinctness--it was the vesper-bell ringing in the\nMonastery of Lars far up among the crags crowning the ravine. There the\nwind roared and blustered its loudest; it whirled round and round the\nquaint castellated building, battering the gates and moving their heavy\niron hinges to a most dolorous groaning; it flung rattling hailstones\nat the narrow windows, and raged and howled at every corner and through\nevery crevice; while snaky twists of lightning played threateningly\nover the tall iron Cross that surmounted the roof, as though bent on\nstriking it down and splitting open the firm old walls it guarded. All\nwas war and tumult without:--but within, a tranquil peace prevailed,\nenhanced by the grave murmur of organ music; men's voices mingling\ntogether in mellow unison chanted the Magnificat, and the uplifted\nsteady harmony of the grand old anthem rose triumphantly above the\nnoise of the storm. The monks who inhabited this mountain eyrie, once a\nfortress, now a religious refuge, were assembled in their little\nchapel--a sort of grotto roughly hewn out of the natural rock. Fifteen\nin number, they stood in rows of three abreast, their white woollen\nrobes touching the ground, their white cowls thrown back, and their\ndark faces and flashing eyes turned devoutly toward the altar whereon\nblazed in strange and solitary brilliancy a Cross of Fire. At the first\nglance it was easy to see that they were a peculiar Community devoted\nto some peculiar form of worship, for their costume was totally\ndifferent in character and detail from any such as are worn by the\nvarious religious fraternities of the Greek, Roman, or Armenian faith,\nand one especial feature of their outward appearance served as a\ndistinctly marked sign of their severance from all known monastic\norders--this was the absence of the disfiguring tonsure. They were all\nfine-looking men seemingly in the prime of life, and they intoned the\nMagnificat not drowsily or droningly, but with a rich tunefulness and\nwarmth of utterance that stirred to a faint surprise and contempt the\njaded spirit of one reluctant listener present among them. This was a\nstranger who had arrived that evening at the monastery, and who\nintended remaining there for the night--a man of distinguished and\nsomewhat haughty bearing, with a dark, sorrowful, poetic face, chiefly\nremarkable for its mingled expression of dreamy ardor and cold scorn,\nan expression such as the unknown sculptor of Hadrian's era caught and\nfixed in the marble of his ivy-crowned Bacchus-Antinous, whose\nhalf-sweet, half-cruel smile suggests a perpetual doubt of all things\nand all men. He was clad in the rough-and-ready garb of the travelling\nEnglishman, and his athletic figure in its plain-cut modern attire\nlooked curiously out of place in that mysterious grotto which, with its\nrocky walls and flaming symbol of salvation, seem suited only to the\npicturesque prophet-like forms of the white-gowned brethren whom he now\nsurveyed, as he stood behind their ranks, with a gleam of something\nlike mockery in his proud, weary eyes.\n\n\"What sort of fellows are these?\" he mused--\"fools or knaves? They must\nbe one or the other,--else they would not thus chant praises to a Deity\nof whose existence there is, and can be, no proof. It is either sheer\nignorance or hypocrisy,--or both combined. I can pardon ignorance, but\nnot hypocrisy; for however dreary the results of Truth, yet Truth alone\nprevails; its killing bolt destroys the illusive beauty of the\nUniverse, but what then? Is it not better so than that the Universe\nshould continue to seem beautiful only through the medium of a lie?\"\n\nHis straight brows drew together in a puzzled, frowning line as he\nasked himself this question, and he moved restlessly. He was becoming\nimpatient; the chanting of the monks grew monotonous to his ears; the\nlighted cross on the altar dazzled him with its glare. Moreover he\ndisliked all forms of religious service, though as a lover of classic\nlore it is probable he would have witnessed a celebration in honor of\nApollo or Diana with the liveliest interest. But the very name of\nChristianity was obnoxious to him. Like Shelley, he considered that\ncreed a vulgar and barbarous superstition. Like Shelley, he inquired,\n\"If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced?\" He began to wish\nhe had never set foot inside this abode of what he deemed a pretended\nsanctity, although as a matter of fact he had a special purpose of his\nown in visiting the place-a purpose so utterly at variance with the\nprofessed tenets of his present life and character that the mere\nthought of it secretly irritated him, even while he was determined to\naccomplish it. As yet he had only made acquaintance with two of the\nmonks, courteous, good-humored personages, who had received him on his\narrival with the customary hospitality which it was the rule of the\nmonastery to afford to all belated wayfarers journeying across the\nperilous Pass of Dariel. They had asked him no questions as to his name\nor nation, they had simply seen in him a stranger overtaken by the\nstorm and in need of shelter, and had entertained him accordingly. They\nhad conducted him to the refectory, where a well-piled log fire was\ncheerfully blazing, and there had set before him an excellent supper,\nflavored with equally excellent wine. He had, however, scarcely begun\nto converse with them when the vesper-bell had rung, and, obedient to\nits summons, they had hurried away, leaving him to enjoy his repast in\nsolitude. When he had finished it, he had sat for a while dreamily\nlistening to the solemn strains of the organ, which penetrated to every\npart of the building, and then moved by a vague curiosity to see how\nmany men there were dwelling thus together in this lonely retreat,\nperched like an eagle's nest among the frozen heights of Caucasus, he\nhad managed to find his way, guided by the sound of the music, through\nvarious long corridors and narrow twisting passages, into the cavernous\ngrot where he now stood, feeling infinitely bored and listlessly\ndissatisfied. His primary object in entering the chapel had been to get\na good full view of the monks, and of their faces especially,--but at\npresent this was impossible, as from the position he was obliged to\noccupy behind them their backs alone were visible.\n\n\"And who knows,\" he thought moodily, \"how long they will go on intoning\ntheir dreary Latin doggerel? Priestcraft and Sham! There's no escape\nfrom it anywhere, not even in the wilds of Caucasus! I wonder if the\nman I seek is really here, or whether after all I have been misled?\nThere are so many contradictory stories told about him that one doesn't\nknow what to believe. It seems incredible that he should be a monk; it\nis such an altogether foolish ending to an intellectual career. For\nwhatever may be the form of faith professed by this particular\nfraternity, the absurdity of the whole system of religion remains the\nsame. Religion's day is done; the very sense of worship is a mere\ncoward instinct--a relic of barbarism which is being gradually\neradicated from our natures by the progress of civilization. The world\nknows by this time that creation is an empty jest; we are all beginning\nto understand its bathos! And if we must grant that there is some\nmischievous supreme Farceur who, safely shrouded in invisibility,\ncontinues to perpetrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own\namusement and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire his wit\nor flatter his ingenuity! For life is nothing but vexation and\nsuffering; are we dogs that we should lick the hand that crushes us?\"\n\nAt that moment, the chanting suddenly ceased. The organ went on, as\nthough musically meditating to itself in minor cords, through which\nsoft upper notes, like touches of light on a dark landscape, flickered\nripplingly,--one monk separated himself from the clustered group, and\nstepping slowly up to the altar, confronted the rest of his brethren.\nThe fiery Cross shone radiantly behind him, its beams seeming to gather\nin a lustrous halo round his tall, majestic figure,--his countenance,\nfully illumined and clearly visible, was one never to be forgotten for\nthe striking force, sweetness, and dignity expressed in its every\nfeature. The veriest scoffer that ever made mock of fine beliefs and\nfair virtues must have been momentarily awed and silenced in the\npresence of such a man as this,--a man upon whom the grace of a perfect\nlife seemed to have fallen like a royal robe, investing even his\noutward appearance with spiritual authority and grandeur. At sight of\nhim, the stranger's indifferent air rapidly changed to one of eager\ninterest,--leaning forward, he regarded him intently with a look of\nmingled astonishment and unwilling admiration,--the monk meanwhile\nextended his hands as though in blessing and spoke aloud, his Latin\nwords echoing through the rocky temple with the measured utterance of\npoetical rhythm. Translated they ran thus:\n\n\"Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal!\"\n\nAnd with one harmonious murmur of accord the brethren responded:\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God, the Ruler of Spirits and Master of Angels!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God who in love never wearies of loving!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God in the Name of His Christ our Redeemer!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God for the joys of the Past, the Present and Future!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God for the Power of Will and the working of Wisdom!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\n\"Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of death, and the\npromised Immortal Hereafter!\"\n\n\"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!\"\n\nThen came a pause, during which the thunder outside added a tumultuous\nGloria of its own to those already recited,--the organ music died away\ninto silence, and the monk now turning so that he faced the altar, sank\nreverently on his knees. All present followed his example, with the\nexception of the stranger, who, as if in deliberate defiance, drew\nhimself resolutely up to his full height, and, folding his arms, gazed\nat the scene before him with a perfectly unmoved demeanor,--he expected\nto hear some long prayer, but none came. There was an absolute\nstillness, unbroken save by the rattle of the rain-drops against the\nhigh oriel window, and the whistling rush of the wind. And as he\nlooked, the fiery Cross began to grow dim and pale,--little by little,\nits scintillating lustre decreased, till at last it disappeared\naltogether, leaving no trace of its former brilliancy but a small\nbright flame that gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed Star\nwhich sparkled through the gloom like a suspended ruby. The chapel was\nleft almost in complete darkness--he could scarcely discern even the\nwhite figures of the kneeling worshippers,--a haunting sense of the\nSupernatural seemed to permeate that deep hush and dense shadow,--and\nnotwithstanding his habitual tendency to despise all religious\nceremonies, there was something novel and strange about this one which\nexercised a peculiar influence upon his imagination. A sudden odd fancy\npossessed him that there were others present besides himself and the\nbrethren,--but who these \"others\" were, he could not determine. It was\nan altogether uncanny, uncomfortable impression--yet it was very strong\nupon him--and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard the\nsoft melody of the organ once more, and saw the oaken doors of the\ngrotto swing wide open to admit a flood of cheerful light from the\nouter passage. The vespers were over,--the monks rose and paced forth\ntwo by two, not with bent heads and downcast eyes as though affecting\nan abased humility, but with the free and stately bearing of kings\nreturning from some high conquest. Drawing a little further back into\nhis retired corner, he watched them pass, and was forced to admit to\nhimself that he had seldom or never seen finer types of splendid,\nhealthful, and vigorous manhood at its best and brightest. As noble\nspecimens of the human race alone they were well worth looking\nat,--they might have been warriors, princes, emperors, he\nthought--anything but monks. Yet monks they were, and followers of that\nChristian creed he so specially condemned,--for each one wore on his\nbreast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a\njewelled star.\n\n\"Cross and Star!\" he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular\ndecoration, \"an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning ... what?\nSalvation and Immortality? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on\nshifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty\nwords, signifying nothing! Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I\nwonder? or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned\nfaith?\"\n\nAnd he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures\nwent by--ten had already left the chapel. Two more passed, then other\ntwo, and last of all came one alone--one who walked slowly, with a\ndreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought.\nThe light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced--it\nwas the monk who had recited the Seven Glorias. The stranger no sooner\nbeheld him than he instantly stepped forward and touched him on the arm.\n\n\"Pardon!\" he said hastily in English, \"I think I am not mistaken--your\nname is, or used to be Heliobas?\"\n\nThe monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful salutation,\nand smiled.\n\n\"I have not changed it,\" he replied, \"I am Heliobas still.\" And his\nkeen, steadfast, blue eyes rested half inquiringly, half\ncompassionately, on the dark, weary, troubled face of his questioner\nwho, avoiding his direct gaze, continued:\n\n\"I should like to speak to you in private. Can I do so\nnow--to-night--at once?\"\n\n\"By all means!\" assented the monk, showing no surprise at the request.\n\"Follow me to the library, we shall be quite alone there.\"\n\nHe led the way immediately out of the chapel, and through a stone-paved\nvestibule, where they were met by the two brethren who had first\nreceived and entertained the unknown guest, and who, not finding him in\nthe refectory where they had left him, were now coming in search of\nhim. On seeing in whose company he was, however, they drew aside with a\ndeep and reverential obeisance to the personage called Heliobas--he,\nsilently acknowledging it, passed on, closely attended by the stranger,\ntill he reached a spacious, well-lighted apartment, the walls of which\nwere entirely lined with books. Here, entering and closing the door, he\nturned and confronted his visitor--his tall, imposing figure in its\ntrailing white garments calling to mind the picture of some saint or\nevangelist--and with grave yet kindly courtesy, said:\n\n\"Now, my friend, I am at your disposal! In what way can Heliobas, who\nis dead to the world, serve one for whom surely as yet the world is\neverything?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nCONFESSION.\n\n\nHis question was not very promptly answered. The stranger stood still,\nregarding him intently for two of three minutes with a look of peculiar\npensiveness and abstraction, the heavy double fringe of his long dark\nlashes giving an almost drowsy pathos to his proud and earnest eyes.\nSoon, however, this absorbed expression changed to one of sombre scorn.\n\n\"The world!\" he said slowly and bitterly. \"You think _I_ care for the\nworld? Then you read me wrongly at the very outset of our interview,\nand your once reputed skill as a Seer goes for naught! To me the world\nis a graveyard full of dead, worm-eaten things, and its supposititious\nCreator, whom you have so be praised in your orisons to-night, is the\nSexton who entombs, and the Ghoul who devours his own hapless Creation!\nI myself am one of the tortured and dying, and I have sought you simply\nthat you may trick me into a brief oblivion of my doom, and mock me\nwith the mirage of a life that is not and can never be! How can you\nserve me? Give me a few hours' respite from wretchedness! that is all I\nask!\"\n\nAs he spoke his face grew blanched and haggard, as though he suffered\nfrom some painfully repressed inward agony. The monk Heliobas heard him\nwith an air of attentive patience, but said nothing; he therefore,\nafter waiting for a reply and receiving none, went on in colder and\nmore even tones:\n\n\"I dare say my words seem strange to you--though they should not do so\nif, as reported, you have studied all the varying phases of that purely\nintellectual despair which, in this age of excessive over-culture,\ncrushes men who learn too much and think too deeply. But before going\nfurther I had better introduce myself. My name is Alwyn ...\"\n\n\"Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume?\" interposed the monk\ninterrogatively.\n\n\"Why, yes!\" this in accents of extreme surprise--\"how did you know\nthat!\"\n\n\"Your celebrity,\" politely suggested Heliobas, with a wave of the hand\nand an enigmatical smile that might have meant anything or nothing.\n\nAlwyn colored a little. \"Your mistake,\" he said indifferently, \"I have\nno celebrity. The celebrities of my country are few, and among them\nthose most admired are jockeys and divorced women. I merely follow in\nthe rear-line of the art or profession of literature--I am that always\nunluckiest and most undesirable kind of an author, a writer of verse--I\nlay no claim, not now at any rate, to the title of poet. While recently\nstaying in Paris I chanced to hear of you ...\"\n\nThe monk bowed ever so slightly--there was a dawning gleam of satire in\nhis brilliant eyes.\n\n\"You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before you\nadopted this monastic life?\" pursued Alwyn, glancing at him curiously.\n\n\"Did I?\" and Heliobas looked cheerfully interested. \"Really I was not\naware of it, I assure you! Possibly my ways and doings may have\noccasionally furnished the Parisians with something to talk about\ninstead of the weather, and I know I made some few friends and an\nastonishing number of enemies, if that is what you mean by distinction\nand renown!\"\n\nAlwyn smiled--his smile was always reluctant, and had in it more of\nsadness than sweetness, yet it gave his features a singular softness\nand beauty, just as a ray of sunlight falling on a dark picture will\nbrighten the tints into a momentary warmth of seeming life.\n\n\"All reputation means that, I think,\" he said, \"unless it be\nmediocre--then one is safe; one has scores of friends, and scarce a\nfoe. Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays--nobody hates it,\nbecause every one feels how easily they themselves can attain to it.\nExceptional talent is aggressive--actual genius is offensive; people\nare insulted to have a thing held up for their admiration which is\nentirely out of their reach. They become like bears climbing a greased\npole; they see a great name above them--a tempting sugary morsel which\nthey would fain snatch and devour--and when their uncouth efforts fail,\nthey huddle together on the ground beneath, look up with dull, peering\neyes, and impotently snarl! But you,\"--and here his gazed rested\ndoubtfully, yet questioningly, on his companion's open, serene\ncountenance--\"you, if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame\nYOUR bears and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant! Your\nmarvellous achievements as a mesmerist--\"\n\n\"Excuse me!\" returned Heliobas quietly, \"I never was a mesmerist.\"\n\n\"Well-as a spiritualist then; though I cannot admit the existence of\nany such thing as spiritualism.\"\n\n\"Neither can I,\" returned Heliobas, with perfect good-humor, \"according\nto the generally accepted meaning of the term. Pray go on, Mr. Alwyn!\"\n\nAlwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain how to proceed. A\ncurious sense of irritation was growing up in his mind against this\nmonk with the grand head and flashing eyes--eyes that seemed to strip\nbare his innermost thoughts, as lightning strips bark from a tree.\n\n\"I was told,\" he continued after a pause, during which he had\napparently considered and prepared his words, \"that you were chiefly\nknown in Paris as being the possessor of some mysterious internal\nforce--call it magnetic, hypnotic, or spiritual, as you please--which,\nthough perfectly inexplicable, was yet plainly manifested and evident\nto all who placed themselves under your influence. Moreover, that by\nthis force you were able to deal scientifically and practically with\nthe active principle of intelligence in man, to such an extent that you\ncould, in some miraculous way, disentangle the knots of toil and\nperplexity in an over-taxed brain, and restore to it its pristine\nvitality and vigor. Is this true? If so, exert your power upon me,--for\nsomething, I know not what, has of late frozen up the once overflowing\nfountain of my thoughts, and I have lost all working ability. When a\nman can no longer work, it were best he should die, only unfortunately\nI cannot die unless I kill myself,--which it is possible I may do ere\nlong. But in the meantime,\"--he hesitated a moment, then went on, \"in\nthe meantime, I have a strong wish to be deluded--I use the word\nadvisedly, and repeat it--DELUDED into an imaginary happiness, though I\nam aware that as an agnostic and searcher after truth--truth absolute,\ntruth positive--such a desire on my part seems even to myself\ninconsistent and unreasonable. Still I confess to having it; and\ntherein, I know, I betray the weakness of my nature. It may be that I\nam tired \"--and he passed his hand across his brow with a troubled\ngesture--\"or puzzled by the infinite, incurable distress of all living\nthings. Perhaps I am growing mad!--who knows!--but whatever my\ncondition, you,--if report be correct,--have the magic skill to ravish\nthe mind away from its troubles and transport it to a radiant Elysium\nof sweet illusions and ethereal ecstasies. Do this for me, as you have\ndone it for others, and whatever payment you demand, whether in gold or\ngratitude, shall be yours.\"\n\nHe ceased; the wind howled furiously outside, flinging gusty dashes of\nrain against the one window of the room, a tall arched casement that\nclattered noisily with every blow inflicted upon it by the storm.\nHeliobas gave him a swift, searching glance, half pitying, half\ndisdainful.\n\n\"Haschisch or opium should serve your turn,\" he said curtly. \"I know of\nno other means whereby to temporarily still the clamorings of\nconscience.\"\n\nAlwyn flushed darkly. \"Conscience!\" he began in rather a resentful tone,\n\n\"Aye, conscience!\" repeated Heliobas firmly. \"There is such a thing. Do\nyou profess to be wholly without it?\"\n\nAlwyn deigned no reply--the ironical bluntness of the question annoyed\nhim.\n\n\"You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. Alwyn,\" continued\nHeliobas, \"an opinion which neither honors your courtesy nor your\nintellect--pardon me for saying so. You ask me to 'mock' and 'delude'\nyou as if it were my custom and delight to make dupes of my suffering\nfellow-creatures! You come to me as though I were a mesmerist or\nmagnetizer such as you can hire for a few guineas in any civilized city\nin Europe--nay, I doubt not but that you consider me that kind of\nso-called 'spiritualist' whose enlightened intelligence and\nheaven-aspiring aims are demonstrated in the turning of tables and\ngeneral furniture-gyration. I am, however, hopelessly deficient in such\nknowledge. I should make a most unsatisfactory conjurer! Moreover,\nwhatever you may have heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I\nam in Paris no longer. I am a monk, as you see, devoted to my vocation;\nI am completely severed from the world, and my duties and occupations\nin the present are widely different to those which employed me in the\npast. Then I gave what aid I could to those who honestly needed it and\nsought it without prejudice or personal distrust; but now my work among\nmen is finished, and I practice my science, such as it is, on others no\nmore, except in very rare and special cases.\"\n\nAlwyn heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an expression of\nfrigid hauteur.\n\n\"I suppose I am to understand by this that you will do nothing for me?\"\nhe said stiffly.\n\n\"Why, what CAN I do?\" returned Heliobas, smiling a little. \"All you\nwant--so you say--is a brief forgetfulness of your troubles. Well, that\nis easily obtainable through certain narcotics, if you choose to employ\nthem and take the risk of their injurious action on your bodily system.\nYou can drug your brain and thereby fill it with drowsy suggestions of\nideas--of course they would only he SUGGESTIONS, and very vague and\nindefinite ones too, still they might be pleasant enough to absorb and\nrepress bitter memories for a time. As for me, my poor skill would\nscarcely avail you, as I could promise you neither self-oblivion nor\nvisionary joy. I have a certain internal force, it is true--a spiritual\nforce which when strongly exercised overpowers and subdues the\nmaterial--and by exerting this I could, if I thought it well to do so,\nrelease your SOUL--that is, the Inner Intelligent Spirit which is the\nactual You--from its house of clay, and allow it an interval of\nfreedom. But what its experience might be in that unfettered condition,\nwhether glad or sorrowful, I am totally unable to predict.\"\n\nAlwyn looked at him steadfastly.\n\n\"You believe in the Soul?\" he asked.\n\n\"Most certainly!\"\n\n\"As a separate Personality that continues to live on when the body\nperishes?\"\n\n\"Assuredly.\"\n\n\"And you profess to be able to liberate it for a time from its mortal\nhabitation--\"\n\n\"I do not profess,\" interposed Heliobas quietly. \"I CAN do so.\"\n\n\"But with the success of the experiment your power ceases?--you cannot\nforetell whether the unimprisoned creature will take its course to an\ninferno of suffering or a heaven of delight?--is this what you mean?\"\n\nHeliobas bent his head in grave assent.\n\nAlwyn broke into a harsh laugh--\"Come then!\" he exclaimed with a\nreckless air,--\"Begin your incantations at once! Send me hence, no\nmatter where, so long as I am for a while escaped from this den of a\nworld, this dungeon with one small window through which, with the death\nrattle in our throats, we stare vacantly at the blank unmeaning honor\nof the Universe! Prove to me that the Soul exists--ye gods! Prove it!\nand if mine can find its way straight to the mainspring of this\nrevolving Creation, it shall cling to the accused wheels and stop them,\nthat they may grind out the tortures of Life no more!\"\n\nHe flung up his hand with a wild gesture: his countenance, darkly\nthreatening and defiant, was yet beautiful with the evil beauty of a\nrebellious and fallen angel. His breath came and went quickly,--he\nseemed to challenge some invisible opponent. Heliobas meanwhile watched\nhim much as a physician might watch in his patient the workings of a\nnew disease, then he said in purposely cold and tranquil tones:\n\n\"A bold idea! singularly blasphemous, arrogant, and--fortunately for us\nall--impracticable! Allow me to remark that you are overexcited, Mr.\nAlwyn; you talk as madmen may, but as reasonable men should not. Come,\"\nand he smiled,--a smile that was both grave and sweet, \"come and sit\ndown--you are worn out with the force of your own desperate\nemotions--rest a few minutes and recover your self.\"\n\nHis voice thouqh gentle was distinctly authoritative, and Alwyn meeting\nthe full gaze of his calm eyes felt bound to obey the implied command.\nHe therefore sank listlessly into an easy chair near the table, pushing\nback the short, thick curls from his brow with a wearied movement; he\nwas very pale,--an uneasy sense of shame was upon him, and he\nsighed,--a quick sigh of exhausted passion. Heliobas seated himself\nopposite and looked at him earnestly, he studied with sympathetic\nattention the lines of dejection and fatigue which marred the\nattractiveness of features otherwise frank, poetic, and noble. He had\nseen many such men. Men in their prime who had begun life full of high\nfaith, hope, and lofty aspiration, yet whose fair ideals once bruised\nin the mortar of modern atheistical opinion had perished forever, while\nthey themselves, like golden eagles suddenly and cruelly shot while\nflying in mid-air, had fallen helplessly, broken-winged among the\ndust-heaps of the world, never to rise and soar sunwards again.\nThinking this, his accents were touched with a certain compassion when\nafter a pause he said softly:\n\n\"Poor boy!--poor, puzzled, tired brain that would fain judge Infinity\nby merely finite perception! You were a far truer poet, Theos Alwyn,\nwhen as a world-foolish, heaven-inspired lad you believed in God, and\ntherefore, in godlike gladness, found all things good!\"\n\nAlwyn looked up--his lips quivered.\n\n\"Poet--poet!\" he murmured--\"why taunt me with the name?\" He started\nupright in his chair--\"Let me tell you all,\" he said suddenly; \"you may\nas well know what has made me the useless wreck I am; though perhaps I\nshall only weary you.\"\n\n\"Far from it,\" answered Heliobas gently. \"Speak freely--but remember I\ndo not compel your confidence.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I think you do!\" and again that faint, half-mournful\nsmile shone for an instant in his deep, dark eyes, \"though you may not\nbe conscious of it. Anyhow I feel impelled to unburden my heart to you:\nI have kept silence so long! You know what it is in the world, ... one\nmust always keep silence, always shut in one's grief and force a smile,\nin company with the rest of the tormented, forced-smiling crowd. We can\nnever be ourselves--our veritable selves--for, if we were, the air\nwould resound with our ceaseless lamentations! It is HORRIBLE to think\nof all the pent-up sufferings of humanity--all the inconceivably\nhideous agonies that remain forever dumb and unrevealed! When I was\nyoung,--how long ago that seems! yes, though my actual years are taut\nthirty, I feel an alder-elde of accumulated centuries upon me--when I\nwas young, the dream of my life was Poesy. Perhaps I inherited the\nfatal love of it from my mother--she was a Greek-and she had a subtle\nmusic in her that nothing could quell, not even my father's English\ncoldness. She named me Theos, little guessing what a dreary sarcasm\nthat name would prove! It was well, I think, that she died early.\"\n\n\"Well for her, but perhaps not so well for you,\" said Heliobas with a\nkeen, kindly glance at him.\n\nAlwyn sighed. \"Nay, well, for us both,--for I should have chafed at her\nloving restraint, and she would unquestionably have been disappointed\nin me. My father was a conscientious, methodical business man, who\nspent all his days up to almost the last moment of his life in amassing\nmoney, though it never gave him any joy so far as I could see, and when\nat his death I became sole possessor of his hardly-earned fortune, I\nfelt far more sorrow than satisfaction. I wished he had spent his gold\non himself and left me poor, for it seemed to me I had need of nothing\nsave the little I earned by my pen--I was content to live an anchorite\nand dine off a crust for the sake of the divine Muse I worshipped.\nFate, however, willed it otherwise,--and though I scarcely cared for\nthe wealth I inherited, it gave me at least one blessing--that of\nperfect independence. I was free to follow my own chosen vocation, and\nfor a brief wondering while I deemed myself happy, ... happy as Keats\nmust have been when the fragment of 'Hyperion' broke from his frail\nlife as thunder breaks from a summer-cloud. I was as a monarch swaying\na sceptre that commanded both earth and heaven; a kingdom was mine-a\nkingdom of golden ether, peopled with shining shapes Protean,--alas!\nits gates are shut upon me now, and I shall enter it no more!\"\n\n\"'No more' is a long time, my friend!\" interposed Heliobas gently. \"You\nare too despondent,--perchance too diffident, concerning your own\nability.\"\n\n\"Ability!\" and he laughed wearily. \"I have none,--I am as weak and\ninapt as an untaught child--the music of my heart is silenced! Yet\nthere is nothing I would not do to regain the ravishment of the\npast--when the sight of the sunset across the hills, or the moon's\nsilver transfiguration of the sea filled me with deep and indescribable\necstasy--when the thought of Love, like a full chord struck from a\nmagic harp, set my pulses throbbing with delirious delight--fancies\nthick as leaves in summer crowded my brain--Earth was a round charm\nhung on the breast of a smiling Divinity--men were gods--women were\nangels'--the world seemed but a wide scroll for the signatures of\npoets, and mine, I swore, should be clearly written!\"\n\nHe paused, as though ashamed of his own fervor, and glanced at\nHeliobas, who, leaning a little forward in his chair was regaling him\nwith friendly, attentive interest; then he continued more calmly:\n\n\"Enough! I think I had something in me then,--something that was new\nand wild and, though it may seem self praise to say so, full of that\nwitching glamour we name Inspiration; but whatever that something was,\ncall it genius, a trick of song, what you will,--it was soon crushed\nout of me. The world is fond of slaying its singing buds and devouring\nthem for daily fare--one rough pressure of finger and thumb on the\nlittle melodious throats, and they are mute forever. So I found, when\nat last in mingled pride, hope, and fear I published my poems, seeking\nfor them no other recompense save fair hearing and justice. They\nobtained neither--they were tossed carelessly by a few critics from\nhand to hand, jeered at for a while, and finally flung back to me as\nlies--lies all! The finely spun web of any fancy,--the delicate\ninterwoven intricacies of thought,--these were torn to shreds with as\nlittle compunction as idle children feel when destroying for their own\ncruel sport the velvety wonder of a moth's wing, or the radiant rose\nand emerald pinions of a dragon-fly. I was a fool--so I was told with\nmany a languid sneer and stale jest--to talk of hidden mysteries in the\nwhisper of the wind and the dash of the waves--such sounds were but\ncommon cause and effect. The stars were merely conglomerated masses of\nheated vapor condensed by the work of ages into meteorites and from\nmeteorites into worlds--and these went on rolling in their appointed\norbits, for what reason nobody knew, but then nobody cared! And\nLove--the key-note of the theme to which I had set my mistaken life in\ntune--Love was only a graceful word used to politely define the low but\nvery general sentiment of coarse animal attraction--in short, poetry\nsuch as mine was altogether absurd and out of date when confronted with\nthe facts of every-day existence--facts which plainly taught us that\nman's chief business here below was simply to live, breed, and die--the\nlife of a silk-worm or caterpillar on a slightly higher platform of\nability; beyond this--nothing!\"\n\n\"Nothing?\" murmured Heliobas, in a tone of suggestive inquiry--\"really\nnothing?\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" repeated Alwyn, with an air of resigned hopelessness; \"for I\nlearned that, according to the results arrived at by the most advanced\nthinkers of the day, there was no God, no Soul, no Hereafter--the\nloftiest efforts of the highest heaven--aspiring minds were doomed to\nend in non-fruition, failure, and annihilation. Among all the\ndesperately hard truths that came rattling down upon me like a shower\nof stones, I think this was the crowning one that killed whatever\ngenius I had. I use the word 'genius' foolishly--though, after all,\ngenius itself is nothing to boast of, since it is only a morbid and\nunhealthy condition of the intellectual faculties, or at least was\ndemonstrated to me as such by a scientific friend of my own who, seeing\nI was miserable, took great pains to make me more so if possible. He\nproved,--to his own satisfaction if not altogether to mine,--that the\nabnormal position of certain molecules in the brain produced an\neccentricity or peculiar bias in one direction which, practically\nviewed, might be described as an intelligent form of monomania, but\nwhich most people chose to term 'genius,' and that from a purely\nscientific standpoint it was evident that the poets, painters,\nmusicians, sculptors, and all the widely renowned 'great ones' of the\nearth should be classified as so many brains more or less affected by\nabnormal molecular formation, which strictly speaking amounted to\nbrain-deformity. He assured me, that to the properly balanced,\nhealthily organized brain of the human animal, genius was an\nimpossibility--it was a malady as unnatural as rare. 'And it is\nsingular, very singular,' he added with a complacent smile, 'that the\nworld should owe all its finest art and literature merely to a few\nvarieties of molecular disease!' I thought it singular enough,\ntoo,--however, I did not care to argue with him; I only felt that if\nthe illness of genius had at any time affected ME, it was pretty well\ncertain I should now suffer no more from its delicious pangs and\nhoney-sweet fever. I was cured! The probing-knife of the world's\ncynicism had found its way to the musically throbbing centre of divine\ndisquietude in my brain, and had there cut down the growth of fair\nimaginations for ever. I thrust aside the bright illusions that had\nonce been my gladness; I forced myself to look with unflinching eyes at\nthe wide waste of universal Nothingness revealed to me by the rigid\npositivists and iconoclasts of the century; but my heart died within\nme; my whole being froze as it were into an icy apathy,--I wrote no\nmore; I doubt whether I shall ever write again. Of a truth, there is\nnothing to write about. All has been said. The days of the Troubadours\nare past,--one cannot string canticles of love for men and women whose\nruling passion is the greed of gold. Yet I have sometimes thought life\nwould be drearier even than it is, were the voices of poets altogether\nsilent; and I wish--yes! I wish I had it in my power to brand my\nsign-manual on the brazen face of this coldly callous age-brand it deep\nin those letters of living lire called Fame!\"\n\nA look of baffled longing and un gratified ambition came into his\nmusing eyes,-his strong, shapely white hand clenched nervously, as\nthough it grasped some unseen yet perfectly tangible substance. Just\nthen the storm without, which had partially lulled during the last few\nminutes, began its wrath anew: a glare of lightning blazed against the\nuncurtained window, and a heavy clap of thunder burst overhead with the\nsudden crash of an exploding bomb.\n\n\"You care for Fame?\" asked Ileliobas abruptly, as soon as the terrific\nuproar had subsided into a distant, dull rumbling mingled with the\npattering dash of hail.\n\n\"I care for it--yes!\" replied Alwyn, and his voice was very low and\ndreamy. \"For though the world is a graveyard, as I have said, full of\nunmarked tombs, still here and there we find graves, such as Shelley's\nor Byron's, whereon pale flowers, like sweet suggestions of\never-silenced music, break into continuous bloom. And shall I not win\nmy own death-garland of asphodel?\"\n\nThere was an indescribable, almost heart-rending pathos in his manner\nof uttering these last words--a hopelessness of effort and a despairing\nsense of failure which he himself seemed conscious of, for, meeting the\nfixed and earnest gaze of Ileliobas, he quickly relapsed into his usual\ntone of indolent indifference.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, with a forced smile, \"my story is not very\ninteresting! No hairbreadth escapes, no thrilling adventures, no love\nintrigues--nothing but mental misery, for which few people have any\nsympathy. A child with a cut finger gets more universal commiseration\nthan a man with a tortured brain and breaking heart, yet there can be\nno quotion as to which is the most intense duel long enduring anguish\nof the two. However, such as my troubles are I have told you all I have\nlaid bare my 'wound of living'--a wound that throbs and burns, and\naches, more intolerably with every pissing hour and day--it is not\nunnatural, I think, that I should seek for a little cessation of\nsuffering; a brief dreaming space in which to rest for a while, and\nescape from the deathful Truth--Truth, that like the flaming sword\nplaced east of the fabled garden of Eden, turns ruthlessly every way,\nkeeping us out of the forfeited paradise of imaginative aspiration,\nwhich made the men of old time great because they deemed themselves\nimmortal. It was a glorious faith! that strong consciousness, that in\nthe change and upheaval of whole universes the soul of man should\nforever over-ride disaster! But now that we know ourselves to be of no\nmore importance, relatively speaking, than the animalculae in a drop of\nstagnant water, what great works can be done, what noble deeds\naccomplished, in the face of the declared and proved futility of\neverything? Still, if you can, as you say, liberate me from this\nfleshly prison, and give me new sensations and different experiences,\nwhy then let me depart with all possible speed, for I am certain I\nshall find in the storm-swept areas of space nothing worse than life as\nlived in this present world. Remember, I am quite incredulous as to\nyour professed power--\" he paused and glanced at the white-robed,\npriestly figure opposite, then added, lightly, \"but I am curious to\ntest it all the same. Are you ready to being your spells?--and shall I\nsay the Nunc Dimittis?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nDEPARTURE.\n\n\nHeliobas was silent--he seemed engaged in deep and anxious\nthought,--and he kept his steadfast eyes fixed on Alwyn's countenance,\nas though he sought there the clew to some difficult problem.\n\n\"What do you know of the Nunc Dimittis?\" he asked at last, with a\nhalf-smile. \"You might as well say PATER NOSTER,--both canticle and\nprayer would be equally unmeaning to you! For poet as you are,--or let\nme say as you WERE,--inasmuch as no atheist was ever a poet at the same\ntime--\"\n\n\"You are wrong,\" interrupted Alwyn quickly. \"Shelley was an atheist.\"\n\n\"Shelley, my good friend, was NOT an atheist [Footnote: See the last\ntwo verses of Adonais]. He strove to be one,--nay, he made pretence to\nbe one,--but throughout his poems we hear the voice of his inner and\nbetter self appealing to that Divinity and Eternity which, in spite of\nthe material part of him, he instinctively felt existent in his own\nbeing. I repeat, poet as your WERE, and poet as you will be again when\nthe clouds on your mind are cleared,--you present the strange, but not\nuncommon spectacle of an Immortal Spirit fighting to disprove its own\nImmortality. In a word, you will not believe in the Soul.\"\n\n\"I cannot!\" said Alwyn, with a hopeless gesture.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Science can give us no positive proof of its existence; it cannot be\ndefined.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by Science?\" demanded Heliobas. \"The foot of the\nmountain, at which men now stand, grovelling and uncertain how to\nclimb? or the glittering summit itself which touches God's throne?\"\n\nAlwyn made no answer.\n\n\"Tell me,\" pursued Heliobas, \"how do you define the vital principle?\nWhat mysterious agency sets the heart beating and the blood flowing? By\nthe small porter's lantern of to-day's so-called Science, will you\nfling a light on the dark riddle of an apparently purposeless Universe,\nand explain to me why we live at all?\"\n\n\"Evolution,\" responded Alwyn shortly, \"and Necessity.\"\n\n\"Evolution from what?\" persisted Heliobas. \"From one atom? WHAT atom?\nAnd FROM WHENCE came the atom? And why the NECESSITY of any atom?\"\n\n\"The human brain reels at such questions!\" said Alwyn, vexedly and with\nimpatience. \"I cannot answer them--no one can!\"\n\n\"No one?\" Heliobas smiled very tranquilly. \"Do not be too sure of that!\nAnd why should the human brain 'reel'?--the sagacious, calculating,\nclear human brain that never gets tired, or puzzled, or\nperplexed!--that settles everything in the most practical and\ncommon-sense manner, and disposes of God altogether as an extraneous\nsort of bargain not wanted in the general economy of our little solar\nsystem! Aye, the human brain is a wonderful thing!--and yet by a sharp,\nwell-directed knock with this\"--and he took up from the table a\npaper-knife with a massive, silver-mounted, weighty horn-handle--\"I\ncould deaden it in such wise that the SOUL could no more hold any\ncommunication with it, and it would lie an inert mass in the cranium,\nof no more use to its owner than a paralyzed limb.\"\n\n\"You mean to infer that the brain cannot act without the influence of\nthe soul?\"\n\n\"Precisely! If the hands on the telegraph dial will not respond to the\nelectric battery, the telegram cannot be deciphered. But it would be\nfoolish to deny the existence of the electric battery because the dial\nis unsatisfactory! In like manner, when, by physical incapacity, or\ninherited disease, the brain can no longer receive the impressions or\nelectric messages of the Spirit, it is practically useless. Yet the\nSpirit is there all the same, dumbly waiting for release and another\nchance of expansion.\"\n\n\"Is this the way you account for idiocy and mania?\" asked Alwyn\nincredulously.\n\n\"Most certainly; idiocy and mania always come from man's interference\nwith the laws of health and of nature--never otherwise. The Soul placed\nwithin us by the Creator is meant to be fostered by man's unfettered\nWill; if man chooses to employ that unfettered Will in wrong\ndirections, he has only himself to blame for the disastrous results\nthat follow. You may perhaps ask why God has thus left our wills\nunfettered: the answer is simple--that we may serve Him by CHOICE and\nnot by COMPULSION. Among the myriad million worlds that acknowledge His\ngoodness gladly and undoubtingly, why should He seek to force unwilling\nobedience from us castaways!\"\n\n\"As we are on this subject,\" said Alwyn, with a tinge of satire in his\ntone, \"if you grant a God, and make Him out to be supreme Love, why in\nthe name of His supposed inexhaustible beneficence should we be\ncastaways at all?\"\n\n\"Because in our overweening pride and egotism we have ELECTED to be\nsuch,\" replied Heliobas. \"As angels have fallen, so have we. But we are\nnot altogether castaways now, since this signal,\" and he touched the\ncross on his breast, \"shone in heaven.\"\n\nAlwyn shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" he murmured coldly, \"with every desire to respect your\nreligious scruples, I really cannot, personally speaking, accept the\ntenets of a worn-out faith, which all the most intellectual minds of\nthe day reject as mere ignorant superstition. The carpenter's son of\nJudea was no doubt a very estimable person,--a socialist teacher whose\ndoctrines were very excellent in theory but impossible of practice.\nThat there was anything divine about Him I utterly deny; and I confess\nI am surprised that you, a man of evident culture, do not seem to see\nthe hollow absurdity of Christianity as a system of morals and\ncivilization. It is an ever-sprouting seed of discord and hatred\nbetween nations; it has served as a casus belli of the most fanatical\nand merciless character; it is answerable for whole seas of cruel and\nunnecessary bloodshed ...\"\n\n\"Have you nothing NEW to say on the subject?\" interposed Heliobas, with\na slight smile. \"I have heard all this so often before, from divers\nkinds of men both educated and ignorant, who have a willful habit of\nforgetting all that Christ Himself prophesied concerning His creed of\nSelf-renunciation, so difficult to selfish humanity: 'Think not that I\ncome to send peace on the earth. I come, not to send peace, but a\nsword.' Again 'Ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake.' ...\n'all ye shall be offended because of me.' Such plain words as these\nseem utterly thrown away upon this present generation. And do you know\nI find a curious lack of originality among so-called 'freethinkers'; in\nfact their thoughts can hardly be designated as 'free' when they all\nrun in such extremely narrow grooves of similitude--a flock of sheep\nmildly trotting under the guidance of the butcher to the slaughterhouse\ncould not be more tamely alike in their bleating ignorance as to where\nthey are going. Your opinions, for instance, differ scarce a whit from\nthose of the common boor who, reading his penny Radical paper, thinks\nhe can dispense with God, and talks of the 'carpenter's son of Judea'\nwith the same easy flippancy and scant reverence as yourself. The\n'intellectual minds of the day' to which you allude, are\nextraordinarily limited of comprehension, and none of them, literary or\notherwise, have such a grasp of knowledge as any of these dead and gone\nauthors,\" and he waved his hand toward the surrounding loaded\nbookshelves, \"who lived centuries ago, and are now, as far as the\ngeneral public is concerned, forgotten. All the volumes you see here\nare vellum manuscripts copied from the original slabs of baked clay,\nstone tablets, and engraved sheets of ivory, and among them is an\ningenious treatise by one Remeni Adranos, chief astronomer to the then\nking of Babylonia, setting forth the Atom and Evolution theory with far\nmore clearness and precision than any of your modern professors. All\nsuch propositions are old--old as the hills, I assure you; and these\ndays in which you live are more suggestive of the second childhood of\nthe world than its progressive prime. Especially in your own country\nthe general dotage seems to have reached a sort of climax, for there\nyou have the people actually forgetting, deriding, or denying their\ngreatest men who form the only lasting glories of their history; they\nhave even done their futile best to tarnish the unsoilable fame of\nShakespeare. In that land you,--who, according to your own showing,\nstarted for the race of life full of high hopes and inspiration to\nstill higher endeavor--you have been, poisoned by the tainted\natmosphere of Atheism which is slowly and insidiously spreading itself\nthrough all ranks, particularly among the upper classes, who, while\nbecoming every day more lax in their morals and more dissolute of\nbehavior, consider themselves far too wise and 'highly cultured' to\nbelieve in anything. It is a most unwholesome atmosphere, charged with\nthe morbidities and microbes of national disease and downfall; it is\ndifficult to breathe it without becoming fever-smitten; and in your\ndenial of the divinity of Christ, I do not blame you any more than I\nwould blame a poor creature struck down by a plague. You have caught\nthe negative, agnostic, and atheistical infection from others,--it is\nnot the natural, healthy condition of your temperament.\"\n\n\"On the contrary it IS, so far as that point goes,\" said Alwyn with\nsudden heat--\"I tell you I am amazed,--utterly amazed, that you, with\nyour intelligence, should uphold such a barbaric idea as the Divinity\nof Christ! Human reason revolts at it,--and after all, make as light of\nit as you will, reason is the only thing that exalts us a little above\nthe level of the beasts.\"\n\n\"Nay--the beasts share the gift of reason in common with us,\" replied\nHeliobas, \"and Man only proves his ignorance if he denies the fact.\nOften indeed the very insects show superior reasoning ability to\nourselves, any thoroughly capable naturalist would bear me out in this\nassertion.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" and Alwyn grew impatient--\"reason or no reason, I again\nrepeat that the legend on which Christianity is founded is absurd and\npreposterous,--why, if there were a grain of truth in it, Judas\nIscariot instead of being universally condemned, ought to be honored\nand canonized as the first of saints!\"\n\n\"Must I remind you of your early lesson days?\" asked Heliobas mildly.\n\"You will find it written in a Book you appear to have forgotten, that\nChrist expressly prophesied, 'Woe to that man' by whom He was betrayed.\nI tell, you, little as you credit it, there is not a word that the\nSinless One uttered while on this earth, that has not been or shall not\nbe in time fulfilled. But I do not wish to enter into any controversies\nwith you; you have told me your story,--I have heard it with\ninterest,--and I may add with sympathy. You are a poet, struck dumb by\nMaterialism because you lacked strength to resist the shock,--you would\nfain recover your singing-speech--and this is in truth the reason why\nyou have come to me. You think that if you could gain some of the\nstrange experiences which others have had while under my influence, you\nmight win back your lost inspiration--though you do not know WHY you\nthink this--neither do I--I can only guess.\"\n\n\"And your guess is...?\" demanded Alwyn with an air of affected\nindifference.\n\n\"That some higher influence is working for your rescue and safety,\"\nreplied Heliobas. \"What influence I dare not presume to imagine,\nbut--there are always angels near!\"\n\n\"Angels!\" Alwyn laughed aloud. \"How many more fairy tales are you going\nto weave for me out of your fertile Oriental imagination? Angels! ...\nSee here, my good Heliobas, I am perfectly willing to grant that you\nmay be a very clever man with an odd prejudice in favor of\nChristianity,--but I must request that you will not talk to me of\nangels and spirits or any such nonsense, as if I were a child waiting\nto be amused, instead of a full-grown man with ...\"\n\n\"With so full-grown an intellect that it has out-grown God!\" finished\nHeliobas serenely. \"Quite so! Yet angels, after all, are only immortal\nSouls such as yours or mine when set free of their earthly tenements.\nFor instance, when I look at you thus,\" and he raised his eyes with a\nlustrous, piercing glance--\"I see the proud, strong, and rebellious\nAngel in you far more distinctly than your outward shape of man ... and\nyou ... when you look at me--\"\n\nHe broke off, for Alwyn at that moment sprang from his chair, and,\nstaring fixedly at him, uttered a quick, fierce exclamation.\n\n\"Ah! I know you now!\" he cried in sudden and extraordinary\nexcitement--\"I know you well! We have met before!--Why,--after all that\nhas passed,--do we meet again?\"\n\nThis singular speech was accompanied by a still more singular\ntransfiguration of countenance--a dark, fiery glory burned in his eyes,\nand, in the stern, frowning wonder and defiance of his expression and\nattitude, there was something grand yet terrible,--menacing yet\nsupernaturally sublime. He stood so for an instant's space,\nmajestically sombre, like some haughty, discrowned emperor confronting\nhis conqueror,--a rumbling, long-continued roll of thunder outside\nseemed to recall him to himself, and he pressed his hand tightly down\nover his eyelids, as though to shut out some overwhelming vision. After\na pause he looked up again,--wildly, confusedly,--almost\nbeseechingly,--and Heliobas, observing this, rose and advanced toward\nhim.\n\n\"Peace!\" he said, in low, impressive tones,--\"we have recognized each\nother,--but on earth such recognitions are brief and soon forgotten!\"\nHe waited for a few seconds,--then resumed lightly, \"Come, look at me\nnow! ... what do you see?\"\n\n\"Nothing ... but yourself!\" he replied, sighing deeply as he\nspoke--\"yet ... oddly enough, a moment ago I fancied you had altogether\na different appearance,--and I thought I saw ... no matter what! ... I\ncannot describe it!\" His brows contracted in a puzzled line. \"It was a\ncurious phenomenon--very curious ... and it affected me strangely...\"\nhe stopped abruptly,--then added, with a slight flush of annoyance on\nhis face, \"I perceive you are an adept in the art of optical illusion!\"\n\nHeliobas laughed softly. \"Of course! What else can you expect of a\ncharlatan, a trickster, and a monk to boot! Deception, deception\nthroughout, my dear sir! ... and have you not ASKED to be deceived?\"\n\nThere was a fine, scarcely perceptible satire in his manner; he glanced\nat the tall oaken clock that stood in one corner of the room--its hands\npointed to eleven. \"Now, Mr. Alwyn,\" he went on, \"I think we have\ntalked quite enough for this evening, and my advice is, that you retire\nto rest, and think over what I have said to you. I am willing to help\nyou if I can,--but with your beliefs, or rather your non-beliefs, I do\nnot hesitate to tell you frankly that the exertion of MY internal force\nupon YOURS in your present condition might be fraught with extreme\ndanger and suffering. You have spoken of Truth, 'the deathful Truth';\nthis being, however, nothing but Truth according to the world's\nopinion, which changes with every passing generation, and therefore is\nnot Truth at all. There is another Truth--the everlasting Truth--the\npivot of all life, which never changes; and it is with this alone that\nmy science deals. Were I to set you at liberty as you desire,--were\nyour intelligence too suddenly awakened to the blinding awfulness of\nyour mistaken notions of life, death, and futurity, the result might be\nmore overpowering than either you or I can imagine! I have told you\nwhat I can do,--your incredulity does not alter the fact of my\ncapacity. I can sever you,--that is, your Soul, which you cannot\ndefine, but which nevertheless exists,--from your body, like a moth\nfrom its chrysalis; but I dare not even picture to myself what\nscorching flame the moth might not heedlessly fly into! You might in\nyour temporary state of release find that new impetus to your thoughts\nyou so ardently desire, or you might not,--in short, it is impossible\nto form a guess as to whether your experience might be one of supernal\necstasy or inconceivable horror.\" He paused a moment,--Alwyn was\nwatching him with a close intentness that bordered on fascination and\npresently he continued, \"It is best from all points of view, that you\nshould consider the matter more thoroughly than you have yet done;\nthink it over well and carefully until this time to-morrow--then, if\nyou are quite resolved--\"\n\n\"I am resolved NOW!\" said Alwyn slowly and determinately. \"If you are\nso certain of your influence, come! ... unbar my chains! ... open the\nprison-door! Let me go hence to-night; there is no time like the\npresent!\"\n\n\"To night!\" and Heliobas turned his keen, bright eyes full upon him,\nwith a look of amazement and reproach--\"To night' without faith,\npreparation or prayer, you are willing to be tossed through the realms\nof space like a grain of dust in a whirling tempest? Beyond the\nglittering gyration of unnumbered stars--through the sword-like flash\nof streaming comets--through darkness--through light--through depths of\nprofoundest silence--over heights of vibrating sound--you--YOU will\ndare to wander in these God-invested regions--you a blasphemer and a\ndoubter of God!\"\n\nHis voice thrilled with passion,--his aspect was so solemn, and\nearnest, and imposing that Alwyn, awed and startled, remained for a\nmoment mute--then, lifting his head proudly, answered--\n\n\"Yes, I DARE! If I am immortal I will test my immortality! I will face\nGod and find these angels you talk about! What shall prevent me?\"\n\n\"Find the angels!\" Heliobas surveyed him sadly as he spoke. \"Nay! ...\npray rather that they may find THEE!\" He looked long and steadfastly at\nAlwyn's countenance, on which there was just then the faint glimmer of\na rather mocking smile,--and as he looked, his own face darkened\nsuddenly into an expression of vague trouble and uneasiness--and a\nstrange quiver passed visibly through him from head to foot.\n\n\"You are bold, Mr. Alwyn,\"--he said at last, moving a little away from\nhis guest and speaking with some apparent effort--\"bold to a fault, but\nat the same time you are ignorant of all that lies behind the veil of\nthe Unseen. I should be much to blame if I sent you hence to-night,\nutterly unguided--utterly uninstructed. I myself must think--and\npray--before I venture to incur so terrible a responsibility. To-morrow\nperhaps--to-night, no! I cannot--moreover I will not!\"\n\nAlwyn flushed hotly with anger. \"Trickster!\" he thought. \"He feels he\nhas no power over me, and he fears to run the risk of failure!\"\n\n\"Did I hear you aright?\" he said aloud in cold determined accents. \"You\ncannot? you will not? ... By Heaven!\"--and his voice rose, \"I say you\nSHALL!\" As he uttered these words a rush of indescribable sensations\novercame him,--he seemed all at once invested with some mysterious,\ninvincible, supreme authority,--he felt twice a man and more than half\na god, and moved by an irresistible impulse which he could neither\nexplain nor control, he made two or three hasty steps forward,--when\nHeliobas, swiftly retreating, waved him off with an eloquent gesture of\nmingled appeal and menace.\n\n\"Back! back!\" he cried warningly. \"If you come one inch nearer to me I\ncannot answer for your safety--back, I say! Good God! you do not know\nyour OWN power!\"\n\nAlwyn scarcely heeded him,--some fatal attraction drew him on, and he\nstill advanced, when all suddenly he paused, trembling violently. His\nnerves began to throb acutely,--the blood in his veins was like\nfire,--there was a curious strangling tightness in his throat that\ninterrupted and oppressed his breathing,--he stared straight before him\nwith large, luminous, impassioned eyes. What--WHAT was that dazzling\nsomething in the air that flashed and whirled and shone like glittering\nwheels of golden flame? His lips parted ... he stretched out his hands\nin the uncertain manner of a blind man feeling his way ... \"Oh God! ...\nGod!\" ... he muttered as though stricken by some sudden\namazement,--then, with a smothered, gasping cry, he staggered and fell\nheavily forward on the floor--insensible!\n\nAt the self-same instant the window blew open, with a loud crash--it\nswung backward and forward on its hinges, and a torrent of rain poured\nthrough it slantwise into the room. A remarkable change had taken place\nin the aspect and bearing of Heliobas,--he stood as though rooted to\nthe spot, trembling from head to foot,--he had lost all his usual\ncomposure,--he was deathly pale, and breathed with difficulty.\nPresently recovering himself a little he strove to shut the swinging\ncasement, but the wind was so boisterous, that he had to pause a moment\nto gain strength for the effort, and instinctively he glanced out at\nthe tempestuous night. The clouds were scurrying over the sky like\ngreat black vessels on a foaming sea,--the lightning flashed\nincessantly, and the thunder reverberated Over the mountains in\ntremendous volleys as of besieging cannon. Stinging drops of icy sleet\ndashed his face and the front of his white garb as he inhaled the\nstormy freshness of the strong, upward-sweeping blast for a few\nseconds--and then, with the air of one gathering together all his\nscattered forces, he shut to the window firmly and barred it across.\nTurning now to the unconscious Alwyn, he lifted him from the floor to a\nlow couch near at hand, and there laid him gently down. This done, he\nstood looking at him with an expression of the deepest anxiety, but\nmade no attempt to rouse him from his death-like swoon. His own\nhabitual serenity was completely broken through,--he had all the\nappearance of having received some unexpected and overwhelming\nshock,--his very lips were blanched and quivered nervously.\n\nHe waited for several minutes, attentively watching the recumbent\nfigure before him, till gradually,--very gradually,--that figure took\nupon itself the pale, stern beauty of a corpse from which life has but\nrecently and painlessly departed. The limbs grew stiff and rigid--the\nfeatures smoothed into that mysteriously wise placidity which is so\noften seen in the faces of the dead,--the closed eyelids looked purple\nand livid as though bruised ... there was not a breath, not a tremor,\nto offer any outward suggestion of returning animation,--and when,\nafter some little time, Heliobas bent down and listened, there was no\npulsation of the heart ... it had ceased to beat! To all appearances\nAlwyn was DEAD--any physician would have certified the fact, though how\nhe had come by his death there was no evidence to show. And in that\ncondition, ... stirless, breathless ... white as marble, cold and\ninanimate as stone, Heliobas left him. Not in indifference, but in sure\nknowledge--knowledge far beyond all mere medical science--that the\nsenseless clay would in due time again arise to life and motion; that\nthe casket was but temporarily bereft of its jewel,--and that the jewel\nitself, the Soul of the Poet, had by a superhuman access of will,\nmanaged to break its bonds and escape elsewhere. But whither? ... Into\nwhat vast realms of translucent light or drear shadow? ... This was a\nquestion to which the mystic monk, gifted as he was with a powerful\nspiritual insight into \"things unseen and eternal,\" could find no\nsatisfactory answer, and in his anxious perplexity he betook himself to\nthe chapel, and there, by the red glimmer of the crimson star that\nshone dimly above the altar, he knelt alone and prayed in silence till\nthe heavy night had passed, and the storm had slain itself with the\nsword of its own fury on the dark slopes of the Pass of Dariel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\"ANGELUS DOMINE.\"\n\n\nThe next morning dawned pallidly over a sea of gray mist--not a glimpse\nof the landscape was visible--nothing but a shadowy vastness of\nfloating vapor that moved slowly fold upon fold, wave upon wave, as\nthough bent on blotting out the world. A very faint, chill light peered\nthrough the narrow arched window of the room where Alwyn lay, still\nwrapped in that profound repose, so like the last long sleep from which\nsome of our modern scientists tell us there can be no awakening. His\ncondition was unchanged,--the wan beams of the early clay falling cross\nhis features intensified their waxen stillness and pallor,--the awful\nmajesty of death was on him,--the pathetic helplessness and\nperishableness of Body without Spirit. Presently the monastery bell\nbegan to ring for matins, and as its clear chime struck through the\ndeep silence, the door opened, and Heliobas, accompanied by another\nmonk, whose gentle countenance and fine, soft eyes betokened the\nserenity of his disposition, entered the apartment. Together they\napproached the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the\nsupernaturally slumbering man.\n\n\"He is still far away!\" said Heliobas at last, sighing as he spoke. \"So\nfar away that my mind misgives me.... Alas, Hilarion! how limited is\nour knowledge! ... even with all the spiritual aids of spiritual life\nhow little can be accomplished! We learn one thing, and another\npresents itself--we conquer one difficulty, and another instantly\nsprings up to obstruct our path. Now if I had only had the innate\nperception required to foresee the possible flight of this released\nImmortal creature, might I not have saved it from some incalculable\nmisery and suffering?\"\n\n\"I think not,\" answered in rather musing accents the monk called\nHilarion--\"I think not. Such protection can never be exercised by mere\nhuman intelligence, if this soul is to be saved or shielded in its\ninvisible journeying it will be by some means that not all the marvels\nof our science can calculate. You say he was without faith?\"\n\n\"Entirely\"\n\n\"What was his leading principle?\"\n\n\"A desire for what he called Truth,\" replied Heliobas.\n\n\"He, like many others of his class, never took the trouble to consider\nvery deeply the inner meaning of Pilate's famous question, 'What IS\nTruth?' WE know what it is, as generally accepted--a few so called\nfacts which in a thousand years will all be contradicted, mixed up with\na few finite opinions propounded by unstable minded men. In brief,\nTruth, according to the world, is simply whatever the world is pleased\nto consider as Truth for the time being. 'Tis a somewhat slight thing\nto stake one's immortal destinies upon!\"\n\nHilarion raised one of Alwyn's cold, pulseless hands--it was stiff, and\nwhite as marble.\n\n\"I suppose,\" he said, \"there is no doubt of his returning hither?\"\n\n\"None whatever,\" answered Heliobas decisively. \"His life on earth is\nassured for many years yet,--inasmuch as his penance is not finished,\nhis recompense not won. Thus far my knowledge of his fate is certain.\"\n\n\"Then you will bring him back to-day?\" pursued Hilarion.\n\n\"Bring him back? I? I cannot!\" said Heliobas, with a touch of sad\nhumility in his tone. \"And for this very reason I feared to send him\nhence,--and would not have done so,--not without preparation at any\nrate,--could I have had my way. His departure was more strange than any\nI have ever known--moreover, it was his own doing, not mine. I had\npositively refused to exert my influence upon him, because I felt he\nwas not in my sphere, and that therefore neither I nor any of those\nhigher intelligences with which I am in communication could control or\nguide his wanderings. He, however, was as positively determined that I\nSHOULD exert it--and to this end he suddenly concentrated all the pent\nup fire of his nature in one rapid effort of Will, and advanced upon\nme.... I warned him, but in vain! quick as lightning flash meets\nlightning flash, the two invisible Immortal Forces within us sprang\ninto instant opposition,--with this difference, that while he was\nignorant and unconscious of HIS power, I was cognizant and fully\nconscious of MINE. Mine was focused, as it were, upon him,--his was\nuntrained and scattered,--the result was that mine won the victory:\nyet understand me well, Hilarion,--if I could have held myself in, I\nwould have done so. It was he,--he who DREW my force out of me as one\nwould draw a sword out of its scabbard--the sword may be ever so\nstiffly fixed in its sheath, but the strong hand will wrench it forth\nsomehow, and use it for battle when needed.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Hilarion wonderingly, \"you admit this man possesses a\npower greater than your own?\"\n\n\"Aye, if he knew it!\" returned Heliobas, quietly. \"But he does not\nknow. Only an angel could teach him--and in angels he does not believe.\"\n\n\"He may believe now.... !\"\n\n\"He may. He will--he must, ... if he has gone where I would have him\ngo.\"\n\n\"A poet, is he not!\" queried Hilarion softly, bending down to look more\nattentively at the beautiful Antinous-like face colorless and cold as\nsculptured alabaster.\n\n\"An uncrowned monarch of a world of song!\" responded Heliobas, with a\ntender inflection in his rich voice. \"A genius such as the earth sees\nbut once in a century! But he has been smitten with the disease of\nunbelief and deprived of hope,--and where there is no hope there is no\nlasting accomplishment.\" He paused, and with a touch as gentle as a\nwoman's, rearranged the cushions under Alwyn's heavy head, and laid his\nhand in grave benediction on the broad white brow shaded by its\nclustering waves of dark hair. \"May the Infinite Love bring him out of\ndanger into peace and safety!\" he said solemnly,--then turning away, he\ntook his companion by the arm, and they both left the room, closing the\ndoor quietly behind them. The chapel bell went on tolling slowly,\nslowly, sending muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes--then\nit ceased, and profound stillness reigned.\n\nThe monastery was always a very silent habitation,--situated as it was\non so lofty and barren a crag, it was far beyond the singing-reach of\nthe smaller sweet-throated birds--now and then an eagle clove the mist\nwith a whirr of wings and a discordant scream on his way toward some\ndistant mountain eyrie--but no other sound of awakening life broke the\nhush of the slowly widening dawn. An hour passed--and Alwyn still\nremained in the same position,--as pallidly quiescent as a corpse\nstretched out for burial. By and by a change begin to thrill\nmysteriously through the atmosphere, like the flowing of amber wine\nthrough crystal--the heavy vapors shuddered together as though suddenly\nlashed by a whip of flame,--they rose, swayed to and fro, and parted\nasunder.... then, dissolving into thin, milk-white veils of fleecy\nfilm, they floated away, disclosing as they vanished, the giant summits\nof the encircling mountains, that lifted themselves to the light, one\nabove another, in the form of frozen billows. Over these a delicate\npink flush flitted in tremulous wavy lines--long arrows of gold began\nto pierce the tender shimmering blue of the sky--soft puffs of cloud\ntinged with vivid crimson and pale green were strewn along the eastern\nhorizon like flowers in the path of an advancing hero,--and then all at\nonce there was a slight cessation of movement in the heavens--an\nattentive pause as though the whole universe waited for some great\nsplendor as yet unrevealed. That splendor came, in a red blaze of\ntriumph the Sun rose, pouring a shower of beamy brilliancy over the\nwhite vastness of the heights covered with perpetual snow,--jagged\npeaks, sharp as scimetars and sparkling with ice, caught fire, and\nseemed to melt away in an absorbing sea of radiance, ... the waiting\nclouds moved on, redecked in deeper hues of royal purple--and the full\nMorning glory was declared. As the dazzling effulgence streamed through\nthe window and flooded the couch where Alwyn lay, a faint tinge of\ncolor returned to his face,--his lips moved,--his broad chest heaved\nwith struggling sighs,--his eyelids quivered,--and his before rigid\nhands relaxed and folded themselves together in an attitude of peace\nand prayer. Like a statue becoming slowly and magically flushed with\nlife, the warm hues of the naturally flowing blood deepened through the\nwhiteness of his skin,--his breathing grew more and more easy and\nregular,--his features gradually assumed their wonted appearance, and\npresently ... without any violent start or exclamation ... he awoke!\nBut was it a real awakening? or rather a continuation of some strange\nimpression received in slumber?\n\nHe rose to his feet, pushing back the hair from his brow with an\nentranced look of listening wonderment--his eyes were humid yet\nbrilliant--his whole aspect was that of one inspired. He paced once or\ntwice up and down the room, but he was evidently unconscious of his\nsurroundings--he seemed possessed by thoughts which absorbed his whole\nbeing. Presently he seated himself at the table, and absently fingering\nthe writing materials that were upon it, he appeared meditatively to\nquestion their use and meaning. Then, drawing several sheets of paper\ntoward him, he began to write with extraordinary rapidity and\neagerness--his pen travelled on smoothly, uninterrupted by blot or\nerasure. Sometimes he paused--but when he did it was always with an\nupraised, attentively listening expression. Once he murmured aloud\n\"ARDATH! Nay, I shall not forget!--we will meet at ARDATH!\" and again\nhe resumed his occupation. Page after page he covered with close\nwriting-no weak, uncertain scrawl, but a firm bold, neat\ncaligraphy,--his own peculiar, characteristic hand. The sun mounted\nhigher and higher in the heavens, ... hour after hour passed, and still\nlie wrote on, apparently unaware of the flitting time. At mid-day the\nbell, which had not rung since early dawn, began to swing quickly to\nand fro in the chapel turret,--the deep bass of the organ breathed on\nthe silence a thunderous monotone, and a bee-like murmur of distant\nvoices proclaimed the words: \"Angelas Domine nuntiavit Mariae.\"\n\nAt the first sound of this chant, the spell that enchained Alwyn's mind\nwas broken; drawing a quick dashing line under what he had written, he\nsprang up erect and dropped his pen.\n\n\"Heliobas!\" he cried loudly, \"Heliobas! WHERE IS THE FIELD OF ARDATH?\"\n\nHis voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears,--he waited,\nlistening, and the chant went on--\"Et Verbo caro factus est, et\nhabitavit in nobis.\"\n\nSuddenly, as if he could endure his solitude no longer, he rushed to\nthe door and threw it open, thereby nearly flinging himself against\nHeliobas, who was entering the room at the same moment. He drew back,\n... stared wildly, and passing his hand across his forehead confusedly,\nforced a laugh.\n\n\"I have been dreaming!\" he said, ... then with a passionate gesture he\nadded, \"God! if the dream were true!\"\n\nHe was strongly excited, and Heliobas, slipping one arm round him in a\nfriendly manner, led him back to the chair he had vacated, observing\nhim closely as he did so.\n\n\"You call THIS dreaming,\" he inquired with a slight smile, pointing to\nthe table strewn with manuscript on which the ink was not yet dry.\n\"Then dreams are more productive than active exertion! Here is goodly\nmatter for printers! ... a fair result it seems of one morning's labor!\"\n\nAlwyn started up, seized the written sheets, and scanned them eagerly.\n\n\"It is my handwriting!\" he muttered in a tone of stupefied amazement.\n\n\"Of course! Whose handwriting should it be?\" returned Heliobas,\nwatching him with scientifically keen, yet kindly interest.\n\n\"Then it IS true!\" he exclaimed. \"True--by the sweetness of her\neyes,--true, by the love-lit radiance of her smile!--true, O thou God\nwhom I dared to doubt! true by the marvels of Thy matchless, wisdom!\"\n\nAnd with this strange outburst, he began to read in feverish haste what\nhe had written. His breath came and went quickly,--his cheeks flushed,\nhis eyes dilated,--line after line he perused with apparent wonder and\nrapture,--when suddenly interrupting himself he raised his head and\nrecited in a half whisper:\n\n\"With thundering notes of song sublime I cast my sins away from me--On\nstairs of sound I mount--I climb! The angels wait and pray for me!\n\n\"I heard that stanza somewhere when I was a boy ... why do I think of\nit now? SHE has waited,--so she said,--these many thousand days!\"\n\nHe paused meditatively,--and then resumed his reading, Heliobas touched\nhis arm.\n\n\"It will take you some time to read that, Mr. Alwyn,\" he gently\nobserved. \"You have written more than you know.\"\n\nAlwyn roused himself and looked straight at the speaker. Putting down\nhis manuscript and resting one hand upon it, he gazed with an air of\nsolemn inquiry into the noble face turned steadfastly toward his own.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said wistfully, \"how has it happened? This composition is\nmine and yet not mine. For it is a grand and perfect poem of which I\ndare not call myself the author! I might as well snatch HER crown of\nstarry flowers and call myself an Angel!\"\n\nHe spoke with mingled fervor and humility. To any ordinary observer he\nwould have seemed to be laboring under home strange hallucination,--but\nHeliobas was more deeply instructed.\n\n\"Come, come! ... your thoughts are wide of this world,\" he said kindly.\n\"Try to recall them! I can tell you nothing, for I know nothing....\nyou have been absent many hours.\"\n\n\"Absent? yes!\" and Alwyn's voice thrilled with an infinite regret.\n\"Absent from earth.. ah! would to God I might hive stayed with her, in\nHeaven! My love, my love! where shal I find her if not in the FIELD OF\nARDATH?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA MYSTIC TRYST.\n\n\nAs he uttered the last words, his eyes darkened into a soft expression\nof musing tenderness, and he remained silent for many minutes, during\nwhich the entranced, almost unearthly beauty of his face underwent a\ngradual change ... the mystic light that had for a time transfigured\nit, faded and died away--and by degrees he recovered all his ordinary\nself possession. Presently glancing at Heliobas, who stood patiently\nwaiting till he should have overcome whatever emotions were at work in\nhis mind, he smiled.\n\n\"You must think me mad!\" he said. \"Perhaps I am,--but if so, it is the\nmadness of love that has seized me. Love! ... it is a passion I have\nnever known before.. I have used it as a mere thread whereon to string\nmadrigals, a background of uncertain tint serving to show off the\nbrighter lines of Poesy--but now! ... now I am enslaved and bound,\nconquered and utterly subdued by love! ... love for the sweetest,\nqueenliest, most radiant creature that ever captured or commanded the\nworship of man! I may SEEM mad--but I know I am sane--I realize the\nactual things of this world about me mind is--my clear, my thoughts are\ncollected, and yet I repeat, I LOVE! ... aye! with all the force and\nfervor of this strongly beating human heart of mine;\"--and he touched\nhis breast as he spoke. \"And it comes to this, most wise and worthy\nHeliobas,--if your spells have conjured up this vision of immortal\nyouth and grace and purity that has suddenly assumed such sovereignty\nover my life--then you must do something further, ... you must find, or\nteach me how to find, the living Reality of my Dream!\"\n\nHeliobas surveyed him with some wonder and commiseration.\n\n\"A moment ago and you yourself declared your DREAM was true!\" he\nobserved. \"This,\" and he pointed to the manuscript on the table,\n\"seemed to you sufficient to prove it. Now you have altered you\nopinion: . . Why? I have worked no spells upon you, and I am entirely\nignorant as to what your recent experience has been. Moreover, what do\nyou mean by a 'living Reality'? The flesh and blood, bone and substance\nthat perishes in a brief seventy years or so and crumbles into\nindistinguishable dust? Surely, ... if, as I conjecture from your\nwords, you have seen one of the fair inhabitants of higher spheres than\nours, . . you would not drag her spiritual and death unconscious\nbrightness down to the level of the 'reality of a merely human life?\nNay, if you would, you could not!\"\n\nAlwyn looked at him inquiringly and with a perplexed air.\n\n\"You speak in enigmas,\" he said somewhat vexedly. \"However, the whole\nthing is an enigma and would puzzle the most sagacious head. That the\nphysicial workings of the brain, in a site of trance, should arouse in\nme a passion of love for an imaginary being, and, at the same time,\nenable to write a poem such as must make the fame of any man, is\ncertainly a remarkable and noteworthy result of scientific mesmerism!\"\n\n\"Now, my dear sir,\" interrupted Heliobas in a tone of good-natured\nremonstrance,--\"do not--if you have any respect for science at all--do\nnot, I beg of you, talk to me of the 'physical workings' of a DEAD\nBRAIN?\"\n\n\"A dead brain!\" echoed Alwyn. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"What I say,\" returned Heliobas, composedly. \"'Physical workings' of\nany kind are impossible unless the motive power of physical life be in\naction. You, regarded as a HUMAN creature merely, had during seven\nhours practically CEASED TO BE,--the vital principle no longer existed\nin your body, having taken its departure together with its inseparable\ncompanion, the Soul. When it returned, it set the clockwork of your\nmaterial mechanism in motion again, obeying the sovereignty of the\nSpirit that sought to express by material means, the utterance of\nheaven-inspired thought. Thus your hand mechanically found its way to\nthe pen--thus you wrote, unconscious of what you were writing, yielding\nyourself entirely to the guidance of the spiritual part of your nature,\nwhich AT THAT PARTICULAR JUNCTURE was absolutely predominant, though\nnow weighted anew by earthy influences it has partially relaxed its\nsupernal sway. All this I readily perceive and understand ... but what\nyou did, and where you were conducted during the time of your complete\nseverance from the tenement of clay in which you are again imprisoned,\n... this I have yet to learn.\"\n\nWhile Heliobas was speaking, Alwyn's countenance had grown vaguely\ntroubled, and now into his deep poetic eyes there came a look of sudden\npenitence.\n\n\"True!\" he said softly, almost humbly, \"I will tell you everything\nwhile I remember it,--though it is not likely I shall ever forget! I\nbelieve there must be some truth after all in what you say concerning\nthe Soul, ... at any rate, I do not at present feel inclined to call\nyour theories in question. To begin with, I find myself unable\naltogether to explain what it was that happened to me during my\nconversation with you last night. It was a very strange sensation! I\nrecollect that I had expressed a wish to be placed under your magnetic\nor electric influence, and that you had refused my request. Then an odd\nidea suggested itself to me--namely, that I could if I chose COMPEL\nyour assent,--and, filled with this notion, I think I addressed you, or\nwas about to address you, in a rather peremptory manner, when--all at\nonce--a flash of blinding light struck me fiercely across the eyes like\na scourge! Stung with the hot pain, and dazzled by the glare, I turned\naway from you and fled ... or so it seemed--fled on my own instinctive\nimpulse ... into DARKNESS!\"\n\nHe paused and drew a long, shuddering breath, like one who has narrowly\nescaped imminent destruction.\n\n\"Darkness!\" he went on in low accents that thrilled with the memory of\na past feat--\"dense, horrible, frightful darkness!--darkness that\npalpitated heavily with the labored motion of unseen things!--darkness\nthat clung and closed about me in masses of clammy, tangible\nthickness,--its advancing and resistless weight rolled over me like a\nhuge waveless ocean--and, absorbed within it, I was drawn\ndown--down--down toward some hidden, impalpable but All Supreme Agony,\nthe dull unceasing throbs of which I felt, yet could not name. 'O GOD!'\nI cried aloud, abandoning myself to wild despair, 'O GOD! WHERE ARE\nTHOU?' Then I heard a great rushing sound as of a strong wind beaten\nthrough with wings, and a Voice, grand and sweet as a golden trumpet\nblown suddenly in the silence of night, answered: 'HERE! ... AND\nEVERYWHERE!' With that, a slanting stream of opaline radiance cleft the\ngloom with the sweep of a sword-blade, and I was caught up quickly ...\nI know not how ... for I saw nothing!\"\n\nAgain he pushed and looked wistfully at Heliobas, who in turn regarded\nhim with gentle steadfastness.\n\n\"It was wonderful--terrible!\" ... he continued slowly--\"yet beautiful!\n... that Invisible Strength that rescued, surrounded, and uplifted me;\nand--\" here he hesitated, and a faint flush colored his cheeks and\nstole up to the roots of his clustering hair--\"dream or no dream, I\nfeel I cannot now altogether reject the idea of an existing Divinity.\nIn brief ... I believe in God!\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Heliobas quietly.\n\nAlwyn met his gaze frankly and with a soft brightening of his handsome\nfeatures.\n\n\"I cannot give you any logical reasons,\" he said. \"Moreover, logical\nreasoning would not now affect me in a matter which seems to me more\nfull of conviction than any logic. I believe, ... simply because I\nbelieve!\"\n\nHeliobas smiled--a very warm and kindly smile--but said nothing, and\nAlwyn resumed his narrative.\n\n\"As I tell you, I was caught up,--snatched out of that black profundity\nwith inconceivable swiftness,--and when the ascending movement ceased,\nI found myself floating lightly like a wind-blown leaf through twining\narches of amber mist, colored here and there with rays of living flame\n... I heard whispers, and fragments of song and speech, all sweeter\nthan the sweetest of our known music, ... and still I saw nothing.\nPresently some one called me by name--'THEOS! ... THEOS!' I strove to\nanswer, but I had no words wherewith to match that silver-toned,\nfar-reaching utterance; and once again the rich vibrating notes pealed\nthrough the vaporous fire-tinted air--'THEOS, MY BELOVED! HIGHER! ...\nHIGHER! ... All my being thrilled and quivered to that call. I yearned\nto obey, ... I struggled to rise--my efforts were in vain; when, to my\njoy and wonder, a small, invisible hand, delicate yet strong, clasped\nmine, and I was borne aloft with breathless, indescribable,\nlightning-like rapidity--on ... on ... and ever upward, till at last,\nalighting on a smooth, fair turf, thick-grown with fragrant blossoms of\nstrange loveliness and soft hues, I beheld Her! ... and she bade me\nwelcome.\"\n\n\"And who,\" questioned Heliobas, in tones of hushed reverence, \"Who was\nthis Being that thus enchants your memory?\"\n\n\"I know not!\" replied Alwyn, with a dreamy smile of rapture on his lips\nand in his eyes. \"And yet her face ... oh! the entrancing beauty of\nthat face! ... was not altogether unfamiliar. I felt that I must have\nloved and lost her ages upon ages ago! Crowned with white flowers, and\nrobed in a garb that seemed spun from midsummer moonbeams, she stood\n... a smiling Maiden-Sweetness in a paradise of glad sights and sounds,\n... ah! Eve, with the first sunrise radiance on her brows, was not more\ndivinely fair! ... Venus, new-springing from the silver sea-foam, was\nnot more queenly glorious! 'I WILL REMIND THEE OF ALL THOU HAST\nFORGOTTEN,' she said, and I understood her soft, half-reproachful\naccents. 'IT IS NOT YET TOO LATE! THOU HAST LOST MUCH AND SUFFERED\nMUCH, AND THOU HAST BLINDLY ERRED, BUT NOTWITHSTANDING ALL THESE\nTHINGS, THOU ART MY BELOVED SINCE THESE MANY THOUSAND DAYS!'\"\n\n\"Days--which the world counts as years!\" murmured Heliobas. \"You saw no\none but her?\"\n\n\"No one--we were alone together. A vast woodland stretched before us,\nshe took my hand and led me beneath broad-arching trees to where a\nlake, silvered by some strange radiance, glittered diamond-like in the\nstirring of a balmy wind. Here she bade me rest--and sank gently on the\nflowery bank beside me. Then viewing her more closely I greatly feared\nher beauty--for I saw a wondrous halo wide and dazzling--a golden\naureole that spread itself around her in scintillating points of\nlight--light that reflected itself also on me and bathed me in its\nluminous splendor. And as I gazed at her in speechless awe, she leaned\ntoward me nearer and nearer, her deep, pure eyes burning softly into\nmine ... her hands touched me--her arms closed round me ... her bright\nhead lay in all its shining loveliness on my breast! A tremulous\necstasy thrilled me as with fire ... I gazed upon her as one might gaze\non some fluttering, rare-plumaged bird ... I dare not move or speak ...\nI drank her sweetness down into my soul! Now and then a sound as of\ndistant harps playing broke the love-weighted silence ... and thus we\nremained together a heavenly breathing-space of wordless rapture; till\nsuddenly and swiftly, as though she had received an invisible summons,\nshe arose, her looks expressing a saintly patience, and laying her two\nhands upon my brows--'Write,' she said, 'WRITE AND PROCLAIM A MESSAGE\nOF HOPE TO THE SORROWFUL STAR! WRITE AND LET THINE UTTERANCE BE A TRUE\nECHO OF THE ETERNAL MUSIC WITH WHICH THESE SPHERES ARE FILLED! WRITE TO\nTHE RHYTHMIC BEAT OF THE HARMONIES WITHIN THEE ... FOR LO! ONCE MORE AS\nIN AFORETIME MY CHANGELESS LOVE RENEWS IN THEE THE POWER OF PERFECT\nSONG!' With that she moved away serenely and beckoned me to follow ...\nI obeyed in haste and trembling ... long rays of rosy light swept after\nher like trailing wings, and as she walked, the golden nimbus round her\nform glowed with a thousand brilliant and changeful hues like the\nrainbows seen in the spray of falling water! Through lush green grass\nthick with blossom,--under groves heavy with fragrant leaves and laden\nwith the songs of birds ... over meadows cool and mountain-sheltered,\non we went--she, like the goddess of advancing Spring, I eagerly\ntreading in her radiant footsteps ... and presently we came to a place\nwhere two paths met, ... one all overgrown with azure and white\nflowers, that ascended away and away into undiscerned distance, ... the\nother sloping deeply downward, and full of shadows, yet dimly illumined\nby a pale, mysterious splendor like frosty moonlight streaming on\nsad-colored seas. Here she turned and faced me, and I saw her divine\neyes droop with the moisture of unshed tears. 'THEOS! ... THEOS!' ...\nshe cried, and the passionate cadence of her voice was as the singing\nof a nightingale in lonely woodlands ... 'AGAIN ... AGAIN WE MUST PART!\n... PART! ... OH, MY BELOVED! ... MY BELOVED! HOW LONG WILT THOU SEVER\nME FROM THY SOUL AND LEAVE ME ALONE AND SORROWFUL AMID THE JOYS OF\nHEAVEN?' As she thus spoke a sense of utter shame and loss and failure\noverwhelmed me, ... pierced to the very core of my being by an\nunexplained yet most bitter remorse, I cast myself down in deep\nabasement before her, ... I caught her glittering robe ... I strove to\nsay 'Forgive!' but I was speechless as a convicted traitor in the\npresence of a wronged queen! All at once the air about us was rent by a\ngreat noise of thunder intermingled with triumphal music,--she drew her\nsheeny garment from my touch in haste, and stooping to me where I\nknelt, she kissed my forehead ... 'THY ROAD LIES THERE'--she murmured\nin quick, soft tones, pointing to the vista of varying light and\nshadow,--'MINE, YONDER!' and she looked toward the flower-garlanded\navenue--'HASTEN! ... IT IS TIME THOU WERT FAR HENCE! ... RETURN TO\nTHINE OWN STAR LEST ITS PORTALS BE CLOSED ON THEE FOREVER AND THOU BE\nPLUNGED INTO DEEPER DARKNESS! SEEK THOU THE FIELD OF ARDATH!--AS CHRIST\nLIVES, I WILL MEET THEE THERE! FAREWELL!' With these words she left me,\npassing away, arrayed in glory, treading on flowers, and ever ascending\ntill she disappeared! ... while I, stricken with a great repentance,\nwent slowly, as she bade me, down into the shadow, and a rippling\nbreeze-like melody, as of harps and lutes most tenderly attuned,\nfollowed me as I descended. And now,\" said Alwyn, interrupting his\nnarrative and speaking with emphatic decision, \"surely there remains\nbut one thing for me to do--that is, to find the 'Field of Ardath.'\"\n\nHeliobas smiled gravely. \"Nay, if you consider the whole episode a\ndream,\" he observed, \"why trouble yourself? Dreams are seldom realized,\n... and as to the name of Ardath, have you ever heard it before?\"\n\n\"Never!\" replied Alwyn. \"Still--if there is such a place on this planet\nI will most certainly journey thither! Maybe YOU know something of its\nwhereabouts?\"\n\n\"Finish your story,\" said Heliobas, quietly evading the question. \"I am\ncurious to hear the end of your strange adventure.\"\n\n\"There is not much more to tell,\" and Alwyn sighed a little as he\nspoke. \"I wandered further and further into the gloom, oppressed by\nmany thoughts and troubled by vague fears, till presently it grew so\ndark that I could scarcely see where I was going, though I was able to\nguide myself in the path that stretched before me by means of the pale\nluminous rays that frequently pierced the deepening obscurity, and\nthese rays I now noticed fell ever downwards in the form of a cross. As\nI went on I was pursued as it were by the sound of those delicate\nharmonies played on invisible, sweet strings; and after a while I\nperceived at the extreme end of the long, dim vista a door standing\nopen, through which I entered and found myself alone in a quiet room.\nHere I sat down to rest,--the melody of the distant harps and lutes\nstill floated in soft echoes on the silence ... and presently words\ncame breaking through the music, like buds breaking from their\nsurrounding leaves.. words that I was compelled to write down as\nquickly as I heard them ... and I wrote on and on, obeying that\nsymphonious and rhythmical dictation with a sense of growing ease and\npleasure, ... when all suddenly a dense darkness overcame me, followed\nby a gradual dawning gray and golden light ... the words dispersed into\nfragmentary half-syllables ... the music died away, ... I started up\namazed ... to find myself here! ... here in this monastery of Lars,\nlistening to the chanting of the Angelus!\"\n\nHe ceased, and looked wistfully out through the window at the white\nencircling rim of the opposite snow-mountains, now bathed in the full\nsplendor of noon. Heliobas advanced and laid one hand kindly on his\nshoulder....\n\n\"And do not forget,\" he said, \"that you have brought with you from the\nhigher regions a Poem that will in all probability make your fame!\n'Fame! fame! next grandest word to God!' ... so wrote one of your\ncraft, and no doubt you echo the sentiment! Have you not desired to\nblazon your name on the open scroll of the world? Well! ... now you can\nhave your wish--the world waits to receive your signature!\"\n\n\"That is all very well!\" and Alwyn smiled rather dubiously as he\nglanced at the manuscript on the table beside him. \"But the question\nis,--considering how it was written,--can I, dare I call this poem\nMINE?\"\n\n\"Most assuredly you can,\" returned Heliobas. \"Though your hesitation is\na worthy one, and as rare as it is worthy. Well would it be for all\npoets and artists were they to pause thus, and consider before rashly\ncalling their work their own! Self-appreciation is the death-blow of\ngenius. The poem is as much yours as your life is yours--no more and no\nless. In brief, you have recovered your lost inspiration; the lately\ndumb oracle speaks again:--and are you not satisfied?\"\n\n\"No!\" said Alwyn quickly, with a sudden brightening of his eyes as he\nmet the keenly searching glance that accompanied this question. \"No!\nfor I love! ... and the desire of love burns in me as ardently as the\ndesire of fame!\" He paused, and in quieter tones continued, \"You see I\nspeak freely and frankly to you as though--,\" and he laughed a little,\n\"as though I were a good Catholic, and you my father-confessor! Good\nheavens! if some of the men I know in London were to hear me, they\nwould think me utterly crazed! But craze or no craze, I feel I shall\nnever be satisfied now till I find out whether there IS anywhere is the\nworld a place called Ardath. Can you, will you help me in the search? I\nam almost ashamed to ask you, for you have already done so much for me,\nand I really owe to your wonderful power my trance or soul-liberty, or\nwhatever it may be called....\"\n\n\"You owe me nothing,\" interposed Heliobas calmly, \"not even thanks.\nYour own will accomplished your freedom, and I am not responsible for\neither your departure or your return. It was a predestined occurrence,\nyet perfectly scientific and easy of explanation. Your inward force\nattracted mine down upon you in one strong current, with the result\nthat your Spirit instantly parted asunder from your body, and in that\nreleased condition you experienced what you have described. But _I_ had\nno, more to do with that experience than I shall have with your journey\nto the 'field of Ardath,' should you decide to go there.\"\n\n\"There IS an Ardath then!\" cried Alwyn excitedly.\n\nHeliobas eyed him with something of scorn. \"Naturally! Are you still so\nmuch of a sceptic that you think an ANGEL would have bidden you seek a\nplace that had no existence? Oh, yes! I see you are inclined to treat\nyour ethereal adventure as a mere dream,--but _I_ know it was a\nreality, more real than anything in this present world.\" And turning to\nthe loaded bookshelves he took down a large volume, and spread it open\non the table.\n\n\"You know this book?\" he asked.\n\nAlwyn glanced at it. \"The Bible! Of course!\" he replied indifferently.\n\"Everybody knows it!\"\n\n\"Pardon!\" and Heliobas smiled. \"It would be more correct to say nobody\nknows it. To read is not always to understand. There are meanings and\nmysteries in it which have never yet been penetrated, and which only\nthe highest and most spiritually gifted intellects can ever hope to\nunravel. Now\" ... and he turned over the pages carefully till he came\nto the one he sought, \"I think there is something here that will\ninterest you--listen!\" and he read aloud, \"'The Angel Uriel came unto\nme and said: Go into a field of flowers where no house is builded and\neat only the flowers of the field--taste no flesh, drink no wine, but\neat flowers only. And pray unto the Highest continually, and then will\nI come and talk to thee. So I went my way into the field which is\ncalled ARDATH, ... '\"\n\n\"The very place!\" exclaimed Alwyn, eagerly bending over the sacred\nbook; then drawing back with a gesture of disappointment he added, \"But\nyou are reading from Esdras, the Apocrypha! an utterly unreliable\nsource of information!\"\n\n\"On the contrary, as reliable as any history ever written,\" rejoined\nHeliobas calmly. \"Study it for yourself, ... you will see that the\nprophet was at that time resident in Babylon; the field he mentions was\nnear the city ...\"\n\n\"Yes--WAS!\" interrupted Alwyn incredulously.\n\n\"Was and IS,\" continued Heliobas. \"No earthquake has crumbled it, no\nsea has invaded it, and no house has been 'builded' thereon. It is, as\nit was then, a waste field, lying about four miles west of the\nBabylonian ruins, and there is nothing whatever to hinder you from\njourneying thither when you please.\"\n\nAlwyn's expression as he heard this was one of stupefied amazement.\nPart of his so-called \"dream\" had already proved itself true--a \"field\nof Ardath\" actually existed!\n\n\"You are certain of what you say?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Positively certain!\" returned Heliobas.\n\nThere was a silence, during which a little tinkling bell resounded in\nthe outer corridor, followed by the tread of sandaled feet on the stone\npavement. Heliobas closed the Bible and returned it to its shelf.\n\n\"That was the dinner-bell,\" he announced cheerfully. \"Will you\naccompany me to the refectory, Mr. Alwyn? ... we can talk further of\nthis matter afterwards.\" Alwyn roused himself from the fit of\nabstraction into which he had fallen, and gathering together the loose\nsheets of his so strangely written manuscript, he arranged them all in\nan orderly heap without speaking. Then he looked up and met the earnest\neyes of Heliobas with an expression of settled resolve in his own.\n\n\"I shall set out for Babylon to-morrow,\" he said quietly. \"As well go\nthere as anywhere! ... and on the result of my journey I shall stake my\nfuture! In the mean time--\" He hesitated, then suddenly extending his\nhand with a frank grace that became him well, \"In spite of my\nbrusquerie last night, I trust we are friends?\"\n\n\"Why, most assuredly we are!\" returned Heliobas, heartily pressing the\nproffered palm. \"You had your doubts of me and you have them still; but\nwhat of that! I take no offence at unbelief. I pity those who suffer\nfrom its destroying influence too profoundly to find room in my heart\nfor anger. Moreover, I never try to convert anybody.... it is so much\nmore satisfactory when sceptics convert themselves, as you are\nunconsciously doing! Come, ... shall we join the brethren?\"\n\nOver Alwyn's face flitted a transient shade of uneasiness and hauteur.\n\n\"I would rather they knew nothing about all this,\" he began.\n\n\"Make your mind quite easy on that score,\" rejoined Heliobas. \"None of\nmy companions here are aware of your recent departure, except my very\nold personal friend Hilarion, who, with myself, saw your body while in\nits state of temporary death. But he is one of those remarkably rare\nwise men who know when it is best to be silent; then again, he is\nignorant as to the results of your soul-transmigration, and will, as\nfar as I am concerned, remain in ignorance. Your confidence I assure\nyou is perfectly safe with me--as safe as though it had been received\nunder the sacred seal of confession.\"\n\nWith this understanding Alwyn seemed relieved and satisfied, and\nthereupon they left the apartment together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\"NOURHALMA\" AND THE ORIGINAL ESDRAS.\n\n\nLater on in the afternoon of the same day, when the sun, poised above\nthe western mountain-range, appeared to be lazily looking about him\nwith a drowsy, golden smile of farewell before descending to his rest,\nAlwyn was once more alone in the library. Twilight shadows were already\ngathering in the corners of the long, low room, but he had moved the\nwriting-table to the window, in order to enjoy the magnificence of the\nsurrounding scenery, and sat where the light fell full upon his face as\nhe leaned back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, in\nan attitude of pleased, half-meditative indolence. He had just finished\nreading from beginning to end the poem he had composed in his trance\n... there was not a line in it he could have wished altered,--not a\nword that would have been better omitted,--the only thing it lacked was\na title, and this was the question on which he now pondered. The\nsubject of the poem itself was not new to him--it was a story he had\nknown from boyhood, ... an old Eastern love-legend, fantastically\nbeautiful as many such legends are, full of grace and passionate\nfervor--a theme fitted for the nightingale-utterance of a singer like\nthe Persian Hafiz--though even Hafiz would have found it difficult to\nmatch the exquisitely choice language and delicately ringing rhythm in\nwhich this quaint idyll of long past ages was now most perfectly set\nlike a jewel in fine gold. Alwyn himself entirely realized the splendid\nliterary value of the composition--he knew that nothing more artistic\nin conception or more finished in treatment had appeared since the St.\nAgnes Eve of Keats--and as he thought of this, he yielded to a growing\nsense of self-complacent satisfaction which gradually destroyed all the\ndeeply devout humility he had at first felt concerning the high and\nmysterious origin of his inspiration. The old inherent pride of his\nnature reasserted itself--he reviewed all the circumstances of his\n\"trance\" in the most practical manner--and calling to mind how the poet\nColeridge had improvised the delicious fragment of Kubla Khan in a\ndream, he began to see nothing so very remarkable in his own\nunconscious production of a complete poem while under mesmeric or\nmagnetic influences.\n\n\"After all,\" he mused, \"the matter is simple enough when one reasons it\nout. I have been unable to write anything worth writing for a long\ntime, and I told Heliobas as much. He, knowing my apathetic condition\nof brain, employed his force accordingly, though he denies having done\nso, ... and this poem is evidently the result of my long pent-up\nthoughts that struggled for utterance yet could not before find vent in\nwords. The only mysterious part of the affair is this 'Field of\nArdath,' ... how its name haunts me! ... and how HER face shines before\nthe eyes of my memory! That SHE should be a phantom of my own creation\nseems impossible--for when have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy,\never imagined a creature half so fair!\"\n\nHis gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad peaks, above which\nlarge fleecy clouds, themselves like moving mountains, were slowly\npassing, their edges glowing with purple and gold as they neared the\nsinking sun. Presently rousing himself, he took up a pen and first of\nall addressing an envelope to\n\n     \"THE HONBLE. FRANCIS VILLIERS,\n        \"Constitutional Club,\n            \"LONDON\"\n\nhe rapidly wrote off the following letter:\n\n   \"MONASTERY OF LARS,\n   \"PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS.\"\n\n\"MY DEAR VILLIERS:--Start not at the above address! I am not yet vowed\nto perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy! That I of all men in the\nworld should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who know my\nprejudices, in the last degree absurd--nevertheless here I am,--though\nhere I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-morrow at daybreak\nto depart straightway from hence en route for the supposed site and\nruins of Babylon. Yes,--Babylon! why not? Perished greatness has always\nbeen a more interesting subject of contemplation to me than existing\nlittleness--and I dare say I shall wander among the tumuli of the\nancient fallen city with more satisfaction than in the hot,\nhumanity-packed streets of London, Paris, or Vienna--all destined to\nbecome tumuli in their turn. Moreover. I am on the track of an\nadventure,--on the search for a new sensation, having tried nearly all\nthe old ones and found them NIL. You know my nomadic and restless\ndisposition ... perhaps there is something of the Greek gipsy about\nme--a craving for constant change of scene and surroundings,--however,\nas my absence from you and England is likely to be somewhat prolonged,\nI send you in the mean time a Poem--there! 'Season your admiration for\na while,' and hear me out patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you\nwould say concerning the utter folly and uselessness of writing poetry\nat all in this present age of milk-and-watery-literature, shilling\nsensationals, and lascivious society dramas,--and I have a very keen\nrecollection too of the way in which my last book was maltreated by the\nentire press--good heavens! how the critics yelped like dogs about my\nheels, snapping, sniffing, and snarling! I could have wept then like\nthe sensitive fool I was.... I can laugh now! In brief, my friend--for\nyou ARE my friend and the best of all possible good fellows--I have\nmade up my mind to conquer those that have risen against me--to break\nthrough the ranks of pedantic and pre-conceived opinions--and to climb\nthe heights of fame, regardless of the little popular pipers of tame\nverso that obstruct my path and blow their tin whistles in the public\nears to drown, if possible, my song. I WILL be heard! ... and to this\nend I pin my faith on the work I now transmit to your care. Have it\npublished immediately and in the best style--I will cover all expenses.\nAdvertise sufficiently, yet with becoming modesty, for 'puffery' is a\nthing I heartily despise,--and were the whole press to turn round and\napplaud me as much as it has hitherto abused and ridiculed me, I would\nnot have one of its penny lines of condescendingly ignorant approval\nquoted in connection with what must be a perfectly unostentatious and\nsimple announcement of this new production from my pen. The manuscript\nis exceptionally clear, even for me who do not as a male write a very\nbad scrawl--so that you can scarcely have much bother with the\nproof-correcting--though even were this the case, and the printers\nturned out to be incorrigible blockheads and blunderers, I know you\nwould grudge neither time nor trouble expended in my service. Good\nFrank Villiers! how much I owe you!--and yet I willingly incur another\ndebt of gratitude by placing this matter in your hands, and am content\nto borrow more of your friendship, but only believe me, in order to\nrepay it again with the truest interest! By the way, do you remember\nwhen we visited the last Paris Salon together, how fascinated we were\nby one picture--the head of a monk whose eyes looked out like a\nveritable illumination from under the folds of a drooping white cowl?\n... and on referring to our catalogues we found it described as the\nportrait of one 'Heliobas,' an Eastern mystic, a psychist formerly well\nknown in Paris, but since retired into monastic life? Well! I have\ndiscovered him here; he is apparently the Superior or chief of this\nOrder--though what Order it is and when founded is more than I can\ntell. There are fifteen monks altogether, living contentedly in this\nold, half-ruined habitation among the barren steeps of the frozen\nCaucasus,--splendid, princely looking fellows all of them, Heliobas\nhimself being an exceptionally fine specimen of his race. I have just\ndined with the whole community, and have been fairly astonished by the\nfluent brilliancy and wit of their conversation. They speak all\nlanguages. English included, and no subject comes amiss to them, for\nthey are familiar with the latest political situations in all\ncountries,--they know all about the newest scientific discoveries\n(which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly, as though these last were\nmere child's play), and they discuss our modern social problems and\ntheories with a Socratic-like incisiveness and composure such as our\nparliamentary howlers would do well to imitate. Their doctrine is.. but\nI will not bore you by a theological disquisition,--enough to say it is\nfounded on Christianity, and that at present I don't quite know what to\nmake of it! And now, my dear Villiers, farewell! An answer to this is\nunnecessary; besides I can give you no address, as it is uncertain\nwhere I shall be for the next two or three months. If I don't get as\nmuch pleasure as I anticipate from the contemplation of the Babylonian\nruins, I shall probably take up my abode in Bagdad for a time and try\nto fancy myself back in the days of 'good Haroun Alrascheed'. At any\nrate, whatever becomes of me, I know I have entrusted my Poem to safe\nhands--and all I ask of you is that it may be brought out with the\nleast possible delay,--for its IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION seems to me just\nnow the most vitally important thing in the world, except ... except\nthe adventure on which I am at present engaged, of which more\nhereafter, ... when we meet. Until then think as well of me as you can,\nand believe me\n       \"Ever and most truly your friend,\n           \"THEOS ALWYN.\"\n\nThis letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once more took up his\nmanuscript and meditated anew concerning its title. Stay! ... why not\ncall it by the name of the ideal heroine whose heart-passion and sorrow\nformed the nucleus of the legend? ... a name that he in very truth was\nall unconscious of having chosen, but which occurred frequently with\nmusical persistence throughout the entire poem. \"NOURHALMA!\" ... it had\na soft sound ... it seemed to breathe of Eastern languor and\nlove-singing,--it was surely the best title he could have. Straightway\ndeciding thereon, he wrote it clearly at the top of the first page,\nthus: \"Nourhalma; A Love Legend of the Past,\" ... then turning to the\nend, he signed his own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his\nindisputable right to the authorship of what was not only destined to\nbe the most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to\nprove the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem ever\nsuggested to his brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded them\nin a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed--then addressing it\nto his friend, he put letter and packet together, and eyed them both\nsomewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went his great chance of\nimmortal Fame. Immortal Fame!--what a grand vista of fair possibilities\nthose words unveiled to his imagination! Lost in pleasant musings, he\nlooked out again on the landscape. The sun had sunk behind the\nmountains so far, that nothing was left of his glowing presence but a\ngolden rim from which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted\nlances poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight click\ncaused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,--he turned\nround in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas entered, carrying\na small richly chased silver casket.\n\n\"Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last,\" he said with a smile. \"I\nbegan to think you were never coming. My correspondence is\nfinished,--and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England--where I\npray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended my\nefforts!\"\n\n\"You PRAY?\" queried Heliobas, meaningly, \"or you HOPE? There is a\ndifference between the two.\"\n\n\"I suppose there is,\" he returned nonchalantly. \"And certainly--to be\ncorrect--I should have said I HOPE, for I never pray. What have you\nthere?\"--this as Heliobas set the casket he carried down on the table\nbefore him. \"A reliquary? And is it supposed to contain a fragment of\nthe true cross? Alas! I cannot believe in these fragments,--there are\ntoo many of them!\"\n\nHeliobas laughed gently.\n\n\"You are right! Moreover, not a single splinter of the true cross is in\nexistence. It was, like other crosses then in general use, thrown aside\nas lumber,--and had rotted away into the earth long before the Empress\nHelena started on her piously crazed wanderings. No, I have nothing of\nthat sort in here,\"--and taking a key from a small chain that hung at\nhis girdle he unlocked the casket. \"This has been in the possession of\nthe various members of our Order for ages,--it is our chief treasure,\nand is seldom, I may say never, shown to strangers,--but the mystic\nmandate you have received concerning the 'field of Ardath' entitles you\nto see what I think must needs prove interesting to you under the\ncircumstances.\" And opening the box he lifted out a small square volume\nbound in massive silver and double-clasped. \"This,\" he went on, \"is the\noriginal text of a portion of the 'Visions of Esdras,' and dates from\nthe thirteenth year after the downfall of Babylon's commercial\nprosperity.\"\n\nAlwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amazement. \"Not possible!\"\nhe cried.... then he added eagerly, \"May I look at it?\"\n\nSilently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand. As he undid the\nclasps a faint odor like that of long dead rose-leaves came like a\nbreath on the air, ... he opened it, and saw that its pages consisted\nof twelve moderately thick sheets of ivory, which were covered all over\nwith curious small characters finely engraved thereon by some evidently\nsharp and well-pointed instrument. These letters were utterly unknown\nto Alwyn: he had seen nothing like them in any of the ancient tongues,\nand he examined them perplexedly.\n\n\"What language is this?\" he asked at last, looking up. \"It is not\nHebrew--nor yet Sanskrit--nor does it resemble any of the discovered\nforms of hieroglyphic writing. Can YOU understand it?\"\n\n\"Perfectly!\" returned Heliobas. \"If I could not, then much of the\nwisdom and science of past ages would be closed to my researches. It is\nthe language once commonly spoken by certain great nations which\nexisted long before the foundations of Babylon were laid. Little by\nlittle it fell into disuse, till it was only kept up among scholars and\nsages, and in time became known only as 'the language of prophecy.'\nWhen Esdras wrote his Visions they were originally divided into two\nhundred and four books,--and, as you will see by referring to what is\nnow called the Apocrypha,[Footnote: Vide 2 Esdras xiv.44-48.] he was\ncommanded to publish them all openly to the 'worthy and unworthy' all\nexcept the 'seventy last,' which were to be delivered solely to such as\nwere 'wise among the people.' Thus one hundred and thirty-four were\nwritten in the vulgar tongue,--the remaining seventy in the 'language\nof prophecy,' for the use of deeply learned and scientific men alone.\nThe volume you hold is one of those seventy.\"\n\n\"How did you come by it?\" asked Alwyn, curiously turning the book over\nand over.\n\n\"How did our Order come by it, you mean,\" said Heliobas. \"Very simply.\nChaldean fraternities existed in the time of Esdras, and to the supreme\nChief of these, Esdras himself delivered it. You look dubious, but I\nassure you it is quite authentic,--we have its entire history up to\ndate.\"\n\n\"Then are you all Chaldeans here?\"\n\n\"Not all--but most of us. Three of the brethren are Egyptians, and two\nare natives of Damascus. The rest are, like myself, descendants of a\nrace supposed to have perished from off the face of the earth, yet\nstill powerful to a degree undreamed of by the men of this puny age.\"\n\nAlwyn gave an upward glance at the speaker's regal form--a glance of\ngenuine admiration.\n\n\"As far as that goes,\" he said, with a frank laugh, \"I'm quite willing\nto believe you and your companions are kings in disguise,--you all\nhave that appearance! But regarding this book,\"--and again he turned\nover the silver-bound relic--\"if its authenticity can be proved, as you\nsay, why, the British Museum would give, ah! ... let me see!--it would\ngive ...\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" declared Heliobas quietly, \"believe me, nothing! The British\nGovernment would no doubt accept it as a gift, just as it would with\nequal alacrity accept the veritable signature of Homer, which we also\npossess in another retreat of ours on the Isle of Lemnos. But our\ntreasures are neither for giving nor selling, and with respect to this\noriginal 'Esdras,' it will certainly never pass out of our hands.\"\n\n\"And what of the other missing sixty-nine books?\" asked Alwyn.\n\n\"They may possibly be somewhere in the world,--two of them, I know,\nwere buried in the coffin of one of the last princes of\nChaldea,--perhaps they will be unearthed some day. There is also a\nrumor to the effect that Esdras engraved his 'Last Prophecy' on a small\noval tablet of pure jasper, which he himself secreted, no one knows\nwhere. But to come to the point of immediate issue, ... shall I find\nout and translate for you the allusions to the 'field of Ardath'\ncontained in this present volume?\"\n\n\"Do!\" said Alwyn, eagerly, at once returning the book to Heliobas, who,\nseating himself at the table, began carefully looking over its ivory\npages--\"I am all impatience! Even without the vision I have had, I\nshould still feel a desire to see this mysterious Field for its own\nsake,--it must have some very strange associations to be worth\nspecifying in such a particular manner!\"\n\nHeliobas answered nothing--he was entirely occupied in examining the\nsmall, closely engraved characters in which the ancient record was\nwritten; the crimson afterglow of the now descended sun flared through\nthe window and sent a straight, rosy ray on his bent head and white\nrobes, lighting to a more lustrous brilliancy the golden cross and\njeweled star on his breast, and flashing round the silver clasps of the\ntime-honored relic before him. Presently he looked up...\n\n\"Here we have it!\" and he placed his finger on one especial passage--it\nreads as follows:\n\n\"'And the Angel bade me enter a waste field, and the field was barren\nand dry save of herbs, and the name of the field was ARDATH.\n\n\"'And I wandered therein through the hours of the long night, and the\nsilver eyes of the field did open before me and I saw signs and wonders:\n\n\"'And I heard a voice crying aloud, Esdras, Esdras.\n\n\"'And I arose and stood on my feet and listened and refrained not till\nI heard the voice again.\n\n\"'Which said unto me, Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, how\ngreat a glory hath the moon unveiled!\n\n\"'And I beheld and was sore amazed: for I was no longer myself but\nanother.\n\n\"'And the sword of death was in that other's soul, and yet that other\nwas but myself in pain;\n\n\"'And I knew not those things that were once familiar,--and my heart\nfailed within me for very fear.\n\n\"'And the voice cried aloud again saying: Hide thee from the perils of\nthe past and the perils of the future, for a great and terrible thing\nis come upon thee, against which thy strength is as a reed in the wind\nand thy thoughts as flying sand ...\n\n\"' [Footnote: See 2 Esdras x. 30-32.] And, lo, I lay as one that had\nbeen dead and mine understanding was taken from me. And he (the Angel)\ntook me by the right hand and comforted me and set me upon my feet and\nsaid unto me:\n\n\"'What aileth thee? and why art thou so disquieted? and why is thine\nunderstanding troubled and the thoughts of thine heart?\n\n\"'And I said, Because thou hast forsaken me and yet I did according to\nthy words, and I went into the field and lo! I have seen and yet see\nthat I am not able to express.'\"\n\nHere Heliobas paused, having read the last sentence with peculiarly\nimpressive emphasis.\n\n\"That is all\"--he said--\"I see no more allusions to the name of Ardath.\nThe last three verses are the same as those in the accepted Apocrypha.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nAN UNDESIRED BLESSING.\n\n\nAlwyn had listened with an absorbed yet somewhat mystified air of\nattention.\n\n\"The venerable Esdras was certainly a poet in his own way!\" he remarked\nlightly. \"There is something very fascinating about the rhythm of his\nlines, though I confess I don't grasp their meaning. Still, I should\nlike to have them all the same,--will you let me write them out just as\nyou have translated them?\"\n\nWillingly assenting to this, Heliobas read the extract over again,\nAlwyn taking down the words from his dictation.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" he then added musingly, \"perhaps it would be as well to copy\na few passages from the Apocrypha also.\"\n\nWhereupon the Bible was brought into requisition, and the desired\nquotations made, consisting of verses xxiv. to xxvi. in the [Footnote:\nThe reader is requested to refer to the parts of \"Esdras\" here\nindicated.] ninth chapter of the Second Book of Esdras, and verses xxv.\nto xxvi. in the tenth chapter of the same. This done, Heliobas closed\nand clasped the original text of the Prophet's work and returned it to\nits casket; then addressing his guest in a kindly, yet serious tone, he\nsaid: \"You are quite resolved to undertake this journey, Mr. Alwyn?\"\n\nAlwyn looked dreamily out of the window at the flame of the sunset hues\nreflected from the glowing sky on the white summit of the mountains.\n\n\"Yes, ... I ... I think so!\" The answer had a touch of indecision in it.\n\n\"In that case,\" resumed Heliobas, \"I have prepared a letter of\nintroduction for you to one of our Order known as Elzear of\nMelyana,--he is a recluse, and his hermitage is situated close to the\nBabylonian ruins. You will find rest and shelter there after the\nfatigues of travel. I have also traced out a map of the district, and\nthe exact position of the field you seek, . . here it is,\" and he laid\na square piece of parchment on the table; \"you can easily perceive at a\nglance how the land lies. There are a few directions written at the\nback, so I think you will have no difficulty. This is the letter to\nElzear,\"--here he held out a folded paper--\"will you take it now?\"\n\nAlwyn received it with a dubious smile, and eyed the donor as if he\nrather suspected the sincerity of his intentions.\n\n\"Thanks very much!\" he murmured listlessly. \"You are exceedingly good\nto make it all such plain sailing for me,--and yet ... to be quite\nfrank with you, I can't help thinking I am going on a fool's errand!\"\n\n\"If that is your opinion, why go at all?\" queried Heliobas, with a\nslight disdain in his accents. \"Return to England instead--forget the\nname of 'Ardath,' and forget also the one who bade you meet her there,\nand who has waited for you 'these many thousand days!'\"\n\nAlwyn started as if he had been stung.\n\n\"Ah!\" he exclaimed. \"If I could be certain of seeing her again! ... if\n... good God! the idea seems absurd! ... if that Flower-Crowned Wonder\nof my dream should actually fulfill her promise and keep her tryst ...\"\n\n\"Well!\" demanded Heliobas--\"If so, what then?\"\n\n\"Well then I will believe in anything!\" he cried--\"No miracle will seem\nmiraculous.. no impossibility impossible!\"\n\nHeliobas sighed, and regarded him thoughtfully.\n\n\"You THINK you will believe!\" he said somewhat sadly--\"But doubts such\nas yours are not easily dispelled. Angels have ere now descended to\nmen, men have neither received nor recognized them. Angels walk by our\nside through crowded cities and lonely woodlands,--they watch us when\nwe sleep, they hear us when we pray, ... and yet the human eye sees\nnothing save the material objects within reach of its vision, and is\nnot very sure of those, while it can no more discern the spiritual\npresences than it can without a microscope discern the lovely living\ncreatures contained in a drop of dew or a ray of sunshine. Our earthly\nsight is very limited--it can neither perceive the infinitely little\nnor the infinitely great. And it is possible,--nay, it is most\nprobable, that even as Peter of old denied his Divine Master, so you,\nif brought face to face with the Angel of your last night's experience,\nwould deny and endeavor to disprove her identity.\"\n\n\"Never!\" declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture--\"I should know her\namong a thousand!\"\n\nFor one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, searching, almost\npitiful glance, then withdrawing his gaze he said gently:\n\n\"Well, well! let us hope for the best--God's ways are inscrutable--and\nyou tell me that now--now after your strange so-called 'vision'--you\nbelieve in God?\"\n\n\"I did say so, certainly...\" and Alwyn's face flushed a little..\n\"but...\"\n\n\"Ah! ... you hesitate! there is a 'but' in the case!\" and Heliobas\nturned upon him with a grand reproach in his brilliant eyes.. \"Already\nstepping backward on the road! ... already rushing once again into the\ndarkness! ...\" He paused, then laying one hand on the young man's\nshoulder, continued in mild yet impressive accents: \"My friend,\nremember that the doubter and opposer of God, is also the doubter and\nopposer of his own well-being. Let this unnatural and useless combat of\nHuman Reason, against Divine Instinct cease within you--you, who as a\npoet are bound to EQUALIZE your nature that it may the more\nharmoniously fulfil its high commission. You know what one of your\nmodern writers says of life? ... that it is a 'Dream in which we clutch\nat shadows as though they were substances, and sleep deepest when\nfancying ourselves most awake.'[Footnote: Carlyle's Sartor Resartus.]\nBelieve me, YOU have slept long enough--it is time you awoke to the\nfull realization of your destinies.\"\n\nAlwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed--the\nearnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show--his head\ndrooped--he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had really no more\nsubstantial foundation for his unbelief than others had for their\nfaith. With all his studies in the modern schools of science, he was\nnot a whit more advanced in learning than Democritus of old--Democritus\nwho based his system of morals on the severest mathematical lines,\ntaking as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after\nstretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching inquiry for\nyears, came at last to the unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely\nincapable of positive knowledge, and that even if truth is in his\npossession he can never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser\nthan Democritus? ... or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear,\npathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his breast,\nwiser than both? ... wiser in the wisdom of eternal things than any of\nthe subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of\ntheir theories? Was there, COULD there be something not yet altogether\nunderstood or fathomed in the Christian creed? ... as this idea\noccurred to him he looked up and met his companion's calm gaze fixed\nupon him with a watchful gentleness and patience.\n\n\"Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?\" he asked, with a forced laugh.\n\"I assure you they are not worth the trouble.\"\n\nHeliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks entered\nthe room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the table, and the\nconversation thus interrupted was not again resumed.\n\nThe evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above the\nfurthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled faintly in the\ndarkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the\nprevious night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in the\nrefectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men he had come amongst,\nand what would be the final result of his adventure into the wilds of\nCaucasus. His feelings had certainly undergone some change since then,\ninasmuch as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious\nsentiment, though he was nearly as far from actually believing in\nReligion itself as ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly\nskeptical--the immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly\nrooted convictions was only very slightly shaken--and he now even\nviewed the prospect of his journey to the \"field of Ardath\" as a mere\nfantastic whim--a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to gratify\njust for the sake of curiosity.\n\nBut notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic principles\nwith which he had become imbued, his higher instincts were,\nunconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused--his memory\ninvoluntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his earliest\nmanhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through his soul--his\ncharacter, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and ardent cast,\nre-asserted its native force over the blighting blow of blank Atheism\nwhich had for a time paralyzed its efforts--and as he unwittingly\nyielded more and more to the mild persuasions of these genial\ninfluences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of his humor gradually\nsoftened. There was no trace in him now of the dark, ironic, and\nreckless scorn that, before his recent visionary experience, had\ndistinguished his whole manner and bearing--the smile came more readily\nto his lips--and he seemed content for the present to display the sunny\nside of his nature--a nature impassioned, frank, generous, and noble,\nin spite of the taint of overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat\nwarped its true quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In\nhis then frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable\npenitence was upon him,--delicate, undefined, almost devotional\nsuggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool wind\nbrings to parched and drooping flowers,--so that when Heliobas, taking\nup the silver \"Esdras\" reliquary and preparing to leave the apartment\nin response to the vesper summons, said gently, \"Will you attend our\nservice, Mr. Alwyn?\" he assented at once, with a pleased alacrity which\nsomewhat astonished himself as he remembered how, on the previous\nevening, he had despised and inwardly resented all forms of religious\nobservance.\n\nHowever, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered mood,\n... he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly grace and\nquiet reverence that became him much better than the offensive and\ndefensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume in the same\nprayer-hallowed place,--he listened to the impressive ceremonial from\nbeginning to end without the least fatigue or impatience,--and though\nwhen the brethren knelt, he could not humble himself so far as to kneel\nalso, he still made a slight concession to appearances by sitting down\nand keeping his head in a bent posture--\"out of respect for the good\nintentions of these worthy men,\" as he told himself, to silence the\ninner conflict of his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The\nservice concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and\nwas smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when\nHeliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and\nconfronted him, saying:\n\n\"I will bid you farewell here, my friend! ... I have many things to do\nthis evening, and it is best I should see you no more before your\ndeparture.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Alwyn astonished--\"I had hoped for another conversation\nwith you.\"\n\n\"To what purpose!\" inquired Heliobas mildly. \"That I should assert ...\nand you deny ... facts that God Himself will prove in His own way and\nat His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by further\narguments.\"\n\n\"But,\" stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, \"you give\nme no chance to thank you ... to express my gratitude.\"\n\n\"Gratitude?\" questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, with a tinge of\nreproach in his soft, mellow voice. \"Are you grateful for being, as you\nthink, deluded by a trance? ... cheated, as it were, into a sort of\nsemi-belief in the life to come by means of mesmerism? Your first\nrequest to me, I know, was that you might be deceived by my influence\ninto a state of imaginary happiness,--and now you fancy your last\nnight's experience was merely the result of that pre-eminently foolish\ndesire. You are wrong! ... and, as matters stand, no thanks are needed.\nIf I had indeed mesmerized or hypnotized you, I might perhaps have\ndeserved some reward for the exertion of my purely professional skill,\nbut ... as I have told you already ... I have done absolutely nothing.\nYour fate is, as it has always been, in your own hands. You sought me\nof your own accord ... you used me as an instrument, an unwilling\ninstrument, remember! ... whereby to break open the prison doors of\nyour chafed, and fretting spirit,--and the end of it all is that you\ndepart from hence tomorrow of your own free-will and choice, to fulfill\nthe appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a phantom in a\nvision. In brief\"--here he spoke more slowly and with marked\nemphasis--\"you go to the field of Ardath to solve a puzzling problem\n... namely, as to whether what we call life is not a Dream--and whether\na Dream may not perchance be proved Reality! In this enterprise of\nyours I have no share--nor will I say more than this ... God speed you\non your errand!\"\n\nHe held out his hand--Alwyn grasped it, looking earnestly meanwhile at\nthe fine intellectual face, the clear pathetic eyes, the firm yet\nsensitive mouth, on which there just then rested a serious yet kindly\nsmile.\n\n\"What a strange man you are, Heliobas!\" he said impulsively ... \"I wish\nI knew more about you!\"\n\nHeliobas gave him a friendly glance.\n\n\"Wish rather that you knew more about yourself\"--he answered\nsimply--\"Fathom your own mystery of being--you shall find none deeper,\ngreater, or more difficult of comprehension!\"\n\nAlwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Finally releasing it\nwith a slight sigh, he said:\n\n\"Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be for long. We MUST\nmeet again!\"\n\n\"Why, if we must, we shall!\" rejoined Heliobas cheerily. \"MUST cannot\nbe prevented! In the mean time ... farewell!\"\n\n\"Farewell!\" and as this word was spoken their eyes met. Instinctively\nand on a sudden impulse, Alwyn bowed his head in the lowest and most\nreverential salutation he had perhaps ever made to any creature of\nmortal mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in the act of turning\naway.\n\n\"Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic!\" he asked in a soft tone\nthat thrilled tenderly through the silence of the dimly-lit\nchapel,--then, receiving no reply, he laid one hand gently on the young\nman's dark, clustering curls, and with the other slowly traced the sign\nof the cross upon the smooth, broad fairness of his forehead.--\"Take\nit, my son! ... the only blessing I can give thee,--the blessing of the\nCross of Christ, which in spite of thy desertion claims thee, redeems\nthee, and will yet possess thee for its own!\"\n\nAnd before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to\ninterrupt and repudiate this, to him, undesired form of benediction,\nHeliobas had gone, and he was left alone. Lifting his head he stared\nout into the further corridor, down which he just perceived a distant\nglimmer of vanishing white robes,--and for a moment he was filled with\nspeechless indignation. It seemed to him that the sign thus traced on\nhis brow must be actually visible like a red brand burnt into his\nflesh,--and all his old and violent prejudices against Christianity\nrushed back upon him with the resentful speed of once baffled foes\nreturning anew to storm a citadel. Almost as rapidly, however, his\nanger cooled,--he remembered that in his vision of the previous night,\nthe light that had guided him through the long, shadowy vista had\nalways preceded him in the form of a Cross,--and in a softer mood he\nglanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the otherwise darkened\naltar. Involuntarily the words \"We have seen His Star in the East and\nhave come to worship Him\"--occurred to his memory, but he dismissed\nthem as instantly as they suggested themselves, and finding his own\nthoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he hastily left the chapel.\n\nJoining some of the monks who were gathered in a picturesque group\nround the fire in the refectory he sat chatting with them for about\nhalf an hour or so, hoping to elicit from them in the course of\nconversation some particulars concerning the daily life, character, and\nprofessing aims of their superior,--but in this attempt he failed. They\nspoke of Heliobas as believing men may speak of saints, with hushed\nreverence and admiring tenderness--but on any point connected with his\nfaith, or the spiritual nature of his theories, they held their peace,\nevidently deeming the subject too sacred for discussion. Baffled in all\nhis inquiries Alwyn at last said good-night, and retired to rest in the\nsmall sleeping-apartment prepared for his accommodation, where he\nenjoyed a sound, refreshing, and dreamless slumber.\n\nThe next morning he was up at daybreak, and long before the sun had\nrisen above the highest peak of Caucasus, he had departed from the Lars\nMonastery, leaving a handsome donation in the poor-box toward the\nvarious charitable works in which the brethren were engaged, such as\nthe rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or the burial of the many\nvictims murdered on or near the Pass of Dariel by the bands of fierce\nmountain robbers and assassins, that at certain seasons infest that\nsolitary region. Making the best of his way to the fortress of\nPassanaur, he there joined a party of adventurous Russian climbers who\nhad just successfully accomplished the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in\ntheir company proceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis,\nwhich he reached that same evening. From this dark and dismal-looking\ntown, shadowed on all sides by barren and cavernous hills, he\ndispatched the manuscript of his mysteriously composed poem, together\nwith the letter concerning it, to his friend Villiers in England,--and\nthen, yielding to a burning sense of impatience within\nhimself,--impatience that would brook no delay,--he set out resolutely,\nand at once, on his long pilgrimage to the \"land of sand and ruin and\ngold\"--the land of terrific prophecy and stern fulfilment,--the land of\nmighty and mournful memories, where the slow river Euphrates clasps in\nits dusky yellow ring the ashes of great kingdoms fallen to rise no\nmore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nBY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.\n\n\nIt was no light or easy journey he had thus rashly undertaken on the\nfaith of a dream,--for dream he still believed it to be. Many weary\ndays and nights were consumed in the comfortless tedium of travel, . .\nand though he constantly told himself what unheard-of folly it was to\npursue an illusive chimera of his own imagination,--a mere phantasm\nwhich had somehow or other taken possession of his brain at a time when\nthat brain must have been acted upon (so he continued to think) by\nstrong mesmeric or magnetic influence, he went on his way all the same\nwith a sort of dogged obstinacy which no fatigue could daunt or lessen.\nHe never lay down to rest without the faint hope of seeing once again,\nif only in sleep, the radiant Being whose haunting words had sent him\non this quest of \"Ardath,\"--but herein his expectations were not\nrealized. No more flower-crowned angels floated before him--no sweet\nwhisper of love, encouragement, or promise came mysteriously on his\nears in the midnight silences,--his slumbers were always profound and\nplacid as those of a child and utterly dreamless.\n\nOne consolation he had however, ... he could write. Not a day passed\nwithout his finding some new inspiration ... some fresh, quaint, and\nlovely thought, that flowed of itself into most perfect and rhythmical\nutterance,--glorious lines of verse glowing with fervor and beauty\nseemed to fall from his pencil without any effort on his part,--and if\nhe had had reason in former times to doubt the strength of his poetical\nfaculty, it was now very certain he could do so longer. His mind was as\na fine harp newly strung, attuned, and quivering with the consciousness\nof the music pent-up within it,--and as he remembered the masterpiece\nof poesy he had written in his seeming trance, the manuscript of which\nwould soon be in the hands of the London publishers, his heart swelled\nwith a growing and irrepressible sense of pride. For he knew and\nfelt--with an undefinable yet positive certainty--that however much the\npublic or the critics might gainsay him, his fame as a poet of the very\nhighest order would ere long be asserted and assured. A deep\ntranquillity was in his soul ... a tranquillity that seemed to increase\nthe further he went onward,--the restless weariness that had once\npossessed him was past, and a vaguely sweet content pervade his being\nlike the odor of early roses pervading warm air ... he felt, he hoped,\nhe loved! ... and yet his feelings, hopes, and longings turned to\nsomething altogether undeclared and indefinite, as softly dim and\ndistant as the first faint white cloud-signal wafted from the moon in\nheaven, when, on the point of rising, she makes her queenly purpose\nknown to her waiting star-attendants.\n\nPractically considered, his journey was tedious and for the most part\ndull and uninteresting. In these Satan-like days of \"going to and fro\nin the earth and walking up and down in it\" travelling has lost much of\nits old romantic charm, . . the idea of traversing long distances no\nmore fills the expectant adventurer with a pleasurable sense of\nuncertainty and mystery--he knows exactly what to anticipate.. it is\nall laid out for him plainly on the level lines of the commonplace, and\nnothing is left to his imagination. The Continent of Europe has been\nransacked from end to end by tourists who have turned it into a sort of\nexhausted pleasure-garden, whereof the various entertainments are too\nfamiliarly known to arouse any fresh curiosity,--the East is nearly in\nthe same condition,--hordes of British and American sight-seers scamper\nover the empire-strewn soil of Persia and Syria with the unconcerned\nindifference of beings to whom not only a portion of the world's\nterritory, but the whole world itself, belongs,--and soon there will\nnot be an inch of ground left on the narrow extent of our poor planet\nthat has not been trodden by the hasty, scrambling, irreverent\nfootsteps of some one or other of the ever-prolific, all-spreading\nEnglish-speaking race.\n\nOn his way Alwyn met many of his countrymen,--travellers who, like\nhimself, had visited the Caucasus and Armenia and were now en route,\nsome for Damascus, some for Jerusalem and the Holy Land--others again\nfor Cairo and Alexandria, to depart from thence homeward by the usual\nMediterranean line, . . but among these birds-of-passage acquaintance\nhe chanced upon none who were going to the Ruins of Babylon. He was\nglad of this--for the peculiar nature of his enterprise rendered a\ncompanion altogether undesirable,--and though on one occasion he\nencountered a gentleman-novelist with a note-book, who was exceedingly\nanxious to fraternize with him and discover whither he vas bound, he\nsucceeded in shaking off this would-be incubus at Mosul, by taking him\nto a wonderful old library in that city where there were a number of\nFrench translations of Turkish and Syriac romances. Here the\ngentleman-novelist straightway ascended to the seventh heaven of\nplagiarism, and began to copy energetically whole scenes and\ndescriptive passages from dead-and-gone authors, unknown to English\ncritics, for the purpose of inserting them hereafter into his own\n\"original\" work of fiction--and in this congenial occupation he forgot\nall about the \"dark handsome man, with the wide brows of a Marc Antony\nand the lips of a Catullus,\" as he had already described Alwyn in the\nnote-book before-mentioned. While in Mosul, Alwyn himself picked up a\ncuriosity in the way of literature,--a small quaint volume entitled\n\"The Final Philosophy Of Algazzali The Arabian.\" It was printed in two\nlanguages--the original Arabic on one page, and, facing it, the\ntranslation in very old French. The author, born A.D. 1058, described\nhimself as \"a poor student striving to discern the truth of\nthings\"--and his work was a serious, incisive, patiently exhaustive\ninquiry into the workings of nature, the capabilities of human\nintelligence, and the deceptive results of human reason. Reading it,\nAlwyn was astonished to find that nearly all the ethical propositions\noffered for the world's consideration to-day by the most learned and\ncultured minds, had been already advanced and thoroughly discussed by\nthis same Algazzali. One passage in particular arrested his attention\nas being singularly applicable to his own immediate condition, . . it\nran as follows,--\n\n\"I began to examine the objects of sensation and speculation to see if\nthey could possibly admit of doubt. Then, doubts crowded upon me in\nsuch numbers that my incertitude became complete. Whence results the\nconfidence I have in sensible things? The strongest of all our senses\nis sight,--yet if we look at the stars they seem to be as small as\nmoney-pieces--but mathematical proofs convince us that they are larger\nthan the earth. These and other things are judged by the SENSES, but\nrejected by REASON as false. I abandoned the senses therefore, having\nseen my confidence in their ABSOLUTE TRUTH shaken. Perhaps, said I,\nthere is no assurance but in the notions of reason? ... that is to say,\nfirst principles, as that ten is more than three? Upon this the SENSES\nreplied: What assurance have you that your confidence in REASON is not\nof the same nature as your confidence in US? When you relied on us,\nreason stepped in and gave us the lie,--had not reason been there you\nwould have continued to rely on us. Well, nay there not exist some\nother judge SUPERIOR to reason who, if he appeared, would refute the\njudgments of reason in the same way that reason refuted us? The\nnon-appearance of such a judge is no proof of his non-existence.... I\nstrove to answer this objection, and my difficulties increased when I\ncame to reflect on sleep. I said to myself: During sleep you give to\nvisions a reality and consistence, and on awakening you are made aware\nthat they were nothing but visions. What assurance have you that all\nyou feel and know does actually exist? It is all true as respects your\ncondition at the moment,--but it is nevertheless possible that another\ncondition should present itself which should be to your awakened state,\nthat which your awakened state is now to your sleep,--SO THAT, AS\nRESPECTS THIS HIGHER CONDITION YOUR WAKING IS BUT SLEEP.\"\n\nOver and over again Alwyn read these words and pondered on the deep and\ndifficult problems they suggested, and he was touched to an odd sense\nof shamed compunction, when at the close of the book he came upon\nAlgazzali's confession of utter vanquishment and humility thus simply\nrecorded:\n\n\"I examined my actions and found the best were those relating to\ninstruction and education, and even there I saw myself given up to\nunimportant sciences all useless in another world. Reflecting on the\naim of my teaching, I found it was not pure in the sight of the Lord.\nAnd that all my efforts were directed toward the acquisition of glory\nto myself. Having therefore distributed my wealth I left Bagdad and\nretired into Syria, where I remained in solitary struggle with my soul,\ncombating my passions and exercising myself in the purification of my\nheart and in preparation for the other world.\"\n\nThis ancient philosophical treatise, together with the mystical passage\nfrom the original text of Esdras and the selected verses from the\nApocrypha, formed all Alwyn's stock of reading for the rest of his\njourney,--the rhapsodical lines of the Prophet he knew by heart, as one\nknows a favorite poem, and he often caught himself unconsciously\nrepeating the strange words: \"Behold the field thou thoughtest barren:\nhow great a glory hath the moon unveiled!\n\n\"And I beheld, and was sore amazed, for I was no longer myself but\nanother.\n\n\"And the sword of death was in that other's soul: and yet that other\nwas but myself, in pain.\n\n\"And I knew not the things that were once familiar and my heart failed\nwithin me for very fear...\"\n\nWhat did they mean, he wondered? or had they any meaning at all beyond\nthe faint, far-off suggestions of thought that may occasionally and\nwith difficulty be discerned through obscure and reckless ecstasies of\nlanguage which, \"full of sound and fury, signify nothing\"? Was there,\ncould there, be anything mysterious or sacred in this \"wiste field\"\nanciently known as \"Ardath\"? These questions flitted hazily from time\nto time through his brain, but he made no attempt to answer them either\nby refutation or reason, ... indeed sober, matter-of-fact reason, he\nwas well aware, played no part in his present undertaking.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon of a sultry parching day when he at last\narrived at Hillah. This dull little town, built at the beginning of the\ntwelfth century out of the then plentifully scattered fragments of\nBabylon, has nothing to offer to the modern traveller save various\nannoyances in the shape of excessive heat, dust, or rather fine blown\nsand,--dirt, flies, bad food, and general discomfort; and finding the\naspect of the place not only untempting, but positively depressing,\nAlwyn left his surplus luggage at a small and unpretentious hostelry\nkept by a Frenchman, who catered specially for archaeological tourists\nand explorers, and after an hour's rest, set out alone and on foot for\nthe \"eastern quarter\" of the ruins,--namely those which are considered\nby investigators to begin about two miles above Hillah. A little beyond\nthem and close to the river-bank, according to the deductions he had\nreceived, dwelt the religious recluse for whom he brought the letter of\nintroduction from Heliobas,--a letter bearing on its cover a\nsuperscription in Latin which translated ran thus:--\"To the venerable\nand much esteemed Elzear of Melyana, at the Hermitage, near Hillah. In\nfaith, peace, and good-will. Greeting.\" Anxious to reach Elzear's abode\nbefore nightfall, he walked on as briskly as the heat and heaviness of\nthe sandy soil would allow, keeping to the indistinctly traced path\nthat crossed and re-crossed at intervals the various ridges of earth\nstrewn with pulverized fragments of brick, bitumen, and pottery, which\nare now the sole remains of stately buildings once famous in Babylon.\n\nA low red sun was sinking slowly on the edge of the horizon, when,\npausing to look about him, he perceived in the near distance, the dark\noutline of the great mound known as Birs-Nimroud, and realized with a\nsort of shock that he was actually surrounded on all sides by the\ncrumbled and almost indistinguishable ruins of the formerly superb\nall-dominant Assyrian city that had been \"as a golden cup in the Lord's\nhand,\" and was now no more in very truth than a \"broken and an empty\nvessel.\" For the words, \"And Babylon shall become heaps,\" have\ncertainly been verified with startling exactitude--\"heaps\" indeed it\nhas become,--nothing BUT heaps,--heaps of dull earth with here and\nthere a few faded green tufts of wild tamarisk, which while faintly\nrelieveing the blankness of the ground, at the same time intensify its\nmonotonous dreaminess. Alwyn, beholding the mournful desolation of the\nscene, felt a strong sense of disappointment,--he had expected\nsomething different,--his imagination had pictured these historical\nruins as being of larger extent and more imposing character. His eyes\nrested rather wearily on the slow, dull gleam of the Euphrates, as it\nwound past the deserted spaces where \"the mighty city the astonishment\nof nations\" had once stood, ... and poet though he was to the very core\nof his nature, he could see nothing poetical in these spectral mounds\nand stone heaps, save in the significant remembrance they offered of\nthe old Scriptual prophecy--\"Babylon is fallen--is fallen! Her princes,\nher wise men, her captains, her rulers, and her mighty men shall sleep\na perpetual sleep and not wake, saith the King who is the Lord of\nHosts.\" And truly it seemed as if the curse which had blighted the\ncity's bygone splendor had doomed even its ruins to appear contemptible.\n\nJust then the glow of the disappearing sun touched the upper edge of\nBirs-Nimroud, giving it for one instant a weird effect, as though the\nghost of some Babylonian watchman were waving a lit torch from its\nsummit,--but the lurid glare soon faded and a dead gray twilight\nsettled solemnly down over the melancholy landscape. With a sudden\nfeeling of dejection and lassitude upon him, Alwyn, heaving a deep\nsigh, went onward, and soon perceived, lying a little to the north of\nthe river, a small, roughly erected tenement with a wooden cross on its\nroof. Rightly concluding that this must be Elzear of Melyana's\nhermitage, he quickly made his way thither and knocked at the door.\n\nIt was opened to him at once by a white-haired, picturesque old man,\nwho received him with a mute sign of welcome, and who at the same time\nlaid one hand lightly but expressively on his own lips to signify that\nhe was dumb. This was Elzear himself. He was attired in the same sort\nof flowing garb as that worn by the monks of Dariel, and with his tall,\nspare figure, long, silvery beard and deep-sunken yet still brilliant\ndark eyes, he might have served as a perfect model for one of the\ninspired prophets of bygone ancient days. Though Nature had deprived\nhim of speech, his serene countenance spoke eloquently in his favor,\nits mild benevolent expression betokening that inward peace of the\nheart which so often renders old age more beautiful than youth. He\nperused with careful slowness the letter Alwyn presented to him,--and\nthen, inclining his head gravely, he made a courteous and comprehensive\ngesture, to intimate that himself and all that his house contained were\nat the service of the newcomer. He proceeded to testify the sincerity\nof this assurance at once by setting a plentiful supply of food and\nwine before his guest, waiting upon him, moreover, while he ate and\ndrank, with a respectful humility which somewhat embarrassed Alwyn, who\nwished to spare him the trouble of such attendance and told him so many\ntimes with much earnestness. But all to no purpose--Elzear only smiled\ngently and continued to perform the duties of hospitality in his own\nway ... it was evidently no use interfering with him. Later on he\nshowed his visitor a small cell-like apartment containing a neat bed,\ntogether with a table, a chair, and a large Crucifix, which latter\nobject was suspended against the wall, . . and indicating by eloquent\nsigns that here the weariest traveller might find good repose, he made\na low salutation and departed altogether for the night.\n\nWhat a still place the \"Hermitage\" was, thought Alwyn, as soon as\nElzear's retreating steps had died away into silence. There was not a\nsound to be heard anywhere, ... not even the faint rustle of leaves\nstirred by the wind. And what a haunting, grave, wistfully tender\nexpression filled the face of that sculptured Image on the Cross, which\nin intimate companionship with himself seemed to possess the little\nroom! He could not bear the down-drooping appealing, penetrating look\nin those heavenly-kind yet piteous Eyes, ... turning abruptly away he\nopened the narrow window, and folding his arms on the sill surveyed the\nscene before him. The full moon was rising slowly, ... round and large,\nshe hung like a yellow shield on the dark, dense wall of the sky. The\nRums of Babylon were plainly visible.. the river shone like a golden\nribbon,--the outline of Birs-Nimoud was faintly rimmed with light, and\nhad little streaks of amber radiance wandering softly up and down its\nshadowy slopes.\n\n\"'AND I WENT INTO THE FIELD CALLED ARDATH AND THERE I SAT AMONG THE\nFLOWERS!'\" mused Alwyn half aloud, his dreamy gaze fixed on the\ngradually brightening heavens ... \"Why not go there at once ... NOW!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE FIELD OF FLOWERS.\n\n\nThis idea had no sooner entered his mind than he prepared to act upon\nit,--though only a short while previously, feeling thoroughly overcome\nby fatigue, he had resolved to wait till next day before setting out\nfor the chief goal of his long pilgrimage. But now, strangely enough,\nall sense of weariness had suddenly left him,--a keen impatience burned\nin his veins,--and a compelling influence stronger than himself seemed\nto urge him on to the instant fulfillment of his purpose. The more he\nthought about it the more restless he became, and the more eagerly\ndesirous to prove, with the least possible delay, the truth or the\nfalsity of his mystic vision at Danel. By the light of the small lamp\nleft on the table he consulted his map,--the map Heliobas had\ntraced,--and also the written directions that accompanied it--though\nthese he had read so often over and over again that he knew them by\nheart. They were simply and concisely worded thus: \"On the east bank of\nthe Euphrates, nearly opposite the 'Hermitage,' there is the sunken\nfragment of a bronze Gate, formerly belonging to the Palace of the\nBabylonian Kings. Three miles and a half to the southwest of this\nfragment and in a direct line with it, straight across country, will be\nfound a fallen pillar of red granite half buried in the earth. The\nsquare tract of land extending beyond this broken column is the field\nknown to the Prophet Esdras as the 'FIELD OF ARDATH'\"\n\nHe was on the east bank of the Euphrates already,--and a walk of three\nmiles and a half could surely be accomplished in an hour or very little\nover that time. Hesitating no longer he made his way out of the house,\ndeciding that if he met Elzear he would say he was going for a\nmoonlight stroll before retiring to rest. That venerable recluse,\nhowever, was nowhere to be seen,--and as the door of the \"Hermitage\"\nwas only fastened with a light latch he had no difficulty in effecting\na noiseless exit. Once in the open air he stopped, . . startled by the\nsound of full, fresh, youthful voices singing in clear and harmonious\nunison ... \"KYRIE ELEISON! CHRISTE ELEISON! KYRIE ELEISON!\" He\nlistened, . . looking everywhere about him in utter amazement. There\nwas no habitation in sight save Elzear's,--and the chorus certainly did\nnot proceed from thence, but rather seemed to rise upward through the\nearth, floating in released sweet echoes to and fro upon the hushed\nair. \"KYRIE ELEISON! ... CHRISTE ELEISON!\" How it swayed about him like\na close chime of bells!\n\nHe stood motionless, perplexed and wondering, ... was there a\nsubterranean grotto near at hand where devotional chants were\nsung?--or, . . and a slight tremor ran through him at the thought, . .\nwas there something supernatural in the music, notwithstanding its\nhuman-seeming speech and sound? Just then it ceased, ... all was again\nsilent as before, . . and angry with himself for his own foolish\nfancies, he set about the task of discovering the \"sunken fragment\"\nHeliobas had mentioned. Very soon he found it, driven deep into the\nsoil and so blackened and defaced by time that it was impossible to\ntrace any of the elaborate carvings that must have once adorned it. In\nfact it would not have been recognizable as a portion of a gate at all,\nhad it not still possessed an enormous hinge which partly clung to it\nby means of one huge thickly rusted nail, dose beside it, grew a tree\nof weird and melancholy appearance--its trunk was split asunder and one\nhalf of it was withered. The other half leaning mournfully on one side\nbent down its branches to the ground, trailing a wealth of long, glossy\ngreen leaves in the dust of the ruined city. This was the famous tree\ncalled by the natives Athel, of which old legends say that it used to\nbe a favorite evergreen much cultivated and prized by the Babylonian\nnobility, who loving its pleasant shade, spared no pains to make it\ngrow in their hanging gardens and spacious courts, though its nature\nwas altogether foreign to the soil. And now, with none to tend it or\ncare whether it flourishes or decays, it faithfully clings to the\ndeserted spot where it was once so tenderly fostered, showing its\nsympathy with the surrounding desolation, by growing always in split\nhalves, one withered and one green--a broken-hearted creature, yet\nloyal to the memory of past love and joy. Alwyn stood under its dark\nboughs, knowing nothing of its name or history,--every now and then a\nwailing whisper seemed to shudder through it, though there was no\nwind,--and he heard the eerie lamenting sigh with an involuntary sense\nof awe. The whole scene was far more impressive by night than by\nday,--the great earth mounds of Babylon looked like giant graves\ninclosing a glittering ring of winding waters. Again he examined the\nimbedded fragment of the ancient gate,--and then feeling quite certain\nof his starting-point he set his face steadily toward the\nsouthwest,--there the landscape before him lay flat and bare in the\nbeamy lustre of the moon. The soil was sandy and heavy to the\ntread,--moreover it was an excessively hot night,--too hot to walk\nfast. He glanced at his watch,--it was a few minutes past ten o'clock.\nKeeping up the moderate pace the heat enforced, it was possible he\nmight reach the mysterious field about half-past eleven, . . perhaps\nearlier. And now his nerves began to quiver with strong excitement, . .\nhad he yielded to the promptings of his own feverish impatience, he\nwould most probably have run all the way in spite of the sultriness of\nthe air,--but he restrained this impulse, and walked leisurely on\npurpose, reproaching himself as he went along for the utter absurdity\nof his expectations.\n\n\"Was ever madman more mad than I!\" he murmured with some\nself-contempt--\"What logical human being in his right mind would be\nguilty of such egregious folly! But am I logical? Certainly not! Am I\nin my right mind? I think I am,--yet I may be wrong. The question\nremains, ... what IS logic? ... and what IS being in one's right mind?\nNo one can absolutely decide! Let me see if I can review calmly my\nridiculous position. It comes to this,--I insist on being mesmerized\n... I have a dream, ... and I see a woman in the dream\"--here he\nsuddenly corrected himself ... \"a woman did I say? No! ... she was\nsomething far more than that! A lovely phantom--a dazzling creature of\nmy own imagination ... an exquisite ideal whom I will one day\nimmortalize ... yes!--IMMORTALIZE in song!\"\n\nHe raised his eyes as he spoke to the dusky firmament thickly studded\nwith stars, and just then caught sight of a fleecy silver-rimmed cloud\npassing swiftly beneath the moon and floating downwards toward the\nearth,--it was shaped like a white-winged bird, and was here and there\ntenderly streaked with pink, as though it had just travelled from some\ndistant land where the sun was rising. It was the only cloud in the\nsky,--and it had a peculiar, almost phenomenal effect by reason of its\nrapid motion, there being not the faintest breeze stirring. Alwyn\nwatched it gliding down the heavens till it had entirely disappeared,\nand then began his meditations anew.\n\n\"Any one,--even without magnetic influence being brought to bear upon\nhim, might have visions such as mine! Take an opium-eater, for\ninstance, whose life is one long confused vista of visions,--suppose he\nwere to accept all the wild suggestions offered to his drugged brain,\nand persist in following them out to some sort of definite\nconclusion,--the only place for that man would be a lunatic asylum.\nEven the most ordinary persons, whose minds are never excited in any\nabnormal way, are subject to very curious and inexplicable dreams,--but\nfor all that, they are not such fools as to believe in them. True,\nthere is my poem,--I don't know how I wrote it, yet written it is, and\ncomplete from beginning to end--an actual tangible result of my vision,\nand strange enough in its way, to say the least of it. But what is\nstranger still is that I LOVE the radiant phantom that I saw ... yes,\nactually love her with a love no mere woman, were she fair as Troy's\nHelen, could ever arouse in me! Of course,--in spite of the contrary\nassertions made by that remarkably interesting Chaldean monk\nHeliobas,--I feel I am the victim of a brain-delusion,--therefore it is\njust as well I should see this 'field of Ardath' and satisfy myself\nthat nothing comes of it--in which case I shall be cured of my craze.\"\n\nHe walked on for some time, and presently stopped a moment to examine\nhis map by the light of the moon. As he did so, he became aware of the\nextraordinary, almost terrible, stillness surrounding him. He had\nthought the \"Hermitage\" silent as a closed tomb--but it was nothing to\nthe silence here. He felt it inclosing him like a thick wall on all\nsides,--he heard the regular pulsations of his own heart--even the\nrushing of his own blood--but no other sound was audible. Earth and the\nair seemed breathless, as though with some pent-up mysterious\nexcitement,--the stars were like so many large living eyes eagerly\ngazing down on the solitary human being who thus wandered at night in\nthe land of the prophets of old--the moon itself appeared to stare at\nhim in open wonderment. He grew uncomfortably conscious of this\nspeechless watchfulness of nature,--he strained his ears to listen, as\nit were to the deepening dumbness of all existing things,--and to\nconquer the strange sensations that were overcoming him, he proceeded\nat a more rapid pace,--but in two or three minutes came again to an\nabrupt halt. For there in front of him, right across his path, lay the\nfallen pillar which, according to Heliobas, marked the boundary to the\nfield he sought! Another glance at his map decided the position ... he\nhad reached his journey's end at last! What was the time? He looked--it\nwas just twenty minutes past eleven.\n\nA curious, unnatural calmness suddenly possessed him, ... he surveyed\nwith a quiet, almost cold, unconcern the prospect before him,--a wide\nlevel square of land covered with tufts of coarse grass and clumps of\nwild tamarisk, ... nothing more. This was the Field of Ardath ... this\nbare, unlovely wilderness without so much as a tree to grace its\noutline! From where he stood he could view its whole extent,--and as he\nbeheld its complete desolation he smiled,--a faint, half-bitter smile.\nHe thought of the words in the ancient book of \"Esdras:\" \"And the Angel\nbade me enter a waste field, and the field was barren and dry save of\nherbs, and the name of the field was Ardath. And I wandered therein\nthrough the hours of the long night, and the silver eyes of the field\ndid open before me and therein I saw signs and wonders.\"\n\n\"Yes,--the field is 'barren and dry' enough in all conscience!\" he\nmurmured listlessly--\"But as for the 'silver eyes' and the 'signs and\nwonders,' they must have existed only in the venerable Prophet's\nimagination, just as my flower-crowned Angel-maiden exists in mine.\nWell! ... now, Theos Alwyn\" ... he continued, apostrophizing himself\naloud,--\"Are you contented? Are you quite convinced of your folly? ...\nand do you acknowledge that a fair Dream is as much of a lie and a\ncheat as all the other fair-seeming things that puzzle and torture poor\nhuman nature? Return to your former condition of reasoning and\nreasonable skepticism,--aye, even atheism if you will, for the\nmaterialists are right, ... you cannot prove a God or the possibility\nof any purely spiritual life. Why thus hanker after a phantom\nloveliness? Fame--fame! Win fame! ... that is enough for you in this\nworld, ... and as for a next world, who believes in it?--and who,\nbelieving, cares?\"\n\nSoliloquizing in this fashion, he set his foot on Ardath itself,\ndetermining to walk across and around it from end to end. The grass was\nlong and dry, yet it made no rustle beneath his tread ... he seemed to\nbe shod with the magic shoes of silence. He walked on till he reached\nabout the middle of the field, where perceiving a broad flat stone near\nhim, he sat down to rest. There was a light mist rising,--a thin\nmoonlit-colored vapor that crept slowly upward from the ground and\nremained hovering like a wide, suddenly-spun gossamer web, some two or\nthree inches above it, thus giving a cool, luminous, watery effect to\nthe hot and arid soil.\n\n\"According to the Apocrypha, Esdras 'sat among the flowers,'\" he idly\nmused--\"Well! ... perhaps there were flowers in those days,--but it is\nvery evident there are none now. A more dreary, utterly desolate place\nthan this famous 'Ardath' I have never seen!\"\n\nAt that moment a subtle fragrance scented the still air, ... a\nfragrance deliciously sweet, as of violets mingled with myrtle. He\ninhaled the delicate odor, surprised and confounded.\n\n\"Flowers after all!\" he exclaimed.... \"Or maybe some aromatic herb...\"\nand he bent down to examine the turf at his feet. To his amazement he\nperceived a thick cluster of white blossoms, star-shaped and\nglossy-leaved, with deep golden centres, wherein bright drops of dew\nsparkled like brilliants, and from whence puffs of perfume rose like\nincense swung at unseen altars! He looked at them in doubt that was\nalmost dread, ... were they real? ... were these the \"silver eyes\" in\nwhich Esdras had seen \"signs and wonders\"? ... or was he hopelessly\nbrain-sick with delusions, and dreaming again?\n\nHe touched them hesitatingly ... they were actual living things, with\ncreamy petals soft as velvet,--he was about to gather one of\nthem,--when all at once his attention was caught and riveted by\nsomething like a faint shadow gliding across the plain. A smothered cry\nescaped his lips, ... he sprang erect and gazed eagerly forward, half\nin hope,--half in fear. What slight Figure was that, pacing slowly,\nserenely, and all alone in the moonlight? ... Without another instant's\npause he rushed impetuously toward it,--heedless that as he went, he\ntrod on thousands of those strange starry blossoms, which now, with\nsudden growth, covered and whitened every inch of the ground, thus\nmarvellously fulfilling the words spoken of old: . . \"Behold the field\nthou thoughest barren; how great a glory hath the moon unveiled!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nGOD'S MAIDEN EDRIS.\n\n\nHe ran on swiftly for a few paces,--then coming more closely in view of\nthe misty Shape he pursued, he checked himself abruptly and stood\nstill, his heart sinking with a bitter and irrepressible sense of\ndisappointment. Here surely was no Angel wanderer from unseen spheres!\n... only a girl, clad in floating gray draperies that clung softly to\nher slim figure, and trailed behind her as she moved sedately along\nthrough the snow-white blossoms that bent beneath her noiseless tread.\nHe had no eyes for the strange flower-transfiguration of the lately\nbarren land,--all his interest was centered on the slender, graceful\nform of the mysterious Maiden. She, meanwhile, went on her way, till\nshe reached the western boundary of the field,--there she turned, ...\nhesitated a moment, ... and then came back straight toward him. He\nwatched her approach as though she were some invisible fate,--and a\ntremor shook his limbs as she drew nearer ... still nearer! He could\nsee her distinctly now, all but her face,--that was in shadow, for her\nhead was bent and her eyes were downcast. Her long, fair hair flowed in\na loose rippling mass over her shoulders ... she wore a wreath of the\nArdath flowers, and carried a cluster of them clasped between her\nsmall, daintily shaped hands. A few steps more, and she was close\nbeside him--she stopped as if in expectation of some word or sign ...\nbut he stood mute and motionless, not daring to speak or stir.\nThen--without raising her eyes--she passed, ... passed like a flitting\nvapor,--and he remained as though rooted to the spot, in a sort of\nvague, dumb bewilderment! His stupefaction was brief however--rousing\nhimself to swift resolution, he hastened, after her.\n\n\"Stay! stay!\" he cried aloud.\n\nObedient to his call she paused, but did not turn. He came up with her.\n... he caught at her robe, soft to the touch as silken gauze, and\noverwhelmed by a sudden emotion of awe and reverence, he sank on his\nknees.\n\n\"Who, and what are you?\" he murmured in trembling tones--\"Tell me! If\nyou are mortal maid I will not harm you, I swear! ... See! ... I am\nonly a poor crazed fool that loves a Dream, ... that stakes his life\nupon a chance of Heaven, ... pity me as you are gentle! ... but do not\nfear me ... only speak!\"\n\nNo answer came. He looked up--and now in the rich radiance of the moon\nbeheld her face ... how like, and yet how altogether unlike it was to\nthe face of the Angel in his vision! For that ethereal Being had seemed\ndazzlingly, supremely beautiful beyond all mortal power of\ndescription,--whereas this girl was simply fair, small, and delicate,\nwith something wistful and pathetic in the lines of her sweet mouth,\nand shadows as of remembered sorrows slumbering in the depths of her\nserene, dove-like eyes. Her fragile figure drooped wearily as though\nshe were exhausted by some long fatigue, ... yet, ... gazing down upon\nhim, she smiled, ... and in that smile, the faint resemblance she bore\nto his Spirit-ideal flashed out like a beam of sunlight, though it\nvanished again as quickly as it had shone. He waited eagerly to hear\nher voice, ... waited in a sort of breathless suspense,--but as she\nstill kept silence, he sprang up from his kneeling attitude and seized\nher hands ... how soft they were and warm!--he folded them in his own\nand drew her closer to himself ... the flowers she held fell from her\ngrasp, and lay in a tumbled fragrant heap between them. His brain was\nin a whirl--the Past and the Future--the Real and the Unreal--the\nFinite and the Infinite--seemed all merging into one another without\nany shade of difference or division!\n\n\"We have met very strangely, you and I!\"--he said, scarcely conscious\nof the words he uttered--\"Will you not tell me your name?\"\n\nA faint sigh escaped her.\n\n\"My name is Edris,\" she answered, in low musical accents, that carried\nto his sense of hearing a suggestion, of something sweet and familiar.\n\n\"Edris!\" he repeated--\"Edris!\" and gazing at her dreamily he raised her\nhands to his lips and kissed them gently--\"My fairest Edris! From\nwhence do you come?\"\n\nShe met his eyes with a mild look of reproach and wonderment.\n\n\"From a far, far country, Theos!\" and he started as she thus addressed\nhim--\"A land where no love is wasted and no promise forgotten!\"\n\nAgain that mystic light passed over her pale face--the blossom-coronal\nshe wore seemed for a moment to glitter like a circlet of stars. His\nheart beat quickly--could he believe her? ... was she in very truth\nthat shining Peri whose aerial loveliness had so long haunted his\nimagination? Nay!--it was impossible! ... for if she were, why should\nshe veil her native glory in such simple maiden guise?\n\nSearchingly he studied every feature of her countenance, and as he did\nso his doubts concerning her spirit-origin became more and more\nconfirmed. She was a living, breathing woman--an actual creature of\nflesh and blood,--yet how account for her appearance on the field of\nArdath? This puzzled him ... till all at once a logical explanation of\nthe whole mystery dawned upon his mind. Heliobas had sent her hither on\npurpose to meet him! Of course! how dense he had been not to see\nthrough so transparent a scheme before! The clever Chaldean had\nresolved that he, Theos Alwyn, should somehow be brought to accept his\ntrance as a real experience, so that henceforth his faith in \"things\nunseen and eternal\" might be assured. Many psychological theorists\nwould uphold such a deceit as not only permissible, but even\npraise-worthy, if practiced for the furtherance of a good cause. Even\nthe venerable hermit Elzear might have shared in the conspiracy, and\nthis \"Edris,\" as she called herself, was no doubt perfectly trained in\nthe part she had to play! A plot for his conversion! ... well! ... he\nwould enter into it himself, he resolved! ... why not? The girl was\nexquisitely fair,--a veritable Psyche of soft charms!--and a little\nlovemaking by moonlight would do no harm, . .... here he suddenly\nbecame aware that while these thoughts were passing through his brain\nhe had unconsciously allowed her hands to slip from his hold, and she\nnow stood apart at some little distance, her eyes fixed full upon him\nwith an expression of most plaintive piteousness. He made a hasty step\nor two toward her,--and as he did so, his pulses began to throb with an\nextraordinary sensation of pleasure,--pleasure so keen as to be almost\npain.\n\n\"Edris!\".. he whispered,--\"Edris...\" and stopped irresolutely.\n\nShe looked up at him with the appealing wistfulness of a lost and\nsuffering child, and a slight shudder ran through all her delicate\nframe.\n\n\"I am cold, Theos!\" she murmured half beseechingly, stretching out her\nhands to him once more,--hands as fine and fair as lily-leaves,--little\nwhite hands which he gazed at wonderingly, yet did not take.. \"Cold and\nvery weary! The way has been long, and the earth is dark!\"\n\n\"Dark?\" repeated Alwyn mechanically, still absorbed in the dubious\ncontemplation of her lovely yielding form, her sweet upturned face and\ngold-glistening hair--\"Dark? ... here? ... beneath the brightness of\nthe moon? Nay,--I have seen many a full day look less radiant than this\nnight of stars!\"\n\nHer eyes dwelt upon him with a certain pathetic bewilderment,--she let\nher extended arms drop wearily at her sides, and a shadow of pained\nrecollection crossed the fairness of her features.\n\n\"Ah, I forgot! ...\" and she sighed deeply--\"This is that strange, sad\nworld where Darkness is called Light.\"\n\nAt these words uttered with so much sorrowful meaning, a quick thrill\nstirred Alwyn's blood, an inexplicable sharp thrill, that was like the\ntouch of scorching flame. He gazed at her perplexedly ... his pride\nresented what he imagined to be the deception practiced upon him, but\nat the same time he was not insensible to the weird romance of the\nsituation.\n\nHe began to consider that as this fair girl, trained so admirably in\nmystical speech and manner, had evidently been sent on purpose to meet\nhim, he could scarcely be blamed for taking her as she presented\nherself, and enjoying to the full a thoroughly novel and picturesque\nadventure.\n\nHis eyes flashed as he surveyed her standing there before him, utterly\nunprotected and at his mercy--his old, languid, skeptical smile played\non his proud lips,--that smile of the marble Antinous which says \"Bring\nme face to face with Truth itself and I shall still doubt!\".. An\nexpression of reluctant admiration and awakening passion dawned on his\ncountenance, ... he was about to speak,--when she whose looks were\nfastened on him with intense, powerful, watchful, anxious entreaty,\nsuddenly wrung her hands together as though in despair, and gave vent\nto a desolate sobbing cry that smote him to the very heart.\n\n\"Theos! Theos!\" and her voice pealed out on the breathless air in\nsweet, melodious, broken echoes.. \"Oh, my unfaithful Beloved, what can\nI do for thee! A love unseen thou wilt not understand,--a love made\nmanifest thou wilt not recognize! Alas!--my journey is in vain ... my\nerrand hopeless! For while thine unbelief resists my pleading, how can\nI lead thee from danger into safety? ... how bridge the depths between\nour parted souls? ... how win for thee pardon and blessing from Christ\nthe King!\"\n\nBright tears filled her eyes and fell fast and thick through her long,\ndrooping lashes, and Alwyn, smitten with remorse at the sight of such\ngrief, sprang to her side overcome by shame, love, and penitence.\n\n\"Weeping? ... and for me?\"--he exclaimed--\"Sweet Edris! ... Gentlest of\nmaidens! ... Weep not for one unworthy, . . but rather smile and speak\nagain of love! ...\" and now his words pouring forth impetuously, seemed\nto utter themselves independently of any previous thought,--\"Yes! speak\nonly of love,--and the discourse of those tuneful lips shall be my\ngospel, . . the glance of those, soft eyes my creed, . . and as for\npardon and blessing I crave none but thine! I sought a Dream.. I have\nfound a fair Reality ... a living proof of Love's divine omnipotence!\nLove is the only god--who would doubt his sovereignty, or grudge him\nhis full measure of worship? ... Not I, believe me!\"--and carried away\nby the force of a resistless inward fervor, he threw himself once more\nat her feet--\"See!--here do I pay my vows at Love's high\naltar!--heart's desire shall be the prayer--heart's ecstasy the praise!\n... together we will celebrate our glad service of love, and heaven\nitself shall sanctify this Eve of St. Edris and All Angels!\"\n\nShe listened,--looking down upon him with grave, half timid\ntenderness,--her tears dried, and a sudden hope irradiated her fair\nface with a soft, bright flush, as lovely as the light of morning\nfalling on newly opened flowers. When he ceased, she spoke--her accents\nbreaking through the silence like clear notes of music sweetly sung.\n\n\"So be it!\" she said ... \"May Heaven truly sanctify all pure thoughts,\nand free the soul of my Beloved from sin!\"\n\nAnd slowly bending forward, as a delicate iris-blossom bends to the\nsway of the wind, she laid her hands about his neck, and touched his\nlips with her own...\n\nAh! ... what divine ecstasy,--what wild and fiery transport filled him\nthen! ... Her kiss, like a penetrating lighting-flash, pierced to the\nvery centre of his being,--the moonbeams swam round him in eddying\ncircles of gold--the white field heaved to and fro, ... he caught her\nwaist and clung to her, and in the burning marvel of that moment he\nforget everything, save that, whether spirit or mortal, she was in\nwoman's witching shape, and that all the glamour of her beauty was his\nfor this one night at least, . . this night which now in the\nspeechless, glorious delirium of love that overwhelmed him, seemed like\nthe Mahometan's night of Al-Kadr, \"better than a thousand months!\"\n\nDrawn to her by some subtle mysterious attraction which he could\nneither explain nor control, and absorbed in a rapture beyond all that\nhis highest and most daring flights of poetical fancy had ever\nconceived, he felt as though his very life were ebbing out of him to\nbecome part of hers, and this thought was strangely sweet,--a perfect\nconsummation of all his best desires! ...\n\nAll at once a cold shudder ran freezingly through his veins,--a\nsomething chill and impalpable appeared to pass between him and her\ncaressing arms--his limbs grew numb and heavy--his sight began to fail\nhim ... he was sinking ... sinking, he knew not where, when suddenly\nshe withdrew herself from his embrace. Instantly his strength came back\nto him with a rush--he sprang to his feet and stood erect, breathless,\ndizzy, and confused--his pulses beating like hammer-strokes and every\nfiber in his frame quivering with excitement.\n\nEntranced, impassioned, elated,--filled with unutterable\nincomprehensible joy, he would have clasped her again to his\nheart,--but she retreated swiftly from him, and standing several paces\noff, motioned him not to approach her more nearly. He scarcely heeded\nher warning gesture, ... plunging recklessly through the flowers he had\nalmost reached her side, when to his amazement and fear, his eager\nprogress was stopped!\n\nStopped by some invisible, intangible barrier, which despite all his\nefforts, forcibly prevented him from advancing one step further,--she\nwas close within an arm's length of him--and yet he could not touch\nher! ... Nothing apparently divided them, save a small breadth of the\nArdath blossoms gleaming ivory-soft in the moonlight ... nevertheless\nthat invincible influence thrust him back and held him fast, as though\nhe were chained to the ground with weights of iron!\n\n\"Edris!\". he cried loudly, his former transport of delight changed into\nagony.. \"Edris! ... Come to me! I cannot come to you! What is this that\nparts us?\"\n\n\"Death!\" she answered.. and the solemn word seemed to toll slowly\nthrough the still air like a knell.\n\nHe stood bewildered and dismayed. Death! What could she mean? What in\nthe name of all her beautiful, delicate, glowing youth, had she to do\nwith death? Gazing at her in mute wonder, he saw her stoop and gather\none flower from the clusters growing thickly around her--she held it\nshieldwise against her breast, where it shone like a large white jewel,\nand regarded him with sweet, wistful eyes full of a mournful longing.\n\n\"Death lies between us, my Beloved!\" she continued--\"One line of shadow\n... only one little line! But thou mayest not pass it, save when God\ncommands,--and I--I cannot! For I know naught of death, . . save that\nit is a heavy dreamless sleep allotted to over-wearied mortals, wherein\nthey gain brief rest 'twixt many lives,--lives that, like recurring\ndawns, rouse them anew to labor. How often hast thou slept thus, my\nTheos, and forgotten me!\"\n\nShe paused, ... and Alwyn met her clear, steadfast looks with a swift\nglance of something like defiance. For as she spoke, his previous idea\nconcerning her came back upon him with redoubled force. He was keenly\nconscious of the vehement fever of love into which her presence had\nthrown him,--but all the same he was unable to dispossess himself of\nthe notion that she was a pupil and an accomplice of Heliobas,\nthoroughly trained and practiced in his mysterious doctrine, and that\ntherefore she most probably had some magnetic power in herself that at\nher pleasure not only attracted him TO her, but also held him thus\nmotionless at a distance, FROM her.\n\nShe talked, of course, in an indefinite mystic way either to intimidate\nor convince him ... but, . . and he smiled a little.. in any case it\nonly rested with himself to unmask this graceful pretender to angelic\nhonors! And while he thought thus, her soft tones trembled on the\nsilence again, ... he listened as a dreaming mariner might listen to\nthe fancied singing of the sea-fairies.\n\n\"Through long bright aeons of endless glory,\" she said--\"I have waited\nand prayed for thee! I have pleaded thy cause before the blinding\nsplendors of God's Throne, I have sung the songs of thy native\nparadise, but thou, grown dull of hearing, hast caught but the echo of\nthe music! Life after life hast thou lived, and given no thought to\nme--yet I remember and am faithful! Heaven is not all Heaven to me\nwithout thee, my Beloved, . . and now in this time of thy last\nprobation, . . now, if thou lovest me indeed ...\"\n\n\"Love thee?\" suddenly exclaimed Theos, half beside himself with the\nstrange passion of yearning her words awakened in him--\"Love thee,\nEdris?--Aye! ... as the gods loved when earth was young! ... with the\nfullness of the heart and the vigor of glad life even so I love thee!\nWhat sayest thou of Heaven? ... Heaven is here--here on this bridal\nfield of Ardath, o'er-canopied with stars! Come, sweet one, . . cease\nto play this mystic midnight fantasy--I have done with dreams! ...\nEdris, be thyself! ... for them art Woman, not Angel--thy kiss was warm\nas wine! Nay, why shrink from me? .\" this, as she retreated still\nfurther away, her eyes flashing with unearthly brilliancy, . . \"I will\nmake thee a queen, fair Edris, as poets ever make queens of the women\nthey love,--my fame shall be a crown for thee to wear,--a crown that\nthe whole world, gazing on, shall envy!\"\n\nAnd in the heat and ardor of the moment, forgetful of the unseen\nbarrier that divided her from him, he made a violent effort to spring\nforward--when lo! a wave of rippling light appeared to break from\nbeneath her feet, . . it rolled toward him, and completely flooded the\nspace between them like a glittering pool,--and in it the flowers of\nArdath swayed to and fro as water-lilies on a woodland lake sway to the\nmeasured dash of passing oars! Starting back with a cry of terror, he\ngazed wildly on this miracle,--a voice richer than all music rang\nsilvery clear across the liquid radiance.\n\n\"Fame!\" said the voice ... \"Wouldst thou crown Me, Theos, with so\nperishable a diadem?\"\n\nParalyzed and speechless, he lifted his straining, dazzled eyes--was\nTHAT Edris?--that lustrous figure, delicate as a sea-mist with the sun\nshining through? He stared upon her as a dying man might stare for the\nlast time on the face of his nearest and dearest, ... he saw her soft\ngray garments change to glistening white, ... the wreath she wore\nsparkled as with a million dewdrops.. a roseate halo streamed above her\nand around her,--long streaks of crimson flared down the sky like\nthreads of fire swung from the stars,--and in the deepening glory, her\ncountenance, divinely beautiful, yet intensely sad, expressed the\ntouching hope and fear of one who makes a final farewell appeal. Ah\nGod! ... he knew her now! ... too late, too late he knew her! ... the\nAngel of his vision stood before him! ... and humbled to the very dust\nand ashes of despair he loathed himself for his unworthiness and lack\nof faith!\n\n\"O doubting and unhappy one!\" she went on, in accents sweeter than a\nchime of golden bells--\"Thou art lost in the gloom of the Sorrowful\nStar where naught is known of life save its shadow! Lost.. and as yet I\ncannot rescue thee--ah! forlorn Edris that I am, left lonely up in\nHeaven! But prayers are heard, and God's great patience never\ntires,--learn therefore 'FROM THE PERILS OF THE PAST, THE PERILS OF THE\nFUTURE'--and weigh against an immortal destiny of love the worth of\nfame!\"\n\nWider and more dazzling grew the brilliancy surrounding her--raising\nher eyes, she clasped her hands in an attitude of impassioned\nsupplication ... .\n\n\"O fair King Christ!\" she cried, and her voice seemed to strike a\nmelodious passage through the air.. \"THOU canst prevail!\" A burst of\nmusic answered her, . . music that rushed wind-like downwards and swept\nin strong vibrating chords over the land,--again the \"KYRIE ELEISON!\nCHRISTE ELEISON! KYRIE ELEISON!\" pealed forth in the same full\nyouthful-toned chorus that had before sounded so mysteriously outside\nElzear's hermitage--and the separate crimson rays glittering\naurora-wise about her radiant figure, suddenly melted all together in\nthe form of a great cross, which, absorbing moon and stars in its fiery\nredness, blazed from end to end of the eastern horizon!\n\nThen, like a fair white dove or delicate butterfly she rose ... she\npoised herself above the bowing Ardath bloom ... anon, soaring aloft,\nshe floated higher.... higher! ... and ever higher, serenely and with\naerial slow ease,--till drawn into the glory of that wondrous flaming\ncross whose outstretched beams seemed waiting to receive her,--she\ndrifted straight up wards through its very centre.... and so vanished!\n...\n\nTheos stared aghast at the glowing sky ... whither had she gone? Her\nwords still rang in his ears,--the warmth of her kiss still lingered on\nhis lips,--he loved her! ... he worshipped her! ... why, why had she\nleft him \"lost\" as she herself had said, in a world that was mere\nemptiness without her? He struggled for utterance...\n\n\"Edris ... !\" he whispered hoarsely--\"Edris! ... My Angel-love! ...\ncome back! Come back ... pity me! ... forgive! ... Edris!\"\n\nHis voice died in a hard sob of imploring agony,--smitten to the very\nsoul by a remorse greater than he could bear, his strength failed him,\nand he fell senseless, face forward among the flowers of the Prophet's\nfield; . . flowers that, circling snowily around his dark and prostrate\nform, looked like fairy garlands bordering a Poet's Grave!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II.--IN AL-KYRIS.\n\n\n     \"That which hath been, is now: and that which is to be, hath\n     already been: . . and God requireth that which is past.\"\n                            ECCLESIASTES.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE MARVELLOUS CITY.\n\n\nProfound silence,--profound unconsciousness,--oblivious rest! Such are\nthe soothing ministrations of kindly Nature to the overburdened spirit;\nNature, who in her tender wisdom and maternal solicitude will not\npermit us to suffer beyond a certain limit. Excessive pain, whether it\nbe physical or mental, cannot last long,--and human anguish wound up to\nits utmost quivering-pitch finds at the very height of desolation, a\nstrange hushing, Lethean calm. Even so it was with Theos\nAlwyn,--drowned in the deep stillness of a merciful swoon, he had sunk,\nas it were, out of life,--far out of the furthest reach or sense of\ntime, in some vast unsounded gulf of shadows where earth and heaven\nwere alike forgotten! ...\n\nHow long he lay thus he never knew,--but he was roused at last.. roused\nby the pressure of something cold and sharp against his throat, . . and\non languidly opening his eyes he found himself surrounded by a small\nbody of men in armor, who, leaning on tall pikes which glistened\nbrilliantly in the full sunlight, surveyed him with looks of derisive\namusement. One of these, closer to him than the rest, and who seemed\nfrom his dress and bearing to be some officer in authority, held\ninstead of a pike a short sword, the touch of whose pointed steel blade\nhad been the effectual means of awakening him from his lethargy.\n\n\"How now!\" said this personage in a rough voice as he withdrew his\nweapon--\"What idle fellow art thou? ... Traitor or spy? Fool thou must\nbe, and breaker of the King's law, else thou hadst never dared to bask\nin such swine-like ease outside the gates of Al-Kyris the Magnificent!\"\n\nAl-Kyris the Magnificent! What was the man talking about? Uttering a\nhasty exclamation, Alwyn staggered to his feet with an effort, and\nshading his eyes from the hot glare of the sun, stared bewilderedly at\nhis interlocutor.\n\n\"What..what is this?\" he stammered dreamily--\"I do not understand you!\n... I.. I have slept on the field of Ardath!\"\n\nThe soldiers burst into a loud laugh, in which their leader joined.\n\n\"Thou hast drunk deep, my friend!\" he observed, putting up his sword\nwith a sharp clatter into its shining sheath,--\"What name sayst thou?\n... ARDATH? We know it not, nor dost thou, I warrant, when sober! Go\nto--make for thy home speedily! Aye, aye! the flavor of good wine\nclings to thy mouth still,--'tis a pleasant sweetness that I myself am\npartial to, and I can pardon those who, like thee, love it somewhat too\nwell! Away!--and thank the gods thou hast fallen into the hands of the\nKing's guard, rather then Lysia's priestly patrol! See! the gates are\nopen,--in with thee! and cool thy head at the first fountain?\"\n\n\"The gates?\" ... What gates? Removing his hand from his eyes Alwyn\ngazed around confusedly. He was standing on an open stretch of level\nroad, dustily-white, and dry, with long-continued heat,--and right in\nfront of him was an enormously high wall, topped with rows of bristling\niron spikes, and guarded by the gates alluded to,--huge massive portals\nseemingly made of finely molded brass, and embellished on either side\nby thick, round, stone watch towers, from whose summits scarlet pennons\ndrooped idly in the windless air. Amazed, and full of a vague,\ntrembling terror, he fixed his wondering looks once more upon his\nstrange companions, who in their turn regarded him with cool military\nindifference.\"\n\n\"I must be mad or dreaming,\" he thought,--then growing suddenly\ndesperate he stretched out his hands with a wild appealing gesture:\n\n\"I swear to you I know nothing of this place!\" he cried--\"I never saw\nit before! Some trick has been played on me ... who brought me here?\nWhere is Elzear the hermit? ... the Ruins of Babylon? ... where is, ...\nGood God! ... what fearful freak of fate is this!\"\n\nThe soldiers laughed again,--their commander looked at him a little\ncuriously.\n\n\"Nay, art THOU one of the escaped of Lysia's lovers?\" he asked,\nsuspiciously--\"And has the Silver Nectar failed of its usual action,\nand driven thy senses to the winds, that thou ravest thus? For if thou\nart a stranger and knowest naught of us, how speakest thou our\nlanguage? ... Why wearest thou the garb of our citizens?\"\n\nAlwyn shrank and shivered as though he had received a deadening\nblow,--an awful, inexplicable chill horror froze his blood. It was\ntrue! ... he understood the language spoken! ... it was perfectly\nfamiliar to him,--more so than his own native tongue,--stop! what WAS\nhis native tongue?\n\nHe tried to think--and, the sick fear at his heart grew stronger,--he\ncould not remember a word of it! And his dress! ... he glanced at it\ndismayed and appalled,--he had not noticed it till now. It bore some\nresemblance to the costume of ancient Greece, and consisted of a white\nlinen tunic and loose upper vest, both garments being kept in place by\na belt of silver. From this belt depended a sheathed dagger, a square\nwriting tablet, and a pencil-shaped implement which he immediately\nrecognized as the antique form of stylus. His feet were shod with\nsandals--his arms were bare to the shoulder, and clasped at the upper\npart by two broad silver armlets richly chased.\n\nNoting all these details, the fantastic awfulness of his position smote\nhim with redoubled force,--and he felt as a madman may feel when his\nimpending doom has not entirely asserted itself,--when only grotesque\nand leering suggestions of madness cloud his brain,--when hideous\nfaces, dimly discerned, loom out of the chaos of his nightly\nvisions,--and when all the air seems solid darkness, with one white\nline of fire cracking it asunder in the midst, and that the fire of his\nown approaching frenzy. Such a delirium of agony possessed Alwyn at\nthat moment,--he could have shrieked, laughed, groaned, wept, and\nfallen down in the dust before these bearded armed men, praying them to\nslay him with their weapons there where he stood, and put him\nmercifully and at once out of his mysterious misery. But an invisible\ninfluence stronger than himself, prevented him from becoming altogether\nthe victim of his own torturing emotions, and he remained erect and\nstill as a marble figure, with a wondering, white piteous face of such\nunutterable affliction that the officer who watched him seemed touched,\nand, advancing, clapped his shoulder in a friendly manner.\n\n\"Come, come!\" he said--\"Thou need'st fear nothing,--we are not the men\nto blab of thy trespass against the city's edict,--for, of a truth,\nthere is too much whispering away of young and goodly lives nowadays.\nWhat!--thou art not the first gay gallant, nor wilt thou be the last,\nthat has seen the world turn upside down in a haze of love and late\nfeasting! If thou hast not slept long enough, why sleep again an thou\nwilt,--but not here...\"\n\nHe broke off abruptly,--a distant clatter of horses' hoofs was heard,\nas of one galloping at full speed. The soldiers started, and assumed an\nattitude of attention,--their leader muttered something like an oath,\nand seizing Alwyn by the arm, hurried him to the brass gates which, as\nhe had said, stood open, and literally thrust him through.\n\n\"In, in, my lad!\" he urged with rough kindliness,--\"Thou hast a face\nfairer than that of the King's own minstrel, and why wouldst thou die\nfor sake of an extra cup of wine? If Lysia is to blame for this\nscattering of thy wits, take heed thou do not venture near her more--it\nis ill jesting with the Serpent's sting! Get thee hence quickly, and be\nglad of thy life,--thou hast many years before thee yet in which to\nplay the lover and fool!\"\n\nWith this enigmatical speech he signed to his men to follow him,--they\nall filed through the gates, which closed after them with a jarring\nclang, ... a dark bearded face peered out of a narrow loophole in one\nof the watch-towers, and a deep voice called:\n\n\"What of the hour?\"\n\nThe officer raised his gauntleted hand, and answered promptly:\n\n\"Peace and safety!\"\n\n\"Salutation!\" cried the voice again.\n\n\"Salutation!\" responded the officer, and with a reassuring nod and\nsmile to the bewildered Alwyn, he gathered his little band around him,\nand they all marched off, the measured clink-clank of their footsteps\nmaking metallic music, as they wheeled round a corner and disappeared\nfrom sight.\n\nLeft to himself Alwyn's first idea was to sit down in some quiet\ncorner, and endeavor calmly to realize what strange and cruel thing had\nchanced to him. But happening to look up, he saw the bearded face in\nthe watchtower observing him suspiciously,--he therefore roused himself\nsufficiently to walk away, on and on, scarce heeding whither he went,\ntill he had completely lost sight of those great gold-glittering\nportals which had shut him, against his will, within the walls of a\nlarge, splendid, and populous City. Yes! ... hopelessly perplexing and\nmaddening as it was, there could be no doubt of this fact,--and though\nhe again and again tried to convince himself that he was laboring under\nsome wild and exceptional hallucination, his senses all gave evidence\nof the actual reality of his situation,--he felt, he moved, he heard,\nhe saw, ... he was even beginning to be conscious of hunger, thirst,\nand fatigue.\n\nThe further he went, the more gorgeous grew the surroundings, . . his\nunguided steps wandered as it seemed, of their own accord, into wide\nstreets, paved entirely with mosaics, and lined on both sides with\nlofty, picturesque, and palace-like buildings,--he crossed and\nrecrossed broad avenues, shaded by tall feathery palms, and masses of\ngraceful flowering foliage,--he passed rows upon rows of brilliant\nshops, whose frontages glittered with the most costly and beautiful\nwares of every description,--and as he strolled about aimlessly,\nuncertain whither to go, he was constantly jostled by the pressing\nthrongs of people that crowded the thoroughfares, all more or less\napparently bent on pleasure, to judge from their animated countenances\nand frequent bursts of gay laughter.\n\nThe men were for the most part arrayed like himself,--though here and\nthere he met some few whose garments were of soft silk instead of\nlinen, who wore gold belts in place of silver, and who carried their\ndaggers in sheaths that were literally encrusted all over with flashing\njewels.\n\nAs he advanced more into the city's centre, the crowds increased,--so\nmuch so that the noise of traffic and clatter of tongues became quite\ndeafening to his ears. Richly ornamented chariots drawn by spirited\nhorses, and driven by personages whose attire seemed to be a positive\nblaze of gold and gems, rolled past in a continuous\nprocession,--fruit-sellers, carrying their lovely luscious merchandise\nin huge gilded moss-wreathed baskets, stood at almost every\ncorner,--flower-girls, fair as flowers, bore aloft in their gracefully\nupraised arms wide wicker trays, overflowing with odorous blossoms tied\ninto clusters and wreaths,--and there were countless numbers of curious\nlittle open square carts to which mules, wearing collars of bells, were\nharnessed, the tinkle-tinkle of their constant passage through the\nthrong making incessant merry music. These vehicles bore the names of\ntraders,--purveyors in wine and dealers in all sorts of\nprovisions,--but with the exception of such necessary business\ncaterers, the streets were full of elegant loungers of both sexes, who\nseemed to have nothing whatever to do but amuse themselves.\n\nThe women were especially noticeable for their lazy grace of\nmanner,--they glided to and fro with an indolent floating ease that was\nindescribably bewitching,--the more so as many of them were endowed\nwith exquisite beauty of form and feature,--beauty greatly enhanced by\nthe artistic simplicity of their costume.\n\nThis was composed of a straight clinging gown, slightly gathered at the\nthroat, and bound about the waist with a twisted girdle of silver,\ngold, and, in some cases, jewels,--their arms, like those of the men,\nwere bare, and their small, delicate feet were protected by sandals\nfastened with crossed bands of ribbon coquettishly knotted. The\narrangement of their hair was evidently a matter of personal taste, and\nnot the slavish copying of any set fashion,--some allowed it to hang in\nloosely flowing abundance over their shoulders,--others had it closely\nbraided, or coiled carelessly in a thick soft mass at the top of the\nhead,--but all without exception wore white veils,--veils, long,\ntransparent, and filmy as gossamer, which they flung back or draped\nabout them at their pleasure ... and presently, after watching several\nof these fairy creatures pass by and listening to their low laughter\nand dulcet speech, a sudden memory leaped into Alwyn's confused\nbrain,--an old, old memory that seemed to have lain hidden among his\nthoughts for centuries,--the memory of a story called \"LAMIA\" told in\nverse as delicious as music aptly played. Who wrote the story? ... He\ncould not tell,--but he recollected that it was about a snake in the\nguise of a beautiful woman. And these women in this strange city looked\nas if they also had a snake-like origin,--there was something so soft\nand lithe and undulating about their movements and gestures. Weary of\nwalking, distracted by the ever-increasing clamor, and feeling lost\namong the crowd, he at last perceived a wide and splendid square,\nsurrounded wild stately houses, and having in its centre a huge, white\ngranite obelisk which towered like a pillar of snow against the dense\nblue of the sky. Below it a massively sculptured lion, also of white\ngranite, lay couchant, holding a shield between its paws,--and on\neither side two fine fountains were in full play, the delicate spiral\ncolumns of water being dashed up beyond the extreme point of the\nobelisk, so that its stone face was wet and glistening with the tossing\nrainbow shower.\n\nHere he turned aside out of the main thoroughfare,--there were tall,\nshady trees all about, and fantastically carved benches underneath\nthem, ... he determined to sit down and rest, and steadily THINK OUT\nhis involved and peculiar condition of mind.\n\nAs he passed the sculptured lion, he saw certain words engraved on the\nshield it held,--they were ... \"THROUGH THE LION AND THE SERPENT SHALL\nAL-KYRIS FLOURISH.\"\n\nThere was no disorder in his intelligence concerning this sentence,--he\nwas able to read it clearly and comprehensively, ... and yet ... WHAT\nwas the language in which it was written, and how did he come to know\nit so thoroughly? ... With a sigh that was almost a groan, he sank\nlistlessly on a seat, and burying his head in his hands to shut out all\nthe strange sights which so direfully perplexed his reason, he began to\nsubject himself to a patient, serious cross-examination.\n\nIn the first place ... WHO WAS HE? Part of the required answer came\nreadily,--THEOS. Theos what? His brain refused to clear up this\npoint,--it repeated THEOS--THEOS,--over and over again, but no more!\n\nShuddering with a vague dread, he asked himself the next question, ...\nFROM WHENCE HAD HE COME? The reply was direct and decisive--FROM ARDATH.\n\nBut what was ARDATH? It was neither a country nor a city--it was a\n\"waste field,\" where he had seen.... ah! WHOM had he seen? He\nstruggled furiously with himself for some response to this, ... none\ncame! Total dumb blankness was the sole result of the inward rack to\nwhich he subjected his thoughts!\n\nAnd where had he been before he ever saw Ardath? ... had he NO\nrecollection of any other place, any other surroundings?--ABSOLUTELY\nNONE!--torture his wits as he would,--ABSOLUTELY NONE! ... This was\nfrightful ... incredible! ... Surely, surely, he mused piteously, there\nmust have been something in his life before the name of \"Ardath\" had\nswamped his intelligence! ...\n\nHe lifted his head, ... his face had grown ashen gray and rigid in the\ndeep extremity of his speechless trouble and terror,--there was a sick\nfaintness at his heart, and rising, he moved unsteadily to one of the\ngreat fountains, and there dipping his hands in the spray, he dashed\nsome drops on his brow and eyes. Then, making a cup of the hollowed\npalms, he drank thirstily several draughts of the cool, sweet\nwater,--it seemed to allay the fever in his blood....\n\nHe looked around him with a wild, vague smile,--Al-Kyris! ... of\ncourse! ... he was in Al-Kyris!--why was he so distressed about it? It\nwas a pleasant city,--there was much to see,--and also much to learn!\n... At that instant a loud blast of silver-toned trumpets split the\nair, followed by a storm-roar of distant acclamation surging up from\nthousands of throats,--crowds of men and women suddenly flocked into\nthe Square, across it, and out of it again, all pressing impetuously in\none direction,--and urged forward by the general rush as well as by a\ncorresponding impulse within himself, he flung all meditation to the\nwinds, and plunged recklessly into the shouting, onsweeping throng. He\nwas borne swiftly with it down a broad avenue lined with grand old\ntrees and decked with flying flags and streamers, to the margin of a\nnoble river, as still as liquid amber in the wide sheen and heat of the\nnoonday sun. A splendid marble embankment, adorned with colossal\nstatues, girdled it on both sides,--and here, under silken awnings of\nevery color, pattern and design, an enormous multitude was\nassembled,--its white attired, closely packed ranks stretching far away\ninto the blue distance on either hand.\n\nAll the attention of this vast concourse appeared to be centered on the\nslow approach of a strange, gilded vessel, that with great curved prow\nand scarlet sails flapping idly in the faint breeze, was gliding\nleisurely yet majestically over the azure blaze of the smooth water.\nHuge oars like golden fins projected from her sides and dipped lazily\nevery now and then, apparently wielded by the hands of invisible\nrowers, whose united voices supplied the lack of the needful wind,--and\nas he caught sight of this cumbrously quaint galley, Theos, moved by\nsudden interest, elbowed his way resolutely though the dense crowd till\nhe gained the edge of the embankment, where leaning against the marble\nbalustrade, he watched with a curious fascination its gradual advance.\n\nNearer and nearer it came, ... brighter and brighter glowed the vivid\nscarlet of its sails, ... a solemn sound of stringed music rippled\nenchantingly over the glassy river, mingling itself with the wild\nshouting of the populace,--shouting that seemed to rend the hollow\nvault of heaven! ... Nearer ... nearer ... and now the vessel slid\nround and curtsied forward, ... its propelling fins moved more rapidly\n... another graceful sweep,--and lo! it fronted the surging throng like\na glittering, fantastic Apparition drawn out of dreamland! ...\n\nTheos stared at it, dazzled and stricken with a half-blind breathless\nwonder,--was ever a ship like this he thought?--a ship that sparkled\nall over as though it were carven out of one great burning jewel? ...\nGolden hangings, falling in rich, loose folds, draped it gorgeously\nfrom stem to stern,--gold cordage looped the sails,--on the deck a band\nof young gals clad in white, and crowned with flowers, knelt, playing\nsoftly on quaintly shaped instruments,--and a cluster of tiny,\nsemi-nude boys, fair as young cupids, were grouped in pretty reposeful\nattitudes along the edge of the gilded prow holding garlands of red and\nyellow blossoms which trailed down to the surface of the water beneath.\n\nAs a half-slumbering man may note a sudden brilliant glare of sunshine\nflashing on the wall of his sleeping-chamber, so Theos at first viewed\nthis floating pageant in confused, uncomprehending bewilderment, ...\nwhen all at once his stupefied senses were roused to hot life and\npulsing action,--with a smothered cry of ecstasy he fixed his\nstraining, eager gaze on one supreme, fair Figure,--the central Glory\nof the marvellous picture! ...\n\nA Woman or a Goddess?--a rainbow Flame in mortal shape?--a spirit of\nearth, air, fire, water? ... or a Thought of Beauty embodied into human\nsweetness and made perfect? ... Clothed in gold attire, and girdled\nwith gems, she stood, leaning indolently against the middle mast of the\nvessel, her great, sombre, dusky eyes resting drowsily on the swarming\nmasses of people, whose frenzied roar of rapture and admiration sounded\nlike the breaking of billows.\n\nPresently, with a slow, solemn smile on her haughtily curved lips, she\nextended one hand and arm, snow-white and glittering with jewels, and\nmade an imperious gesture to command silence. Instantly a profound hush\nensued. Lifting a long, slender, white wand, at the end of which could\nbe plainly seen the gleaming silver head of a Serpent, she described\nthree circles in the air with a perfectly even, majestic motion, and as\nshe did this, her marvellous eyes turned toward Theos, and dwelt\nsteadily upon him.\n\nHe met her gaze fully, absorbing into his inmost soul the mesmeric\nspell of her matchless loveliness,--he saw, without actually realizing\nthe circumstance, that the whole vast multitude around him had fallen\nprostrate in an attitude of worship,--and still he stood erect,\ndrinking in the warmth of those dark, witching, sleepy orbs that\nflashed at him half-resentfully, half-mockingly, . . and then, . . the\nbeauty-burdened ship began to sway gently, and move onwards,--she, that\nwondrous Siren-Queen was vanishing,--vanishing!--she and her kneeling\nmaidens, and music, and flowers,--vanishing ... Where?\n\nWith a start he sprang from his post of observation,--he felt he must\ngo after her at all risks,--he must find out her place of abode,--her\nrank,--her title,--her name! ... All at once he was roughly seized by a\ndozen or more of hands,--loud, angry voices shouted on all sides.. \"A\ntraitor! ... a traitor!\" ... \"An infidel!\"\n\n\"A spy!\" \"A malcontent!\"\n\n\"Into the river with him!\"\n\n\"He refuses worship!\" \"He denies the gods!\"\n\n\"Bear him to the Tribunal!\".. And in a trice of time, he was completely\nsurrounded and hemmed in by an exasperated, gesticulating crowd, whose\nominous looks and indignant mutterings were plainly significant of\nprompt hostility. With a few agile movements he succeeded in wrenching\nhimself free from the grasp of his assailants, and standing among them\nlike a stag at bay he cried:\n\n\"What have I done? How have I offended? Speak! Or is it the fashion of\nAl-Kyris to condemn a man unheard?\"\n\nNo one answered this appeal,--the very directness of it seemed to\nincrease the irritation of the mob, that pressing closer and closer,\nbegan to jostle and hustle him in a threatening manner that boded ill\nfor his safety,--he was again taken prisoner, and struggling in the\ngrasp of his captors, he was preparing to fight for his life as best he\ncould, against the general fury, when the sound of musical strings,\nswept carelessly upwards in the ascending scale, struck sweetly through\nthe clamor. A youth, arrayed in crimson, and carrying a small golden\nharp, marched sedately between the serried ranks that parted right and\nleft at his approach,--thus clearing the way for another personage who\nfollowed him,--a graceful, Adonis-like personage in glistening white\nattire, who wore a myrtle-wreath on his dark, abundant locks, and whom\nthe populace--forgetting for a moment the cause of their recent\ndisturbance--greeted with a ringing and ecstatic shout of \"HAIL!\nSAH-LUMA!\"\n\nAgain and again this cry was uplifted, till far away on the extreme\noutskirts of the throng the joyous echo of it was repeated faintly yet\ndistinctly ... \"HAIL! HAIL, SAH-LUMA!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nSAH-LUMA.\n\n\nThe new-comer thus enthusiastically welcomed bowed right and left, with\na condescending air, in response to the general acclamation, and\nadvancing to the spot where Theos stood, an enforced prisoner in the\nclose grip of three or four able-bodied citizens, he said:\n\n\"What turbulence is here? By my faith! ... when I heard the noise of\nquarrelsome contention jarring the sweetness of this nectarous noon,\nmethought I was no longer in Al-Kyris, but rather in some western city\nof barbarians where music is but an unvalued name!\"\n\nAnd he smiled--a dazzling, child-like smile, half petulant,\nhalf-pleased--a smile of supreme self-consciousness as of one who knew\nhis own resistless power to charm away all discord.\n\nSeveral voices answered him in clamorous unison:\n\n\"A traitor, Sah-luma!\" \"A profane rebel!\" ... \"An unbeliever!\" ... \"A\nmost insolent knave!\"--\"He refused homage to the High Priestess!\" ...\n\"A renegade from the faith!\"\n\n\"Now, by the Sacred Veil!\" cried Sah-luma impatiently--\"Think ye I can\ndistinguish your jargon, when like ignorant boors ye talk all at once,\ntearing my ears to shreds with such unmelodious tongue-clatter! Whom\nhave ye seized thus roughly? ... Let him stand forth!\"\n\nAt this command, the men who held Theos relaxed their grasp, and he,\nbreathless and burning with indignation at the treatment he had\nreceived, shook himself quickly free of all restraint, and sprang\nforward, confronting his rescuer. There was a brief pause, during which\nthe two surveyed each other with looks of mutual amazement. What\nmysterious indication of affinity did they read in one another's faces?\n... Why did they stand motionless, spell-bound and dumb for a while,\neying half-admiringly, half-enviously, each other's personal appearance\nand bearing? ...\n\nUndoubtedly a curious, far-off resemblance existed between them,--yet\nit was a resemblance that had nothing whatever to do with the actual\nfigure, mien, or countenance. It was that peculiar and often\nundefinable similarity of expression, which when noticed between two\nbrothers who are otherwise totally unlike, instantly proclaims their\nrelationship.\n\nTheos realized his own superior height and superior muscular\ndevelopment,--but what were these physical advantages compared to the\nclassic perfection of Sah-luma's beauty?--beauty combining the delicate\nwith the vigorous, such as is shadowed forth in the artist-conceptions\nof the god Apollo. His features, faultlessly regular, were redeemed\nfrom all effeminacy by the ennobling impress of high thought and inward\ninspiration,--his eyes were dark, with a brilliant under-reflection of\nsteel-gray in them, that at times flashed out like the soft glitter of\nsummer-lightning in the dense purple of an August heaven,--his\nolive-tinted complexion was flushed warmly with the glow of\nhealth,--and he had broad, bold, intellectual brows over which the rich\nhair clustered in luxuriant waves,--hair that was almost black, with\nhere and there a curious fleck of reddish gold brightening its curling\nmasses, as though a stray sunbeam or two had been caught and entangled\ntherein. He was arrayed in a costume of the finest silk,--his armlets,\nbelt, and daggersheath were all of jewels,--and the general brilliancy\nof his attire was furthermore increased by a finely worked flexible\ncollar of gold, set with diamonds. The first exchange of wondering\nglances over, he viewed Theos with a critical, half supercilious air.\n\n\"What art thou?\" he demanded ... \"What is thy calling?\"\n\n\"Theos hesitated,--then spoke out boldly and unthinkingly--\n\n\"I am a Poet!\" he said.\n\nA murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the\nlistening crowd. Sah-luma's lip curled haughtily--\n\n\"A Poet!\" and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt\n--\"Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!\"\n\nTheos looked at him steadily,--a subtle sympathy attracted him toward\nthis charming boaster,--involuntarily he smiled, and bent his head\ncourteously.\n\n\"I do not seek to figure as your rival ...\" he began.\n\n\"Rival!\" echoed Sah-luma--\"I have no rivals!\"\n\nA burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng declared\nthe popular approval of this assertion, and the boy bearing the harp,\nwho had loitered to listen to the conversation, swept the strings of\nhis instrument with a triumphant force and fervor that showed how\nthoroughly his feelings were in harmony with the expression of his\nmaster's sentiments. Sah-luma conquered, with an effort, his momentary\nirritation, and resumed coldly:\n\n\"From whence do you come, fair sir? We should know your name,--POETS\nare not so common!\" This with an accent of irony.\n\nTaken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, and uncertain what\nto say. For he was afflicted with a strange and terrible malady such as\nhe dimly remembered having heard of, but never expected to suffer\nfrom,--a malady in which his memory had become almost a blank as\nregarded the past events of his life--though every now and then shadowy\nimages of by-gone things flitted across his brain, like the transient\nreflections of wind-swept clouds on still, translucent water. Presently\nin the midst of his painful indecision, an answer suggested itself like\na whispered hint from some invisible prompter:\n\n\"Poets like Sah-luma are no doubt as rare as nightingales in snow!\" he\nsaid with a soft deference, and an increasing sense of tenderness for\nhis haughty, handsome interlocutor--\"As for me, I am a singer of sad\nsongs that are not worth the hearing! My name is Theos,--I come from\nfar beyond the seas, and am a stranger in Al-Kyris,--therefore if I\nhave erred in aught, I must be blamed for ignorance, not malice!\"\n\nAs he spoke Sah-luma regarded him intently,--Theos met his gaze frankly\nand unflinchingly. Surely there was some singular power of attraction\nbetween the two! ... for as their flashing eyes again dwelt earnestly\non one another, they both smiled, and Sah-luma, advancing, proffered\nhis hand. Theos at once accepted it, a curious sensation of pleasure\ntingling through his frame, as he pressed those slender blown fingers\nin his own cordial clasp.\n\n\"A stranger in Al-Kyris?--and from beyond the seas? Then by my life and\nhonor, I insure thy safety and bid thee welcome! A singer of sad songs?\n... Sad or merry, that thou are a singer at all makes thee the guest of\nthe King's Laureate!\" A look of conscious vanity illumined his face as\nhe thus announced with proud emphasis his own title and claim to\ndistinction. \"The brotherhood of poets,\" he continued laughingly--\"is a\nmystic and doubtful tie that hath oft been questioned,--but provided\nthey do not, like ill-conditioned wolves, fight each other out of the\narena, there should be joy in the relationship\". Here, turning full\nupon the crowd, he lifted his rich, melodious voice to higher and more\nringing tones:\n\n\"It is like you, O hasty and misjudging Kyrisians, that finding a\nharmless wanderer from far off lands, present at the pageant of the\nMidsummer Benediction, ye should pounce upon him, even as kites on a\nstraying sea-bird, and maul him with your ruthless talons! Has he\nbroken the law of worship! Ye have broken the law of hospitality! Has\nhe failed to kneel to the passing Ship of the Sun? So have ye failed to\nhandle him with due courtesy! What report shall he bear hence of your\ngentleness and culture to those dim and unjoyous shores beyond the gray\ngreen wall of ocean-billows, where the very name of Al-Kyris serves as\na symbol for all that is great and wise and wondrous in the whole round\ncircle of the world? Moreover ye know full well that foreigners and\nsojourners in the city are exempt from worship,--and the King's command\nis that all such should be well and nobly entertained, to the end that\nwhen they depart they may carry with them a full store of pleasant\nmemories. Hence, scatterbrains, to your homes!--No festival can ye\nenjoy without a gust of contention!--ye are ill-made instruments all,\nwhose jarring strings even I, crowned Minstrel of the King, can scarce\nkeep one day in happy tune! Look you now! ... this stranger is my\nguest!--. Is there a man in Al-Kyris who will treat as an enemy one\nwhom Sah-luma calls friend?\"\n\nA storm of applause followed this little extempore speech,--applause\naccompanied by an odorous rain of flowers. There were many women in the\ncrowd, and these had pressed eagerly forward to catch every word that\ndropped from the Poet-Laureate's mellifluous lips,--now, moved by one\ncommon impulse, they hastily snatched off their posies and garlands,\nand flung them in lavish abundance at his feet. Some of the blossoms\nchancing to fall on Theos and cling to his garments, he quickly shook\nthem off, and gathering them together, presented them to the personage\nfor whom they were intended. He, however, gayly rejected them, moving\nhis small sandalled foot playfully among the thick wealth of red and\nwhite roses that lay waiting to be crushed beneath his tread.\n\n\"Keep thy share!\" he said, with an amused flash of his glorious eyes.\n\"Such offerings are my daily lot! ... I can spare thee one handful from\nthe overflowing harvest of my song!\"\n\nIt was impossible to be offended with such charming\nself-complacency,--the naive conceit of the man was as harmless as the\ndelight of a fair girl who has made her first conquest, and Theos\nsmiling, kept the flowers. By this time the surrounding throng had\nbroken up into little knots and groups,--all ill-humor on the part of\nthe populace had completely vanished,--and large numbers were now\nleaving the embankment and dispersing in different directions to their\nseveral homes. All those who had been within hearing distance of\nSah-luma's voice appeared highly elated, as though they had enjoyed\nsome special privilege and pleasure, ... to be reproved by the Laureate\nwas evidently considered better than being praised by any one else.\nMany persons pressed up to Theos, and shaking hands with him, offered\ntheir eager excuses and apologies for the misunderstanding that had\nlately taken place, explaining with much animation both of look and\ngesture, that the fact of his wearing the same style of dress as\nthemselves had induced them to take it for granted that he must be one\nof their fellow-citizens, and therefore subject to the laws of the\nrealm. Theos was just beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed by the\nexcessive politeness and cordiality, of his recent antagonists, when\nSah-luma, again interposing, cut all explanations short.\n\n\"Come, come! cease this useless prating!\" he said imperatively yet\ngood-naturedly--\"In everything ye showed your dullard ignorance and\nlack of discernment. For, concerning the matter of attire, are not the\nfashions of Al-Kyris copied more or less badly in every quarter of the\nhabitable globe?--even as our language and literature form the chief\nstudy and delight of all scholars and educated gentlemen? A truce to\nyour discussions!--Let us get hence and home;\" here he turned to Theos\nwith a graceful salutation--\"You, my good friend, will doubtless be\nglad to rest and recover from my countrymen's ungentle treatment of\nyour person.\"\n\nThus saying, he made a slight commanding sign,--the clustering people\ndrew back on either side,--and he, taking Theos by the arm, passed\nthrough their ranks, talking, laughing, and nodding graciously here and\nthere as he went, with the half-kindly, half-indifferent ease of an\naffable monarch who occasionally bows to some of his poorest subjects.\nAs he trod over the flowers that lay heaped about his path, several\ngirls rushed impetuously forward, struggling with each other for\npossession of those particularly favored blossoms that had received the\npressure of his foot, and kissing them, they tied them in little knots,\nand pinned them proudly on the bosoms of their white gowns.\n\nOne or two, more daring, stretched out their hands to touch the golden\nframe of the harp as it was carried past them by the youth in\ncrimson,--a pretty fellow enough, who looked extremely haughty, and\nalmost indignant at this effrontery on the part of the fair\npoet-worshippers, but he made no remonstrance, and merely held his head\na little higher and walked with a more consequential air, as he\nfollowed his master at a respectful distance. Another long ecstatic\nshout of \"Hail Sah-luma!\" arose on all sides, rippling\naway,--away,--down, as it seemed, to the very furthest edge of echoing\nresonance,--and then the remainder of the crowd quickly scattered right\nand left, leaving the spacious embankment almost deserted, save for the\npresence of several copper-colored, blue-shirted individuals who were\ncommencing the work of taking down and rolling up the silken awnings,\naccompanying their labors by a sort of monotonous chant that, mingling\nwith the slow, gliding plash of the river, sounded as weird and\nmournful as the sough of the wind through leafless trees.\n\nMeanwhile Theos, in the company of his new friend, began to express his\nthanks for the timely rescue he had received,--but Sah-luma waived all\nsuch acknowledgments aside.\n\n\"Nay, I have only served thee as a crowned Laureate should ever serve a\nlesser minstrel,\"--he said, with that indescribably delicious air of\nself-flattery which was so whimsical, and yet so winning,--\"And I tell\nthee in all good faith that, for a newly arrived visitor in Al-Kyris,\nthy first venture was a reckless one! To omit to kneel in the presence\nof the High Priestess during her Benediction, was a violation of our\ncustoms and ceremonies dangerous to life and limb! A religiously\nexcited mob is merciless,--and if I had not chanced upon the scene of\naction, . .\"\n\n\"I should have been no longer the man I am!\" smiled Theos, looking down\non his companion's light, lithe, elegant form as it moved gracefully by\nhis side--\"But that I failed in homage to the High Priestess was a most\nunintentional lack of wit on my part,--for if THAT was the High\nPriestess,--that dazzling wonder of beauty who lately passed in a\nglittering ship, on her triumphant way down the river, like a priceless\npearl in a cup of gold...\"\n\n\"Aye, aye!\" and Sah-luma's dark brows contracted in a slight\nfrown--\"Not so many fine words, I pray thee! Thou couldst not well\nmistake her,--there is only one Lysia!\"\n\n\"Lysia!\" murmured Theos dreamily, and the musical name slid off his\nlips with a soft, sibilant sound,--\"Lysia! And I forgot to kneel to\nthat enchanting, that adorable being! Oh unwise, benighted fool!--where\nwere my thoughts? Next time I see her I will atone! .--no matter what\ncreed she represents,--I will kiss the dust at her feet, and so make\nreparation for my sin!\"\n\nSah-luma glanced at him with a somewhat dubious expression.\n\n\"What!--art thou already persuaded?\" he queried lightly, \"and wilt thou\nalso be one of us? Well, thou wilt need to kiss the dust in very truth,\nif thou servest Lysia, . . no half-measures will suit where she, the\nUntouched and Immaculate, is concerned,\"--and here there was a faint\ninflection of mingled mockery and sadness in his tone--\"To love her is,\nfor many men, an absolute necessity,--but the Virgin Priestess of the\nSun and the Serpent receives love, as statues may receive it,--moving\nall others to frenzy, she is herself unmoved!\"\n\nTheos listened, scarcely hearing. He was studying every line in\nSah-luma's face and figure with fixed and wistful attention. Almost\nunconsciously he pressed the arm he held, and Sah-luma looked up at him\nwith a half-smile.\n\n\"I fancy we shall like each other!\" he said--\"Thou art a western\nsinging bird-of-passage, and I a nested nightingale amid the roses of\nthe East,--our ways of making melody are different,--we shall not\nquarrel!\"\n\n\"Quarrel!\" echoed Theos amazedly--\"Nay! ... I might quarrel with my\nnearest and dearest, but never with thee, Sah-luma! For I know thee for\na very prince of poets! ... and would as soon profane the sanctity of\nthe Muse herself, as violate thy proffered friendship!\"\n\n\"Why, so!\" returned Sah-luma, his brilliant eyes flashing with\nundisguised pleasure,--\"An' thou thinkest thus of me we shall be firm\nand fast companions! Thou hast spoken well and not without good\ninstruction--I perceive my fame hath reached thee in thine own\nocean-girdled lands, where music is as rare as sunshine. Right glad am\nI that chance has thrown us together, for now thou wilt be better able\nto judge of my unrivalled master-skill in sweet word-weaving! Thou must\nabide with me for all the days of thy sojourn here.... Art willing?\"\n\n\"Willing? ... Aye! more than willing!\" exclaimed Theos\nenthusiastically--\"But,--if I burden hospitality..\"\n\n\"Burden!\" and Sah-luma laughed--\"Talk not of burdens to me!--I, who\nhave feasted kings, and made light of their entertaining! Here,\" he\nadded as he led the way through a broad alley, lined with magnificent\npalms--\"here is the entrance to my poor dwelling!\" and a sparkling,\nmischievous smile brightened his features.--\"There is room enough in\nit, methinks to hold thee, even if thou hadst brought a retinue of\nslaves!\"\n\nHe pointed before him as he spoke, and Theos stood for a moment\nstock-still and overcome with astonishment, at the size and splendor of\nthe palace whose gates they were just approaching. It was a dome-shaped\nbuilding of the purest white marble, surrounded on all sides by long,\nfluted colonnades, and fronted by spacious court paved with mosaics,\nwhere eight flower-bordered fountains dashed up to the hot, blue sky,\nincessant showers of refreshing spray.\n\nInto this court and across it, Sah-luma led his wondering guest, . .\nascending a wide flight of steps, they entered a vast open hall, where\nthe light poured in through rose-colored and pale blue glass, that gave\na strange yet lovely effect of mingled sunset and moonlight to the\nscene. Here--reclining about on cushions of silk and velvet--were\nseveral beautiful girls in various attitudes of indolence and\nease,--one laughing, black-haired houri was amusing herself with a tame\nbird which flew to and from her uplifted finger,--another in a\nhalf-sitting posture, played cup-and-ball with much active and graceful\ndexterity,--some were working at gold and silver embroidery,--others,\nclustered in a semicircle round a large osier basket filled with\nmyrtle, were busy weaving garlands of the fragrant leaves,--and one\nmaiden, seemingly younger than the rest, and of lighter and more\ndelicate complexion, leaned somewhat pensively against an ebony-framed\nharp, as though she were considering what sad or suggestive chords she\nshould next awaken from its responsive strings. As Sah-luma and Theos\nappeared, these nymphs all rose from their different occupations and\namusements, and stood with bent heads and folded hands in statuesque\nsilence and humility.\n\n\"These are my human rosebuds!\" said Sah-luma softly and gayly, as\nholding the dazzled Theos by the arm he escorted him past these radiant\nand exquisite forms--\"They bloom, and fade, and die, like the flowers\nthrown by the populace,--proud and happy to feel that their perishable\nloveliness has, even, for a brief while, been made more lasting by\ncontact with my deathless poet-fame! Ah, Niphrata!\" and he paused at\nthe side of the girl standing by the harp--\"Hast thou sung many of my\nsongs to-day? ... or is thy voice too weak for such impassioned\ncadence? Thou art pale, . . I miss thy soft blush and dimpling\nsmile,--what ails thee, my honey-throated oriole?\"\n\n\"Nothing, my lord\"--answered Niphrata in a low tone, raising a pair of\nlovely, dusky, violet eyes, fringed with long black\nlashes,--\"Nothing,--save that my heart is always sad in thine absence!\"\n\nSah-luma smiled, well pleased.\n\n\"Let it be sad no longer then!\" he said, caressing her cheek with his\nhand,--and Theos saw a wave of rich color mounting swiftly to her fair\nbrows at his touch, as though she were a white poppy warming to crimson\nin the ardent heat of the sun--\"I love to see thee merry,--mirth suits\na young and beauteous face like thine! Look you, Sweet!--I bring with\nme here a stranger from far-off lands,--one to whom Sah-luma's name is\nas a star in the desert!--I must needs have thy voice in all its full\nlusciousness of tune to warble for his pleasure those heart-entangling\nditties of mine which thou hast learned to render with such matchless\ntenderness! ... Thanks, Gisenya,\" ... this as another maiden advanced,\nand, gently removing the myrtle-wreath he wore, placed one just freshly\nwoven on his clustering curls, . . then, turning to Theos, he\ninquired--\"Wilt thou also wear a minstrel-garland, my friend? Niphrata\nor Gisenya will crown thee!\"\n\n\"I am not worthy\"--answered Theos, bending his head in low salutation\nto the two lovely girls, who stood eying him with a certain wistful\nwonder--\"One spray from Sah-luma's discarded wreath will best suffice\nme!\"\n\nSah-luma broke into a laugh of absolute delight.\n\n\"I swear thou speakest well and like a true man!\" he said joyously.\n\"Unfamous as thou art, thou deservest honor for the frank confession of\nthy lack of merit! Believe me, there are some boastful rhymers in\nAl-Kyris who would benefit much by a share of thy becoming modesty!\nGive him his wish, Gisenya--\" and Gisenya, obediently detaching a sprig\nof myrtle from the wreath Sah-luma had worn all day, handed it to Theos\nwith a graceful obeisance--\"For who knows but the leaves may contain a\ncertain witchery we wot not of, that shall endow him with a touch of\nthe divine inspiration!\"\n\nAt that moment, a curious figure came shuffling across the splendid\nhall,--that of a little old man somewhat shabbily attired, upon whose\nwrinkled countenance there seemed to be a fixed, malign smile, like the\nsmile of a mocking Greek mask. He had small, bright, beady black eyes\nplaced very near the bridge of his large hooked nose,--his thin, wispy\ngray locks streamed scantily over his bent shoulders, and he carried a\ntall staff to support his awkward steps,--a staff with which he made a\nmost disagreeable tapping noise on the marble pavement as he came along.\n\n\"Ah, Sir Gad-about!\" he exclaimed in a harsh, squeaky voice as he\nperceived Sah-luma--\"Back again from your self-advertising in the city!\nIs there any poor soul left in Al-Kyris whose ears have not been\ndeafened by the parrot-cry of the name of Sah-luma?--If there is,--at\nhim, at him, my dainty warbler of tiresome trills!--at him, and storm\nhis senses with a rhodomontade of rhymes without reason!--at him,\nImmortal of the Immortals!--Bard of Bards!--stuff him with quatrains\nand sextains!--beat him with blank verse, blank of all meaning!--lash\nhim with ballad and sonnet-scourges, till the tortured wretch, howling\nfor mercy, shall swear that no poet save Sah-luma, ever lived before,\nor will ever live again, on the face of the shuddering and astonished\nearth!\"\n\nAnd breathless with this extraordinary outburst, he struck his staff\nloudly on the floor, and straightway fell into such a violent fit of\ncoughing that his whole lean body shook with the paroxysm.\n\nSah-luma laughed heartily,--laughter in which he was joined by all the\nassembled maidens, including the gentle, pensive-eyed Niphrata.\nStanding erect in his glistening princely attire, with one hand resting\nfamiliarly on Theos's arm, and the sparkle of mirth lighting up his\nhandsome features, he formed the greatest contrast imaginable to the\nlittle shrunken old personage, who, clinging convulsively to his staff,\nwas entirely absorbed in his efforts to control and overcome his sudden\nand unpleasant attack of threatened suffocation.\n\n\"Theos, my friend,\"--he said, still laughing--\"Thou must know the\nadmirable Zabastes,--a man of vast importance in his own opinion! Have\ndone with thy wheezing,\"--he continued, vehemently thumping the\nstruggling old gentleman on the back--\"Here is another one of the\nminstrel craft thou hatest,--hast aught of bitterness in thy barbed\ntongue wherewith to welcome him as guest to mine abode?\"\n\nThus adjured, the old man peered up at Theos inquisitively, wiping away\nthe tears that coughing had brought into his eyes, and after a minute\nor two began also to laugh in a smothered, chuckling way,--a laugh that\nresembled the croaking of frogs in a marshy pool.\n\n\"Another one of the minstrel-craft,\" he echoed derisively--\"Aye, aye!\n... Like meets like, and fools consorts with fool. The guest of\nSah-luma, . . Hearken, young man,--\" and he drew closer, the malign\ngrin widening on his furrowed face,--\"Thou shalt learn enough trash\nhere to stock thee with idiot-songs for a century. Thou shalt gather up\nsuch fragments of stupidity, as shall provide thee with food for all\nthe puling love-sick girls of a nation! Dost thou write follies also?\n... thou shalt not write them here, thou shalt not even think\nthem!--for here Sah-luma,--the great, the unrivalled Sah-luma,--is sole\nLord of the land of Poesy. Poesy,--by all the gods!--I would the\naccursed art had never been invented ... so might the world have been\nspared many long-drawn nothings, enwoofed in obscure and distracting\nphraseology! ... THOU a would-be Poet?--go to!--make brick, mend\nsandals, dig entrenchments, fight for thy country,--and leave the idle\nstringing of words, and the tinkling of rhyme, to children like\nSah-luma, who play with life instead of living it.\"\n\nAnd with this, he hobbled off uneasily, grunting and grumbling as he\nwent, and waving his staff magisterially right and left to warn the\nsmiling maidens out of his way,--and once more Sah-luma's laughter,\nclear and joyous, pealed through the vaulted vestibule.\n\n\"Poor Zabastes!\" he said in a tone of good-humored tolerance--\"He has\nthe most caustic wit of any man in Al-Kyris! He is a positive marvel of\nperverseness and ill-humor, well worth the four hundred golden pieces I\npay him yearly for his task of being my scribe and critic. Like all of\nus he must live, eat and wear decent clothing,--and that his only\nliterary skill lies in the abuse of better men than himself is his\nmisfortune, rather than his fault. Yes! ... he is my paid Critic, paid\nto rail against me on all occasions public or private, for the\nmerriment of those who care to listen to the mutterings of his\ndiscontent,--and, by the Sacred Veil! ... I cannot choose but laugh\nmyself whenever I think of him. He deems his words carry weight with\nthe people,--alas, poor soul! his scorn but adds to my glory,--his\nderision to my fame! Nay, of a truth I need him,--even as the King\nneeds the court fool,--to make mirth for me in vacant moments,--for\nthere is something grotesque in the contemplation of his cankered\nclownishness, that sees nought in life but the eating, the sleeping,\nthe building, and the bargaining. Such men as he can never bear to know\nthat there are others, gifted by heaven, for whom all common things\ntake radiant shape and meaning,--for whom the flowers reveal their\nfragrant secrets,--for whom birds not only sing, but speak in most\nmelodious utterance--for whose dreaming eyes, the very sunbeams spin\nbright fantasies in mid-air more lasting than the kingdoms of the\nworld! Blind and unhappy Zabastes! ... he is ignorant as a stone, and\nfor him the mysteries of Nature are forever veiled. The triumphal\nhero-march of the stars,--the brief, bright rhyme of the flashing\ncomet,--the canticle of the rose as she bears her crimson heart to the\nsmile of the sun,--the chorus of green leaves chanting orisons to the\nwind--the never completed epic of heaven's lofty solitudes where the\nwhite moon paces, wandering like a maiden in search of love,--all these\nand other unnumbered joys he has lost--joys that Sah-luma, child of the\nhigh gods and favorite of Destiny drinks in with the light and the air.\"\n\nHis eyes softened with a dreamy, intense lustre that gave them a new\nand almost pathetic beauty, while Theos, listening to each word he\nuttered, wondered whether there were ever any sounds sweeter than the\nrise and fall of his exquisite voice,--a voice as deliciously clear and\nmellow as a golden flute tenderly played.\n\n\"Yes!--though we must laugh at Zabastes we should also pity him,\"--he\nresumed in gayer accents--\"His fate is not enviable. He is nothing but\na Critic--he could not well be a lesser man,--one who, unable himself\nto do any great work, takes refuge in finding fault with the works of\nothers. And those who abhor true Poesy are in time themselves\nabhorred,--the balance of Justice never errs in these things. The Poet\nwins the whole world's love, and immortal fame,--his adverse Critic,\nbrief contempt, and measureless oblivion. Come,\"--he added, addressing\nTheos--\"we will leave these maidens to their duties and\npastimes,--Niphrata!\" here his dazzling smile flashed like a beam of\nsunlight over his face--\"thou wilt bring us fruit and wine yonder,--we\nshall pass the afternoon together within doors. Bid my steward prepare\nthe Rose Chamber for my guest, and let Athazel and Zimra attend there\nto wait upon him.\"\n\nAll the maidens saluted, touching their heads with their hands in token\nof obedience, and Sah-luma leading the way, courteously beckoned Theos\nto follow. He did so, conscious as he went of two distinct\nimpressions,--first, that the mysterious mental agitation he had\nsuffered from when he had found himself so unexpectedly in a strange\ncity, was not completely dispelled,--and secondly, that he felt as\nthough he must have known Sah-luma all his life! His memory still\nremained a blank as regarded his past career,--but this fact had ceased\nto trouble him, and he was perfectly tranquil, and altogether satisfied\nwith his present surroundings. In short, to be in Al-Kyris, seemed to\nhim quite in keeping with the necessary course of events,--while to be\nthe friend and companion of Sah-luma was more natural and familiar to\nhis mind, than all once natural and familiar things.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nA POET'S PALACE.\n\n\nGliding along with that graceful, almost phantom-like swiftness of\nmovement that was so much a part of his manner, Sah-luma escorted his\nvisitor to the further end of the great hall. There,--throwing aside a\ncurtain of rich azure silk which partially draped two large\nfolding-doors,--he ushered him into a magnificent apartment opening out\nupon the terrace and garden beyond,--a garden filled with such a\nmarvellous profusion of foliage and flowers, that looking at it from\nbetween the glistening marble columns surrounding the palace, it seemed\nas though the very sky above rested edge-wise on towering pyramids of\nred and white bloom. Awnings of pale blue stretched from the windows\nacross the entire width of the spacious outer colonnade, and here two\nsmall boys, half nude, and black as polished ebony, were huddled\ntogether on the mosaic pavement, watching the arrogant deportment of a\nsuperb peacock that strutted majestically to and fro with boastfully\nspreading tail and glittering crest as brilliant as the gleam of the\nhot sun on the silver fringe of the azure canopies.\n\n\"Up, lazy rascals!\" cried Sah-luma imperiously, as with the extreme\npoint of his sandaled foot he touched the dimpled, shiny back of the\nnearest boy--\"Up, and away! ... Fetch rose-water and sweet perfumes\nhither! By the gods! ye have let the incense in yonder burner\nsmoulder!\"--and he pointed to a massive brazen vessel, gorgeously\nornamented, from whence rose but the very faintest blue whiff of\nfragrant smoke--\"Off with ye both, ye basking blackamoors! bring fresh\nfrankincense,--and palm-leaves wherewith to stir this heated air--hence\nand back again like a lightning-flash! ... or out of my sight forever!\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the little fellows stood trembling and ducking their\nwoolly heads, as though they half expected to be seized by their irate\nmaster and flung, like black balls, out into the wilderness of flowers,\nbut glancing timidly up and perceiving that even in the midst of his\npetulance he smiled, they took courage, and as soon as he had ceased\nthey darted off with the swiftness of flying arrows, each striving to\noutstrip the other in a race across the terrace and garden. Sah-luma\nlaughed as he watched them disappear,--and then stepping back into the\ninterior of the apartment he turned to Theos and bade him be seated.\nTheos sank unresistingly into a low, velvet-cushioned chair richly\ncarved and inlaid with ivory, and stretching his limbs indolently\ntherein, surveyed with new and ever-growing admiration the supple,\nelegant figure of his host, who, throwing himself full length on a\ncouch covered with leopard-skins, folded his arms behind his head, and\neyed his guest with a complacent smile of vanity and self-approval.\n\n\"'Tis not an altogether unfitting retreat for a poet's musings\"--he\nsaid, assuming an air of indifference, as he glanced round his\nluxurious, almost royally appointed room--\"I have heard of worse!--But\ntruly it needs the highest art of all known nations to worthily deck a\nhabitation wherein the divine Muse may daily dwell, ... nevertheless,\nair, light, and flowers are not lacking, and on these methinks I could\nsubsist, were I deprived of all other things!\"\n\nTheos sat silent, looking about him wistfully. Was ever poet, king, or\neven emperor, housed more sumptuously than this, he thought? ... as his\neyes wandered to the domed ceiling, wreathed with carved clusters of\ngrapes and pomegranates,--the walls, frescoed with glowing scenes of\nlove and song-tournament,--the groups of superb statuary that gleamed\nwhitely out of dusky, velvet-draped corners,--the quaintly shaped\nbook-cases, overflowing with books, and made so as to revolve round and\nround at a touch, or move to and fro on noiseless wheels,--the grand\nbusts, both in bronze and marble, that stood on tall pedestals or\nprojecting bracket; and,--while he dimly noted all these splendid\nevidences of unlimited wealth and luxury,--the perfume and lustre of\nthe place, the glitter of gold and azure, silver and scarlet, the\noriental languor pervading the very air, and above all the rich amber\nand azure-tinted light that bathed every object in a dream-like and\nfairy radiance, plunged his senses into a delicious confusion,--a\nthrobbing fever of delight to which he could give no name, but which\npermeated every fibre of his being.\n\nHe felt half blinded with the brilliancy of the scene,--the dazzling\nglow of color,--the sheen of deep and delicate hues cunningly\nintermixed and contrasted,--the gorgeous lavishness of waving blossoms\nthat seemed to surge up like a sea to the very windows,--and though\nmany thoughts flitted hazily through his brain, he could not shape them\ninto utterance. He stared vaguely at the floor,--it was paved with\nvariegated mosaic and strewn with the soft, dark, furry skins of wild\nanimals,--at a little distance from where he sat there was a huge\nbronze lectern supported by a sculptured griffin with horns,--horns\nwhich curving over at the top, turned upward again in the form of\ncandelabra,--the harp-bearer had brought in the harp, and it now stood\nin a conspicuous position decked with myrtle, some of the garlands\nwoven by the maidens being no doubt used for this purpose.\n\nYet there was something mirage-like and fantastic in the splendor that\neverywhere surrounded him,--he felt as though he were one of the\nspectators in a vast auditorium where the curtain had just risen on the\nfirst scene of the play He was dubiously considering in his own\nperplexed mind, whether such princely living were the privilege, or\nright, or custom of poets in general, when Sah-luma spoke again, waving\nhis hand toward one of the busts near him--a massive, frowning head,\nmagnificently sculptured.\n\n\"There is the glorious Orazel!\" he said--\"The father, as we all must\nown, of the Art of Poesy, and indeed of all true literature! Yet there\nbe some who swear he never lived at all--aye! though his poems have\ncome down to us,--and many are the arguments I have had with so-called\nwise men like Zabastes, concerning his style and method of\nversification. Everything he has written bears the impress of the same\nmaster-touch,--nevertheless garrulous controversialists hold that his\nfamous work the 'Ruva-Kalama' descended by oral tradition from mouth to\nmouth till it came to us in its 'improved' present condition.\n'Improved!'\" and Sah-luma laughed disdainfully,--\"As if the mumbling of\nan epic poem from grandsire to grandson could possibly improve it! ...\nit would rather be deteriorated, if not altogether changed into the\nmerest doggerel! Nay, nay!--the 'Ruva-Kalama,' is the achievement of\none great mind,--not twenty Oruzels were born in succession to write\nit,--there was, there could be only one, and he, by right supreme, is\nchief of the Bards Immortal! As well might fools hereafter wrangle\ntogether and say there were many Sah-lumas! ... only I have taken good\nheed posterity shall know there was only ONE,--unmatched for\nlove-impassioned singing throughout the length and breadth of the\nworld!\"\n\nHe sprang up from his recumbent posture and attracted Theos's attention\nto another bust even finer than the last,--it was placed on a pedestal\nwreathed at the summit and at the base with laurel.\n\n\"The divine Hyspiros!\" he exclaimed pointing to it in a sort of\necstasy--\"The Master from whom it may be I have caught the perfect\nentrancement of my own verse-melody! His fame, as thou knowest, is\nunrivalled and universal--yet--canst thou believe it! ... there has\nbeen of late an ass found in Al-Kyris who hath chosen him as a subject\nfor his braying--and other asses join in the uneuphonius chorus. The\nmarvellous Plays of Hyspiros! ... the grandest tragedies, the airiest\ncomedies, the tenderest fantasies, ever created by human brain, have\nbeen called in question by these thistle-eating animals!--and one most\nuntractable mule-head hath made pretence to discover therein a passage\nof secret writing which shall, so the fool thinks, prove that Hyspiros\nwas not the author of his own works, but only a literary cheat, and\nforger of another and lesser man's inspiration! By the gods!--one's\nsides would split with laughter at the silly brute, were he not\naltogether too contemptible to provoke even derision! Hyspiros a\ntraitor to the art he served and glorified? ... Hyspiros a literary\njuggler and trickster? ... By the Serpent's Head! they may as well seek\nto prove the fiery Sun in Heaven a common oil-lamp, as strive to lessen\nby one iota the transcendent glory of the noblest poet the centuries\nhave ever seen!\"\n\nWarmed by enthusiasm, with his eyes flashing and the impetuous words\ncoursing from his lips, his head thrown back, his hand uplifted,\nSah-luma looked magnificent,--and Theos, to whose misty brain the names\nof Oruzel and Hyspiros carried no positively distinct meaning, was\nnevertheless struck by a certain suggestiveness in his remarks that\nseemed to bear on some discussion in the literary world that had taken\nplace quite recently. He was puzzled and tried to fix the precise point\nround which his thoughts strayed so hesitatingly, but he could arrive\nat no definite conclusion. The brilliant, meteor-like Sah-luma meantime\nflashed hither and thither about the room, selecting certain volumes\nfrom his loaded book-stands, and bringing them in a pile, he set them\non a small table by his visitor's side.\n\n\"These are some of the earliest editions of the plays of Hyspiros\"--he\nwent on, talking in that rapid, fluent way of his that was as musical\nas a bird's song--\"They are rare and curious. See you!--the names of\nthe scribes and the dates of issue are all distinct. Ah!--the treasures\nof poetry enshrined within these pages! ... was ever papyrus so gemmed\nwith pearls of thought and wisdom?--If there were a next world, my\nfriend,\"--and here he placed his hand familiarly on his guest's\nshoulder, while the bright, steel-gray under-gleam sparkled in his\nsplendid eyes--\"'twould be worth dwelling in for the sake of\nHyspiros,--as grand a god as any of the Thunderers in the empyrean!\"\n\n\"Surely there is a next world\"--murmured Theos, scarcely knowing what\nhe said--\"A world where thou and I, Sah-luma, and all the masters and\nservants of song shall meet and hold high festival!\"\n\nSah-luma laughed again, a little sadly this time, and shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"Believe it not!\" he said, and there was a touch of melancholy in his\nrich voice--\"We are midges in a sunbeam,--emmets on a sand-hill...no\nmore! Is there a next world, thinkest thou, for the bees who die of\nsurfeit in the nilica-cups?--for the whirling drift of brilliant\nbutterflies that sleepily float with the wind unknowing whither, till\nmet by the icy blast of the north, they fall like broken and colorless\nleaves in the dust of the high-road? Is there a next world for\nthis?\"--and he took from a tall vase near at hand a delicate flower,\nlily-shaped and deliciously odorous, . . \"The expression of its soul or\nmind is in its fragrance,--even as the expression of ours finds vent in\nthought and aspiration,--have we more right to live again than this\nmost innocently fair blossom, unsmirched by deeds of evil? Nay!--I\nwould more easily believe in a heaven for birds and flowers, than for\nwomen and men!\"\n\nA shadow of pain darkened his handsome face as he spoke, . . and Theos,\ngazing full at him, became suddenly filled with pity and anxiety,--he\npassionately longed to assure him that there was in very truth a future\nhigher and happier existence,--he, Theos, would vouch for the fact! But\nhow? ... and why? ... What could he say? ... what could he prove? ...\n\nHis throat ached,--his eyeballs burned, he was, as it were, forbidden\nto speak, notwithstanding the yearning desire he felt to impart to the\nsoul of his new-found friend something of that indescribable sense of\nEVERLASTINGNESS which he himself was now conscious of, even as one set\nfree of prison is conscious of liberty. Mute, and with a feeling as of\nhot, unshed tears welling up from his very heart, he turned over the\nvolumes of Hyspiros almost mechanically,--they were formed of sheets of\npapyrus artistically bound in loose leather coverings and tied together\nwith gold-colored ribbon.\n\nThe Kyrisian language was, as has been before stated, perfectly\nfamiliar to him, though he could not tell how he had acquired the\nknowledge of it,--and he was able to see at a glance that Sah-luma had\ngood cause to be enthusiastic in his praise of the author whose genius\nhe so fervently admired. There was a ringing richness in the rush of\nthe verse,--a wealth of simile combined with a simplicity and\ndirectness of utterance that charmed the ear while influencing the\nmind, and he was beginning to read in sotto-voce the opening lines of a\nspirited battle-challenge running thus:\n\n    \"I tell thee, O thou pride enthroned King\n     That from these peaceful fields, these harvest lands,\n     Strange crops shall spring, not sown by thee or thine!\n     Arm'd millions, bristling weapons, helmed men\n     Dreadfully plum'd and eager for the fray,\n     Steel crested myrmidons, toss'd spears, wild steeds,\n     Uplifted flags and pennons, horrid swords,\n     Death gleaming eyes, stern hands to grasp and tear\n     Life from beseeching life, till all the heavens\n     Strike havoc to the terror-trembling stars\"...\n\nwhen the two small, black pages lately dispatched in such haste by\nSah-luma returned, each one bearing a huge gilded bowl filled with rose\nwater, together with fine cloths, lace-fringed, and soft as satin.\n\nKneeling humbly down, one before Theos, the other before Sah-luma, they\nlifted these great, shining bowls on their heads, and remained\nmotionless. Sah-luma dipped his face and hands in the cool, fragrant\nfluid,--Theos followed his example,--and when these light ablutions\nwere completed, the pages disappeared, coming back almost immediately\nwith baskets of loose rose-leaves, white and red, which they scattered\nprofusely about the room. A delightful odor subtly sweet, and yet not\nfaint, began to freshen the already perfumed air,--and Sah-luma,\nflinging himself again on his couch, motioned Theos to take a similar\nresting-place opposite.\n\nHe at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent luxury and\nvoluptuous ease his surroundings engendered,--and presently the aroma\nof rising incense mingled itself with the scent of the strewn\nrose-petals,--the pages had replenished the incense-burner, and now,\nthese duties done so far, they brought each a broad, long stalked\npalm-leaf, and placing themselves in proper position, began to fan the\ntwo young men slowly and with measured gentleness, standing as mute as\nlittle black statues, the only movement about them being the occasional\nrolling of their white eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their\nshiny arms as they wielded the graceful, bending leaves.\n\n\"This is the way a poet should ever live!\" murmured Theos, glancing up\nfrom the soft cushions among which he reclined, to Sah-luma, who lay\nwith his eyes half-closed and a musing smile on his beautiful\nmouth--\"Self centered in a circle of beauty,--with naught but fair\nsuggestions and sweet thoughts to break the charm of solitude. A\nkingdom of happy fancies should be his, with gates shut last against\nunwelcome intruders,--gates that should never open save to the\nconquering touch of woman's kiss! ... for the master-key of love must\nunlock all doors, even the doors of a minstrel's dreaming!\"\n\n\"Thinkest thou so?\" said Sah-luma lazily, turning his dark, delicate\nhead slightly round on his glistening, pale-rose satin pillow--\"Nay, of\na truth there are times when I could bar out women from my thoughts as\nmere disturbers of the translucent element of poesy in which my spirit\nbathes. There is fatigue in love, . . whose pretty human butterflies\ntoo oft weary the flower whose honey they seek to drain. Nevertheless\nthe passion of love hath a certain tingling pleasure in it, . . I yield\nto it when it touches me, even as I yield to all other pleasant\nthings,--but there are some who unwisely carry desire too far, and make\nof love a misery instead of a pastime. Many will die for love,--fools\nare they all! To die for fame, . . for glory, . . that I can\nunderstand, . . but for love! ...\" he laughed, and taking up a crushed\nrose-petal he flipped it into the air with his finger and thumb--\"I\nwould as soon die for sake of that perished leaf as for sake of a\nwoman's transient beauty!\"\n\nAs he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a golden salver on\nwhich were placed a tall flagon, two goblets, and a basket of fruit.\nShe approached Theos first, and he, raising himself on his elbow,\nsurveyed her with fresh admiration and interest while he poured out the\nwine from the flagon into one of those glistening cups, which he\nnoticed were rough with the quantity of small gems used in their outer\nornamentation.\n\nHe was struck by her fair and melancholy style of loveliness, and as\nshe stood before him with lowered eyes, the color alternately flushing\nand paling on her cheeks, and her bosom heaving restlessly beneath the\nloosely drawn folds of her prim rose-hued gown, an inexplicable emotion\nof pity smote him, as if he had suddenly been made aware of some inward\nsorrow of hers which he was utterly powerless to console. He would have\nspoken, but just then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and\nwhen he had selected a fine peach from the heaped-up dainties offered\nfor his choice, he still watched her as she turned to Sah-luma, who\nsmiled, and bade her set down her salver on a low, bronze stand at his\nside. She did so, and then with the warm blood burning in her cheeks,\nstood waiting and silent. Sah-luma, with a lithe movement of his supple\nform, lifted himself into a half-sitting posture, and throwing one arm\nround her waist, drew her close to his breast and kissed her.\n\n\"My fairest moonbeam!\" he said gayly--\"Thou art as noiseless and placid\nas thy yet unembodied sisters that stream through heaven and dance on\nthe river when the world is sleeping! Myrtle! ...\" and he detached a\nspray from the bosom of her dress--\"What hast thou to do with the\npoet's garland? By my faith, thou art like Theos yonder, and hast\nchosen to wear a sprig of my faded crown for thine adornment--is't not\nso?\" A hot and painful blush crimsoned Niphrata's face,--a softness as\nof suppressed tears glistened in her eyes,--she made no answer, but\nlooked beseechingly at the little twig Sah-luma held. \"Silly child!\" he\nwent on laughingly, replacing it himself against her bosom, where the\nbreath seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear--\"Thou art\nwelcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, if thou thinkest them of\nvalue, but I would rather see the rosebud of love nestled in that\npretty white breast of thine, than the cast-off ornaments of fame!\"\n\nAnd filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, looking at Theos\nsmilingly as he did so.\n\n\"To your health, my noble friend!\" he cried, \"and to the joys of the\npassing hour!\"\n\n\"A wise toast!\" answered Theos, placing his lips to his own goblet's\nrim,--\"For the past is past,--'twill never return,--the future we know\nnot,--and only the present can be called our own! To the health of the\ndivine Sah-luma, whose fame is my glory!--whose friendship is dear to\nme as life!\"\n\nAnd with this, he drained off the wine to the last drop. Scarcely had\nhe done so, when the most curious sensation overcame him--a sensation\nof bewildering ecstasy as though he had drunk of some ambrosian nectar\nor magic drug which had suddenly wound up his nerves to an acute\ntension of indescribable delight. The blood coursed more swiftly\nthrough his veins,--he felt his face flush with the impulsive heat and\nardor of the moment,--he laughed as he set the cup down empty, and\nthrowing himself back on his luxurious couch, his eyes flashed on\nSah-luma's with a bright, comprehensive glance of complete confidence\nand affection. It was strange to note how quickly Sah-luma returned\nthat glance,--how thoroughly, in so short a space of time, their\nfriendship had cemented itself into a more than fraternal bond of\nunion! Niphrata, meanwhile, stood a little aside, her wistful looks\nwandering from one to the other as though in something of doubt or\nwonder. Presently she spoke, inclining her fair head toward Sah-luma.\n\n\"My lord goes to the Palace to-night to make his valued voice heard in\nthe presence of the King?\" she inquired timidly.\n\n\"Even so, Niphrata!\" responded the Laureate, passing his hand\ncarelessly through his clustering curls--\"I have been summoned thither\nby the Royal command. But what of that, little one? Thou knowest 'tis a\ncommon occurrence,--and that the Court is bereft of all pleasure and\nsweetness when Sah-luma is silent.\"\n\n\"My lord's guest goes with him?\" pursued Niphrata gently.\n\n\"Aye, most assuredly?\" and Sah-luma smiled at Theos as he spoke--\"Thou\nwilt accompany me to the King, my friend?\" he went on--\"He will give\nthee a welcome for my sake, and though of a truth His Majesty is most\npotently ignorant of all things save the arts of love and warfare,\nnevertheless he is man as well as monarch, and thou wilt find him noble\nin his greeting and generous of hospitality.\"\n\n\"I will go with thee, Sah-luma, anywhere!\" replied Theos quickly--\"For\nin following such a guide, I follow my own most perfect pleasure.\"\n\nNiphrata looked at him meditatively, with a melancholy expression in\nher lovely eyes.\n\n\"My lord Sah-luma's presence indeed brings joy!\" she said softly and\ntremulously--\"But the joy is too sweet and brief--for when he departs,\nnone can fill the place he leaves vacant!\"\n\nShe paused,--Sah-luma's gaze rested on her intently, a half-amused,\nhalf-tender light leaping from under the drooping shade of his long,\nsilky black lashes,--she caught the look, and a little shiver ran\nthrough her delicate frame,--she pressed one hand on her heart, and\nresumed in steadier and more even tones,--\"My lord has perhaps not\nheard of the disturbances of the early morning in the city?\"--she\nasked--\"The riotous crowd in the marketplace--the ravings of the\nProphet Khosrul? ... the sudden arrest and imprisonment of many,--and\nthe consequent wrath of the King?\"\n\n\"No, by my faith!\" returned Sah-luma, yawning slightly and settling his\nhead more comfortably on his pillows--\"Nor do I care to heed the\nturbulence of a mob that cannot guide itself and yet resists all\nguidance. Arrests? ... imprisonments? ... they are common,--but why in\nthe name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest and imprison the actual\ndisturbers of the peace,--the Mystics and Philosophers whose street\norations filter through the mind of the disaffected, rousing them to\nfoolish frenzy and disordered action?--Why, above all men, do they not\nseize Khosrul?--a veritable madman, for all his many years and seeming\nwisdom! Hath he not denounced the faith of Nagaya and foretold the\ndestruction of the city times out of number? ... and are we not all\nweary to death of his bombastic mouthing? If the King deemed a poet's\ncounsel worth the taking, he would long ago have shut this bearded\nranter within the four walls of a dungeon, where only rats and spiders\nwould attend his lectures on approaching Doom!\"\n\n\"Nay, but my lord--\" Niphrata ventured to say timidly--\"The King dare\nnot lay hands on Khosrul ...\"\n\n\"Dare not!\" laughed Sah-luma lazily stretching out his hand and helping\nhimself to a luscious nectarine from the basket at his side--\"Sweet\nNiphrata! ... settest thou a limit to the power of the King? As well\ndraw a boundary-line for the imagination of the poet! Khosrul may be\nloved and feared by a certain number of superstitious malcontents who\nlook upon a madman as a sort of sacred wild animal,--but the actual\npopulation of Al-Kyris,--the people who are the blood, bone, and sinew\nof the city,--these are not in favor of change either in religion,\nlaws, manners, or customs. But Khosrul is old,--and that the King\nhumors his vagaries is simply out of pity for his age and infirmity,\nNiphrata,--not because of fear! Our Monarch knows no fear.\"\n\n\"Khosrul prophesies terrible things!\" ... murmured the girl\nhesitatingly--\"I have often thought ... if they should come true....\"\n\n\"Thou timid dove!\" and Sah-luma, rising from his couch, kissed her neck\nlightly, thus causing a delicate flush of crimson to ripple through the\nwhiteness of her skin--\"Think no more of such folly--thou wilt anger\nme. That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should trouble the peace of\nAl-Kyris the Magnificent, ... by the gods--the whole thing is absurd!\nLet me hear no more of mobs or riots, or road-rhetoric,--my soul abhors\neven the suggestion of discord. Tranquillity! ... Divinest calm,\ndisturbed only by the flutterings of winged thoughts hovering over the\ncloudless heaven of fancy! ... this, this alone is the sum and centre\nof my desires.--and to-day I find that even thou, Niphrata--\" here his\nvoice took upon itself an injured tone,--\"thou, who art usually so\ngentle, hast somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy foolish\ntalk concerning common and unpleasant circumstances, ... \"He stopped\nshort and a line of vexation and annoyance made its appearance between\nhis broad, beautiful brows, while Niphrata seeing this expression of\nalmost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw herself suddenly at\nhis feet, and raising her lovely eyes swimming in tears, she exclaimed:\n\n\"My lord! Sah-luma! Singing-angel of Niphrata's soul!--Forgive me! It\nis true, ... thou shouldst never hear of strife or contention among the\ncoarser tribe of men,--and I, ... I, poor Niphrata, would give my life\nto shield thee from the faintest shadow of annoy! I would have thy path\nall woven sunbeams,--thou shouldst live like a fairy monarch embowered\n'mid roses, sheltered from rough winds, and folded in loving arms,\nfairer maybe, but not more fond than mine!\" ... Her voice\nbroke,--stooping, she kissed the silver fastening of his sandal, and\nspringing up, rushed from the room before a word could be uttered to\nbid her stay.\n\nSah-luma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased perplexity.\n\n\"She is often thus!\" he said in a tone of playful resignation,--\"As I\ntold thee, Theos,--women are butterflies, hovering hither and thither\non uneasy pinions, uncertain of their own desires. Niphrata is a\nwoman-riddle,--sometimes she angers me,--sometimes she soothes, ... now\nshe prattles of things that concern me not,--and anon converses with\nsuch high and lofty earnestness of speech, that I listen amazed, and\nwonder where she hath gathered up her store of seeming wisdom.\"\n\n\"Love teaches her all she knows!\" interrupted Theos quickly and with a\nmeaning glance.\n\nSah-luma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the clear olive\npallor of his complexion.\n\n\"Aye,--poor tender little soul, she loves me,\".. he said\ncarelessly--\"That is no secret! But then all women love me,--I am more\nlike to die of a surfeit of love than of anything else\" He moved\ntowards the open window \"Come!--\" he added--\"It is the hour of\nsunset,--there is a green hillock in my garden yonder from whence we\ncan behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god's departure. 'Tis a\nsight I never miss,--I would have thee share its glory with me.\"\n\n\"But art thou then indifferent to woman's tenderness?\" asked Theos half\nbanteringly, as he took his arm--\"Dost thou love no one?\"\n\n\"My friend\"--replied Sah-luma seriously--\"I love Myself! I see naught\nthat contents me more than my own Personality,--and with all my heart I\nadmire the miracle and beauty of my own existence! There is nothing\neven in the completest fairness of womanhood that satisfies me so much\nas the contemplation of my own genius,--realizing as I do its wondrous\npower and perfect charm! The life of a poet such as I am is a perpetual\nmarvel!--the whole Universe ministers to my needs,--Humanity becomes\nthe merest bound slave to the caprice of my imperial imagination,--with\na thought I scale the stars,--with a wish I float in highest ether\namong spheres undiscovered yet familiar to my fancy--I converse with\nthe spirits of flowers and fountains,--and the love of women is a mere\ndrop in the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight! Yes,--I adore my own\nIdentity! ... and of a truth Self-worship is the only Creed the world\nhas ever followed faithfully to the end!\"\n\nHe glanced up with a bright, assured smile,--Theos met his gaze\nwonderingly, doubtfully,--but made no reply,--and together they paced\nslowly across the marble terrace, and out into the glorious garden,\nrich with the riotous roses that clambered and clustered everywhere,\ntheir hues deepening to flame-like vividness in the burning radiance of\nthe sinking sun.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nTHE SUMMONS OF THE SIGNET.\n\n\nThey walked side by side for some little time without speaking, through\nwinding paths of alternate light and shade, sheltered by the\nlatticework of crossed and twisted green boughs where only the amorous\nchant of charming birds now and then broke the silence with fitful and\ntender sweetness. All the air about them was fragrant and\ndelicate,--tiny rainbow-winged midges whirled round and danced in the\nwarm sunset-glow like flecks of gold in amber wine,--while here and\nthere the distant glimmer of tossing fountains, or the soft emerald\nsheen of a prattling brook that wound in and out the grounds, amongst\nbanks of moss and drooping fern, gave a pleasant touch of coolness and\nrefreshment to the brilliant verdure of the luxuriant landscape.\n\n\"Speaking of creeds, Sah-luma\"--said Theos at last, looking down with a\ncurious sense of compassion and protection at his companion's slight,\ngraceful form--\"What religion is it that dominates this city and\npeople? To-day, through want of knowledge, it seems I committed a\nnearly unpardonable offence by gazing at the beauty of the Virgin\nPriestess when I should have knelt face-hidden to her\nbenediction,--thou must tell me something of the common laws of\nworship, that I err not thus blindly again.\"\n\nSah-luma smiled.\n\n\"The common laws of worship are the common laws of custom,\"--he\nreplied--\"No more,--no less. And in this we are much like other\nnations. We believe in no actual Creed,--who does? We accept a certain\ngiven definition of a supposititious Divinity, together with the\nsuitable maxims and code of morals accompanying that definition, ... we\ncall this Religion, . . and we wear it as we wear our clothing for the\nsake of necessity and decency, though truly we are not half so\nconcerned about it as about the far more interesting details of taste\nin attire. Still, we have grown used to our doctrine, and some of us\nwill fight with each other for the difference of a word respecting\nit,--and as it contains within itself many seeds of discord and\ncontradiction, such dissensions are frequent, especially among the\npriests, who, were they but true to their professed vocation, should be\nable to find ways of smoothing over all apparent inconsistencies and\nmaintaining peace and order. Of course we, in union with all civilized\ncommunities, worship the Sun, even as thou must do,--in this one\nleading principle at least, our faith is universal!\"\n\nTheos bent his head in assent. He was scarcely conscious of the action,\nbut at that moment he felt, with Sah-luma, that there was no other form\nof Divinity acknowledged in the world than the refulgent Orb that\ngladdens and illumines earth, and visibly controls the seasons.\n\n\"And yet--\" went on Sah-luma thoughtfully,--\"the well-instructed know\nthrough our scientists and astronomers (many of whom are now\nlanguishing in prison for the boldness of their researches and\ndiscoveries) that the Sun is no divinity at all, but simply a huge\nplanet,--a dense body surrounded by a luminous, flame-darting\natmosphere,--neither self-acting nor omnipotent, but only one of many\nsimilar orbs moving in strict obedience to fixed mathematical laws.\nNevertheless this knowledge is wisely kept back as much as possible\nfrom the multitude,--for, were science to unveil her marvels too openly\nto semi-educated and vulgarly constituted minds, the result would be,\nfirst Atheism, next Republicanism, and finally Anarchy and Ruin. If\nthese evils,--which like birds of prey continually hover about all\ngreat kingdoms,--are to be averted, we must, for the welfare of the\ncountry and people, hold fast to some stated form and outward\nobservance of religious belief.\"\n\nHe paused. Theos gave him a quick, searching glance.\n\n\"Even if such a belief should have no shadow of a true foundation?\" he\ninquired--\"Can it be well for men to cling superstitiously to a false\ndoctrine?\"\n\nSah-luma appeared to consider this question in his own mind for some\nminutes before replying.\n\n\"My friend, it is difficult to decide what is false and what is\ntrue--\"he said at last with a little shrug of his shoulders--\"But I\nthink that even a false religion is better for the masses than none at\nall. Men are closely allied to brutes, . . if the moral sense ceases to\nrestrain them they at once leap the boundary line and give as much rein\nto their desires and appetites as the hyenas and tigers. And in some\nnatures the moral sense is only kept alive by fear,--fear of offending\nsome despotic, invisible Force that pervades the Universe, and whose\nchief and most terrible attribute is not so much creative as\ndestructive power. To propitiate and pacify an unseen Supreme Destroyer\nis the aim of all religions,--and it is for this reason we add to our\nworship of the Sun that of the White Serpent, Nagaya the Mediator.\nNagaya is the favorite object of the people's adoration,--they may\nforget to pay their vows to the Sun, but never to Nagaya, who is looked\nupon as the emblem of Eternal Wisdom, the only pleader whose\npersuasions avail to soften the tyrannic humor of the Invincible\nDevourer of all things. We know how men hate Wisdom and cannot endure\nto be instructed, and yet they prostrate themselves in abject crowds\nbefore Wisdom's symbol every day in the Sacred Temple yonder,--though I\nmuch doubt whether such constant devotional attendance is not more for\nthe sake of Lysia than the Deified Worm!\"\n\nHe laughed with a little undercurrent of scorn in his laughter,--and\nTheos saw as it were, the lightning of an angry or disdainful thought\nflashing through the sombre splendor of his eyes.\n\n\"And Lysia is..--?\" began Theos suggestively.\n\n\"The High Priestess of Nagaya,\" responded Sah-luma slowly--\"Charmer of\nthe god, as well as of the hearts of men! The hot passion of love is to\nher a toy, clasped and unclasped so! in the pink hollow of her hand...\"\nand as he spoke he closed his fingers softly on the air and unclosed\nthem again with an expressive gesture--\"And so long as she retains the\nmagic of her beauty, so long will Nagaya worship hold Al-Kyris in\ncheck. Otherwise ... who knows!--there have been many disturbances of\nlate,--the teachings of the Philosophers have aroused a certain\ndiscontent,--and there are those who are weary of perpetual sacrifices\nand the shedding of innocent blood. Moreover this mad Khosrul of whom\nNiphrata spoke lately, thunders angry denunciations of Lysia and Nagaya\nin the open streets, with so much fervid eloquence that they who pass\nby cannot choose but hear, . . he hath a strange craze,--a doctrine of\nthe future which he most furiously proclaims in the language prophets\nuse. He holds that far away in the centre of a Circle of pure Light,\nthe true God exists,--a vast all glorious Being who with exceeding\nmarvellous love controls and guides Creation toward some majestic\nend--even as a musician doth melodize his thought from small sweet\nnotes to perfect chord-woven harmonies. Furthermore, that thousands of\nyears hence, this God will embody a portion of his own Existence in\nhuman form and will send hither a wondrous creature, half-God,\nhalf-Man, to live our life, die our death, and teach us by precept and\nexample, the surest way to eternal happiness. 'Tis a theory both\nstrange and wild!--hast ever heard of it before?\"\n\nHe put the question indifferently, but Theos was mute. That horrible\nsense of a straining desire to speak when speech was forbidden again\noppressed him,--he felt as though he were being strangled with his own\nunfalling tears. What a crushing weight of unutterable thoughts\nburdened his brain!--he gazed up at the serenely glowing sky in aching,\ndumb despair,--till slowly ... very slowly, words came at last like\ndull throbs of pain beating between his lips ...\n\n\"I think ... I fancy ... I have heard a rumor of such doctrine ... but\nI know as little of it as ... as THOU, Sah-luma! ... I can tell thee no\nmore ... than THOU hast said! ...\" He paused and gaining more firmness\nof tone went on--\"It seems to me a not altogether impossible conception\nof Divine Benevolence,--for if God lives at all, He must be capable of\nmanifesting Himself in many ways both small and great, common and\nmiraculous, though of a truth there are no miracles beyond what APPEAR\nas such to our limited sight and restricted intelligence. But tell\nme\"--and here his voice had a ring of suppressed anxiety within\nit--\"tell me, Sah-luma, thine own thought concerning it!\"\n\n\"I?--I think naught of it!\" replied Sah-luma with airy contempt--\"Such\na creed may find followers in time to come,--but now, of what avail to\nwarn us of things that do not concern our present modes of life?\nMoreover in the face of all religion, my own opinion should not\nalter,--I have studied science sufficiently well to know that there is\nNO God!--and I am too honest to worship an unproved and merely\nsupposititious identity!\"\n\nA shudder, as of extreme cold, ran through Theos's veins, and as if\nimpelled on by some invisible monitor he said almost mournfully:\n\n\"Art thou sure, Sah-luma, thou dost not instinctively feel that there\nis a Higher Power hidden behind the veil of visible Nature?--and that\nin the Far Beyond there may be an Eternity of Joy where thou shalt find\nall thy grandest aspirations at last fulfilled?\"\n\nSah-luma laughed,--a clear, vibrating laugh as mellow as the note of a\nthrush in spring-time.\n\n\"Thou solemn soul!\" he exclaimed mirthfully--\"My aspirations ARE\nfulfilled!--I aspire to no more than fame,--and that I hold,--that I\nshall keep so long as this world is lighted by the sun!\"\n\n\"And what use is Fame to thee in Death!\" demanded Theos with sudden and\nemphatic earnestness.\n\nSah-luma stood still,--over his beautiful face came a shadow of intense\nmelancholy,--he raised his brilliant eyes full of wistful pathos and\npleading.\n\n\"I pray thee do not make me sad, my friend!\" he murmured\ntremulously--\"These thoughts are like muttering thunder in my heaven!\nDeath!\".. and a quick sigh escaped him--\"'Twill be the breaking of my\nharp and heart! ... the last note of my failing voice and eversilenced\nsong!\"\n\nA moisture as of tears glistened on the silky fringe of his\neyelids,--his lips quivered,--he had the look of a Narcissus\nregretfully bewailing his own perishable loveliness. On a swift impulse\nof affection Theos threw one arm round, his neck in the fashion of a\nconfiding school-boy walking with his favorite companion.\n\n\"Nay, thou shalt never die, Sah-luma!\" he said with a sort of\npassionate eagerness,--\"Thy bright soul shall live forever in a\nsunshine sweeter than that of earth's fairest midsummer noon! Thy song\ncan never be silenced while heaven pulsates with the unwritten music of\nthe spheres,--and even were the crown of immortality denied to lesser\nmen, it is, it must be the heritage of the poet! For to him all crowns\nbelong, all kingdoms are thrown open, all barriers broken down,--even\nthose that divide us from the Unseen,--and God Himself has surely a\nsmile to spare for His Singers who have made the sad world joyful if\nonly for an hour!\"\n\nSah-luma looked up with a pleased yet wondering glance.\n\n\"Thou hast a silvery and persuasive tongue!\" he said gently--\"And thou\nspeakest of God as if thou knewest one akin to Him. Would I could\nbelieve all thou sayest! ... but alas!--I cannot. We have progressed\ntoo far in knowledge, my friend, for faith.... yet...\" He hesitated a\nmoment, then with a touch of caressing entreaty in his tone went on.\n... \"Thinkest thou in very truth that I shall live again? For I confess\nto thee, it seems beyond all things strange and terrible to feel that\nthis genius of mine,--this spirit of melody which inhabits my frame,\nshould perish utterly without further scope for its abilities. There\nhave been moments when my soul, ravished by inspiration, has, as it\nwere, seized Earth like a full goblet of wine, and quaffed its\nbeauties, its pleasures, its loves, its glories all in one burning\ndraught of song! ... when I have stood in thought on the shadowy peaks\nof time, waiting for other worlds to string like beads on my thread of\npoesy,--when wondrous creatures habited in light and wreathed with\nstars have floated round and round me in rosy circles of fire,--and\nonce, methought ... 'twas long ago now--I heard a Voice distinct and\nsweet that called me upward, onward and away, I know not where,--save\nthat a hidden Love awaited me!\" He broke off with a rapt almost angelic\nexpression in his eyes, then sighing a little he resumed: \"All dreams\nof course! ... vague phantoms,--creations of my own imaginative\nbrain,--yet fair enough to fill my heart with speechless longings for\nethereal raptures unseen, unknown! Thou hast, methinks, a certain faith\nin the unsolved mysteries,--but I have none,--for sweet as the promise\nof a future life may seem, there is no proof that it shall ever be. If\none died and rose again from the dead, then might we all believe and\nhope.. but otherwise ...\"\n\nOh, miserable Theos!--What would he not have given to utter aloud the\nburning knowledge that ate into his mind like slow-devouring fire!\nAgain mute! ... again oppressed by that strange swelling at the heart\nthat threatened to break forth in stormy sobs of penitence and prayer!\nInstinctively he drew Sah-luma closer to his side--his breath came\nthick and fast.. he struggled with all his might to speak the words ...\n\"One HAS died and risen from the dead!\"--but not a syllable could he\nform of the desired sentence!\n\n\"Thou shalt live again, Sah-luma!\" was all he could say in low,\nhalf-smothered accents--\"Thou hast within thee a flame that cannot\nperish!\"\n\nAgain Sah-luma's eyes dwelt upon him with a curious, appealing\ntenderness.\n\n\"Thy words savor of sweet consolation! ...\" he said half gayly, half\nsadly. \"May they be fulfilled! And if indeed there is a brighter world\nthan this beyond the skies, I fancy thou and I will know each other,\nthere as here, and be somewhat close companions! See!\"--and he pointed\nto a small green hillock that rose up like a shining emerald from the\ndarker foliage of the surrounding trees--\"Yonder is my point of vantage\nwhence we shall behold the sun go down like a warrior sinking on the\nred field of battle, the chimes are ringing even now for his\ndeparture,--listen!\"\n\nThey stood still for a space, while the measured, swinging cadence of\nbells came pealing through the stillness,--bells of every tone, that\nsmote the air with soft or loud resonance as the faint wind wafted the\nsounds toward them,--and then they began to climb the little hill,\nSah-luma walking somewhat in advance, with a tread as light and elastic\nas that of a young fawn.\n\nTheos, following, watched his movements with a strange affection,\n--every turn of his head, every gesture of his hand seemed fraught with\nmeanings as yet inexplicable. The grass beneath their feet was soft as\nvelvet and dotted with a myriad wild flowers,--the ascent was gradual\nand easy, and in a few minutes they had reached the summit, where\nSah-luma, throwing himself indolently on the smooth turf, pulled Theos\ngently down by his side. There they rested in silence, gazing at the\nmagnificent panorama laid out before them,--a panorama as lovely as a\ndelicately pictured scene of fairy-land. Above, the sky was of a dense\nyet misty rose-color,--the sun, low on the western horizon appeared to\nrest in a vast, deep, purple hollow, rifted here and there with broad\ngashes of gold,--long shafts of light streamed upwards in order like\nthe waving pennons of an angel-army marching,--and beyond, far away\nfrom this blaze of splendid color, the wide ethereal expanse paled into\ntender blue, whereon light clouds of pink and white drifted like the\nfluttering blossoms that fall from apple-trees in spring.\n\nBelow, and seen through a haze of rose and amber, lay the city of\nAl-Kyris,--its white domes, towers and pinnacled palaces rising out of\nthe mist like a glorious mirage afloat on the borders of a burning\ndesert. Al-Kyris the Magnificent!--it deserves its name, Theos thought,\nas shading his eyes from the red glare he took a wondering and\ngradually comprehensive view of the enormous extent of the place. He\nsoon perceived that it was defended by six strongly fortified walls,\neach placed within the other at long equal distances apart, so that it\nmight have been justly described as six cities all merged together in\none,--and from where he sat he could plainly discern the great square\nwhere he had rested in the morning, by reason of the white granite\nobelisk that lifted itself sheer up against the sky, undwarfed by any\nof the surrounding buildings.\n\nThis gigantic monument was the most prominent object in sight, with the\nexception of the sacred temple, which Sah-luma presently pointed\nout,--a round, fortress-like piece of architecture ornamented with\ntwelve gilded towers from which bells were now clashing and jangling in\na storm of melodious persistency. The hum of the city's traffic and\npleasure surged on the air like the noise made by swarming bees, while\nevery now and then the sweet, shrill tones of some more than usually\nclear girl's voice, crying out the sale of fruit or flowers, soared up\nsong-wise through the luminous, semi-transparent vapor that half-veiled\nthe clustering house-tops, tapering spires and cupolas in a delicate,\nnebulous film.\n\nCompletely fascinated by the wizard-like beauty of the scene, Theos\nfelt as though he could never look upon it long enough to master all\nits charms, but his eyes ached with the radiance in which everything\nseemed drenched as with flame, and turning his gaze once more toward\nthe sun, he saw that it had nearly disappeared. Only a blood-red rim\npeered spectrally above the gold and green horizon-and immediately\noverhead, a silver rift in the sky had widened slowly in the centre and\nnarrowed at its end, thus taking the shape of a great outstretched\nsword that pointed directly downward at the busy, murmuring, glittering\ncity beneath. It was a strange effect, and made on the mind of Theos a\nstrange impression,--he was about to call Sah-luma's attention to it,\nwhen an uncomfortable consciousness that they were no longer alone came\nover him,--instinctively he turned round, uttered a hasty exclamation,\nand springing erect, found himself face to face with a huge black,--a\nman of some six feet in height and muscular in proportion, who, clad,\nin a vest and tunic of the most vivid scarlet hue, leered\nconfidentially upon him as their eyes met. Sah-luma rising also, but\nwith less precipitation, surveyed the intruder languidly and with a\ncertain haughtiness.\n\n\"What now, Gazra? Always art thou like a worm in the grass, crawling on\nthine errand with less noise than the wind makes in summer, . . I would\nthy mistress kept a fairer messenger!\"\n\nThe black smiled,--if so hideous a contortion of his repulsive\ncountenance might be called a smile, and slowly raising his jetty arms\nhung all over with strings of coral and amber, made a curious gesture,\nhalf of salutation, half of command. As he did this, the clear, olive\ncheek of Sah-luma flushed darkly red,--his chest heaved, and linking\nhis arm through that of Theos, he bent his head slightly and stood like\none in an enforced attitude of attention. Then Gazra spoke, his harsh,\nstrong voice seeming to come from some devil in the ground rather than\nfrom a human throat.\n\n\"The Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Divine Nagaya hath need of\nthee to-night, Sah-luma!\" he said, with a sort of suppressed derision\nunderlying his words,--and taking from his breast a ring that glittered\nlike a star, he held it out in the palm of one hand--\"And also\"--he\nadded--\"of thy friend the stranger, to whom she desires to accord a\nwelcome. Behold her signet!\"\n\nTheos, impelled by curiosity, would have taken the ring up to examine\nit, had not Sah-luma restrained him by a warning pressure of his\narm,--he was only just able to see that it was in the shape of a\ncoiled-up serpent with ruby eyes, and a darting tongue tipped with\nsmall diamonds. What chiefly concerned him however was the peculiar\nchange in Sah-luma's demeanor,--something in the aspect or speech of\nGazra had surely exercised a remarkable influence upon him. His frame\ntrembled through and through with scarcely controlled excitement, . .\nhis eyes shot forth an almost evil fire, . . and a cold, calm, somewhat\ncruel smile played on the perfect outline of his delicate month. Taking\nthe signet from Gazra's palm, he kissed it with a kind of angry\ntenderness, . . then replied..\n\n\"Tell thy mistress we shall obey her behest! Doubtless she knows, as\nshe knows all things, that to-night. I am summoned by express command,\nto the Palace of our sovereign lord the King.. I am bound thither first\nas is my duty, but afterwards ...\" He broke off as if he found it\nimpossible to say more, and waved his hand in a light sign of\ndismissal. But Gazra did not at once depart. He again smiled that\nlowering smile of his which resembled nothing so much as a hung\ncriminal's death-grin, and returned the jewelled signet to his breast.\n\n\"Afterwards! ... yes.. afterwards!\" he said in emphatic yet mock solemn\ntones.. \"Even so!\" Advancing a little he laid his heavy, muscular hand\non Theos's chest, and appeared mentally to measure his height and\nbreadth--\"Strong nerves! ... iron sinews! ... goodly flesh and blood!\n..'twill serve!\"--and his great, protruding eyes gleamed maliciously as\nhe spoke,--then bowing profoundly he added, addressing both Sah-luma\nand Theos.. \"Noble sirs, to-night out of all men in Al-Kyris shall you\nbe the most envied! Farewell!\"--and once more making that curious\nsalutation which had in it so much imperiousness and so little\nobeisance, he walked backward a few paces in the full lustre of the set\nsun's after-glow, which intensified the vivid red of his costume and\nlit up all the ornaments of clear-cut amber that glittered against his\nswarthy skin,--then turning, he descended the hillock so swiftly that\nhe seemed to have melted out of sight as utterly as a dark mist\ndissolving in air.\n\n\"By my word, a most sooty and repellent bearer of a lady's greeting!\"\nlaughed Theos lightly, as he sauntered arm in arm with his host on the\ndownward path leading to the garden and palace--\"And I have yet to\nlearn the true meaning of his message!\"\n\n\"'Tis plain enough!\" replied Sah-luma somewhat sulkily, with the deep\nflush still coming and going on his face--\"It means that we are\nsummoned, . . thou as well as I, . . to one of Lysia's midnight\nbanquets,--an honor that falls to few,--a mandate none dare disobey!\nShe must have spied thee out this morning--the only unkneeling soul in\nall the abject multitude-hence, perhaps, her present desire for thy\ncompany.\"\n\nThere was a touch of vexation in his voice, but Theos heeded it not.\nHis heart gave a great bound against his ribs as though pricked by a\nfire-tipped arrow,--something swift and ardent stirred in his blood\nlike the flowing of quicksilver, . . the picture of the dusky-eyed,\nwitchingly beautiful woman he had seen that morning in her gold-adorned\nship, seemed to float between him and the light,--her face shone out\nlike a growing glory-flower in the tangled wilderness of his thoughts,\nand his lips trembled a little as he replied:\n\n\"She must be gracious and forgiving then, even as she is fair! For in\nmy neglect of reverence due, I merited her scorn, . . not her courtesy.\nBut tell me, Sah-luma, how could she know I was a guest of thine?\"\n\nSah-luma glanced at him half-pityingly, half disdainfully.\n\n\"How could she know? Easily!--inasmuch as she knows all things. 'Twould\nhave been strange indeed had she NOT known!\" and he caught at a\ndown-drooping rose and crushed its fragrant head in his hand with a\nsort of wanton petulance--\"The King himself is less acquainted with his\npeople's doings than the wearer of the All-Reflecting Eye! Thou hast\nnot yet seen that weird mirror and potent dazzler of human sight, . .\nno,--but thou WILT see it ere long,--the glittering Fiend-guarding of\nthe whitest breast that ever shut in passion!\" His voice shook, and he\npaused,--then with some effort continued--\"Yes,--Lysia has her secret\ncommissioners everywhere throughout the length and breadth of the city,\nwho report to her each circumstance that happens, no matter how\ntrifling,--and doubtless we were followed home,--tracked step by step\nas we walked together, by one of her stealthy-footed servitors,--in\nthis there would be naught unusual.\"\n\n\"Then there is no freedom in Al-Kyris,--\" said Theos wonderingly--\"if\nthe whole city thus lies under the circumspection of a woman?\"\n\nSah-luma laughed rather harshly.\n\n\"Freedom! By the gods, 'tis a delusive word embodying a vain idea!\nWhere is there any freedom in life? All of us are bound in chains and\nrestricted in one way or the other,--the man who deems himself\npolitically free is a slave to the multitude and his own ambition\n--while he who shakes himself loose from the trammels of custom and\ncreed, becomes the tortured bondsman of desire, tied fast with bruising\ncords to the rack of his own unbridled sense and appetite. There is no\nsuch thing as freedom, my friend, unless haply it may be found in\ndeath! Come,--let us in to supper,--the hour grows late, and my heart\naches with an unsought heaviness,--I must cheer me with a cup of wine,\nor my songs to-night will sadden rather than rouse the King. Come,--and\nthou shalt speak to me again of the life that is to be lived\nhereafter,\"--and he smiled with certain pathos in his smile,--\"for\nthere are times, believe me, when in spite of all my fame and the\nsweetness of existence, I weary of earth's days and nights, and find\nthem far too brief and mean to satisfy my longings. Not the world,--but\nworlds--should be the Poet's heritage.\"\n\nTheos looked at him, with a feeling of unutterable yearning affection,\nand regret, but said nothing, . . and together they ascended the steps\nof the stately marble terrace and paced slowly across it, keeping as\nnear to each other as shadow to substance, and thus reentered the\npalace, where the sound of a distant harp alone penetrated the perfumed\nstillness. It must be Niphrata who was playing, thought Theos, ... and\nwhat strange and plaintive chords she swept from the vibrating strings!\n... They seemed laden with the tears of broken-hearted women dead and\nburied ages upon ages ago!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nSAH-LUMA SINGS.\n\n\nAs they left the garden the night fell, or appeared to fall, with\nalmost startling suddenness, and at the same time, in swift defiance of\nthe darkness, Sah-luma's palace was illuminated from end to end by\nthousands of colored lamps, all apparently lit at once by a single\nflash of electricity. A magnificent repast was spread for the Laureate\nand his guest, in a lofty, richly frescoed banqueting-hall,--a repast\nvoluptuous enough to satisfy the most ardent votary that ever followed\nthe doctrines of Epicurus. Wonderful dainties and still more wonderful\nwines were served in princely profusion--and while the strangely met\nand sympathetically united friends ate and drank, delicious music was\nplayed on stringed instruments by unseen performers. When, at\nintervals, these pleasing sounds ceased, Sah-luma's conversation,\nbrilliant, witty, refined, and sparkling with light anecdote and\nlighter jest, replaced with admirable sufficiency, the left-off\nharmonies,--and Theos, keenly alive to the sensuous enemy of his own\nemotions, felt that he had never before enjoyed such an astonishing,\ndelightful, and altogether fairy-like feast. Its only fault was that it\ncame to an end too soon, he thought, when, the last course of fruit and\nsweet comfits being removed, he rose reluctantly from the glittering\nboard, and prepared to accompany his host, as agreed, to the presence\nof the King.\n\nIn a very short time, so bewilderingly short as to seem a mere\nbreathing-space,--he found himself passing through the broad avenues\nand crowded thoroughfares of Al-Kyris on his way to the Royal abode. He\noccupied a place in Sah-luma's chariot,--a gilded car, shaped somewhat\nlike the curved half of a shell, deeply hollowed, and set on two high\nwheels that as they rolled made scarcely any sound; there was no seat,\nand both he and Sah-luma stood erect, the latter using all the force of\nhis slender brown hands to control the spirited prancing of the pair of\njet-black steeds which, harnessed tandem-wise to the light-vehicle,\nseemed more than once disposed to break loose into furious gallop\nregardless of their master's curbing rein.\n\nThe full moon was rising gradually in a sky as densely violet as purple\npansy-leaves--but her mellow lustre was almost put to shame by the\nbrilliancy of the streets, which were lit up on both sides by\nvari-colored lamps that diffused a peculiar, intense yet soft radiance,\nproduced, as Sah-luma explained, from stored-up electricity. On the\ntwelve tall Towers of the Sacred Temple shone twelve large, revolving\nstars, that as they turned emitted vivid flashes of blue, green, and\namber flame like light-house signals seen from ships veering\nshorewards,--and the reflections thus cast on the mosaic pavement,\nmingling with the paler beams of the moon, gave a weird and most\nfantastic effect to the scene. Straight ahead, a blazing arch raised\nlike a bent bow against heaven, and having in its centre the word\n\nZEPHORANIM,\n\nwritten in scintillating letters of fire, indicated to all beholders\nthe name and abode of the powerful Monarch under whose dominion,\naccording to Sah-luma, Al-Kyris had reached its present height of\nwealth and prosperity.\n\nTheos looked everywhere about him, seeing yet scarcely realizing the\nwonders on which he gazed,--leaning one arm on the burnished edge of\nthe car, he glanced now and then up at the dusky skies growing thick\nwith swarming worlds, and meditated dreamily whether it might not be\nwithin the range of possibility to be lifted with Sah-luma, chariot,\nsteeds and all into that beautiful, fathomless empyrean, and drive\namong planets as though they were flowers, reining in at last before\nsome great golden gate, which unbarred should open into a lustrous\nGlory-Land fairer than all fair regions ever pictured!\n\nHow like a god Sah-luma looked, he mused! ... his eyes resting tenderly\non the light, glittering form he was never weary of contemplating.\nCould there be a more perfect head than that dark one crowned with\nmyrtle? ... could there be a more dazzling existence than that enjoyed\nby this child of happy fortune, this royal Laureate of a mighty King?\nHow many poets starving in garrets and waiting for a hearing, would not\ncurse their unlucky destinies when comparing themselves with such a\nPrince of Poesy, each word of whose utterance was treasured and\nenshrined in the hearts of a grateful and admiring people!\n\nThis was Fame indeed, . . Fame at its utmost best,--and Theos sighed\nonce or twice restlessly as he inwardly reflected how poor and\nunsatisfying were his own poetical powers, and how totally unfitted he\nwas to cope with a rival so vastly his superior. Not that he by any\nmeans desired to cross swords with Sah-luma in a duel of song,-that was\nan idea that never entered his mind; he was simply conscious of a\ncertain humiliated feeling,--an impression that it' he would be a poet\nat all, he must go back to the very first beginning of the art and\nre-learn all he had ever known, or thought he knew.\n\nMany strange and complex emotions were at work within him, . . emotions\nwhich he could neither control nor analyze,--and though he felt himself\nfully alive,--alive to his very finger-tips, he was ever and anon aware\nof a curious sensation like that experienced by a suddenly startled\nsomnambulist, who, just on the point of awaking, hesitates reluctantly\non the threshold of dreamland, unwilling to leave one realm of shadows\nfor another more seeming true, yet equally transient. Entangled in\nperplexed reveries he scarcely noticed the brilliant crowds of people\nthat were flocking hither and thither through the streets, many of whom\nrecognizing Sah-luma waved their hands or shouted some gay word of\ngreeting,--he saw, as it were without seeing. The whirling pageant\naround him was both real and unreal,--there was always a deep sense of\nmystery that hung like a cloud over his mind,--a cloud that no\nresolution of his could lift,--and often he caught himself dimly\nspeculating as to what lay BEHIND that cloud. Something, he felt\nsure,--something that like the clew to an intricate problem, would\nexplain much that was now altogether incomprehensible,--moreover he\nremorsefully realized that he had formerly known that clew and had\nfoolishly lost it, but how he could not tell.\n\nHis gaze wandered from the figure of Sah-luma to that of the attendant\nharp-bearer who, perched on a narrow foothold on the back of the\nchariot, held his master's golden instrument aloft as though it were a\nflag of song,--the signal of a poet's triumph, destined to float above\nthe world forever!\n\nJust then the equipage--arrived at the Kings palace. Turning the\nhorses' heads with a sharp jerk so that the mettlesome creatures almost\nsprang erect on their haunches, Sah-luma drove them swiftly into a\nspacious courtyard, lined with soldiers in full armor, and brilliantly\nilluminated, where two gigantic stone Sphinxes, with lit stars ablaze\nbetween their enormous brows, guarded a flight of steps that led up to\nwhat seemed to be an endless avenue of white marble columns. Here\nslaves in gorgeous attire rushed forward, and seizing the prancing\ncoursers by the bridle rein, held them fast while the Laureate and his\ncompanion alighted. As they did so, a mighty and resounding clash of\nweapons struck the tesselated pavement,--every soldier flung his drawn\nsword on the ground and doffed his helmet, and the cry of\n\n    \"HAIL, SAH-LUMA!\"\n\nrose in one brief, mellow, manly shout that echoed vibratingly through\nthe heated air. Sah-luma meanwhile ascended half-way up the steps, and\nthere turning round, smiled and bowed with an exquisite grace and\ninfinite condescension,--and again Theos gazed at him yearningly,\nlovingly, and somewhat enviously too. What a picture he made standing\nbetween the great frowning sculptured Sphinxes! ... contrasted with\nthose cold and solemn visages of stone he looked like a dazzling\nbutterfly or stray bird of paradise. His white garb glistened at every\npoint with gems, and from his shoulders, where it was fastened with\nlarge sapphire elasps, depended a long mantle of cloth of gold,\nbordered thickly with swansdown,--this he held up negligently in one\nhand as ho remained for a moment in full view of the assembled\nsoldiery, graciously acknowledging their enthusiastic greetings, . .\nthen with easy and unhasting tread he mounted the rest of the stairway,\nfollowed by Theos and his harp-bearer, and passed into the immense\nouter entrance hall of the Royal Palace, known, as he explained to his\nguest, as the Hall of the Two Thousand Columns.\n\nHere among the massively carved pillars which looked like straight,\ntall, frosted trunks of trees, were assembled hundreds of men young and\nold,--evident aristocrats and nobles of high degree, to judge from the\nmagnificence of their costumes, while in and out their brilliant ranks\nglided little pages in crimson and blue,--black slaves, semi-nude or\nclothed in vivid colors,--court officials with jewelled badges and\ninsignias of authority,--military guards clad in steel armor and\ncarrying short, drawn scimetars,--all talking, laughing, gesticulating\nand elbowing one another as they moved to and fro,--and so thickly were\nthey pressed together that at first sight it seemed impossible to\npenetrate through so dense a crowd: but no sooner did Sah-luma appear,\nthan they all fell back in orderly rows, thus making an open\navenue-like space for his admittance.\n\nHe walked slowly, with proudly-assured mien and a confident\nsmile,--bowing right and left in response to the respectful salutations\nhe received from all assembled,--many persons glanced inquisitively at\nTheos, but as he was the Laureate's companion he was saluted with\nnearly equal courtesy. The old critic Zabastes, squeezing his lean,\nbent body from out the throng, hobbled after Sah-luma at some little\ndistance behind the harp-bearer, muttering to himself as he went, and\nbestowing many a side-leer and malicious grin on those among his\nacquaintance whom he here and there recognized. Theos noted his\nbehavior with a vague sense of amusement,--the man took such evident\ndelight in his own ill-humor, and seemed to be so thoroughly convinced\nthat his opinion on all affairs was the only one worth having.\n\n\"Thou must check thy tongue today, Zabastes!\" said a handsome youth in\ndazzling blue and silver, who, just then detaching himself from the\ncrowd, laid a hand on the Critic's arm and laughed as he spoke--\"I\ndoubt me much whether the King is in humor for thy grim fooling! His\nMajesty hath been seriously discomposed since his return from the royal\ntiger-hunt this morning, notwithstanding that his unerring spear slew\ntwo goodly and most furious animals. He is wondrous sullen,-and only\nthe divine Sah-luma is skilled in the art of soothing his troubled\nspirit. Therefore,--if thou hast aught of crabbed or cantankerous to\nurge against thy master's genius, thou hadst best reserve it for\nanother time, lest thy withered head roll on the market-place with as\nlittle reverence as a dried gourd flung from a fruiterer's stall!\"\n\n\"I thank thee for thy warning, young jackanapes!\" retorted Zabastes,\npausing in his walk and leaning on his staff while he peered with his\nsmall, black, bad-tempered eyes at the speaker-\"Thou art methinks\nsomewhat over well-informed for a little lacquey! What knowest thou of\nHis Majesty's humors? Hast been his fly-i'-the-ear or cast-off\nsandal-string? I pray thee extend not thy range of learning beyond the\nproper temperature of the bath, and the choice of rare unguents for thy\nskin-greater knowledge than this would injure the tender texture of thy\nfragile brain! Pah!\"--and Zabastes sniffed the air in disgust--\"Thou\nhast a most vile odor of jessamine about thee! ... I would thou wert\nclean of perfumes and less tawdry in attire!\"\n\nChuckling hoarsely he ambled onward, and chancing to, catch the\nwondering backward glance of Pheos, he made expressive signs with his\nfingers in derision of Sah-luma's sweeping mantle, which now, allowed\nto fall to its full length, trailed along the marble floor with a rich,\nrustling sound, the varied light sparkling on it at every point and\nmaking it look like a veritable shower of gold.\n\nOn through the seemingly endless colonnades they passed, till they came\nto a huge double door formed of two glittering, colossed winged figures\nholding enormous uplifted shields. Here stood a personage clad in a\nsilver coat-of-mail, so motionless that at first he appeared to be part\nof the door, .. but at the approach of Sah-luma he stirred into life\nand action, and touching a spring beside him, the arms of the twin\ncolossi moved, the great double shields were slowly lowered, and the\nportals slid asunder noiselessly, thus displaying the sumptuous\nsplendor of the Royal Presence-Chamber.\n\nIt was a spacious and lofty saloon, completely lined with gilded\ncolumns, between which hung numerous golden lamps having long, pointed,\namber pendants, that flashed down a million sparkles as of sunlight on\nthe magnificent mosaic floor beneath. On the walls were rich tapestries\nstoried with voluptuous scenes of love as well as ghastly glimpses of\nwarfare, ... and languishing beauties reposing in the arms of their\nlovers, or listening to the songs of passion, were depicted side by\nside with warriors dead on the field of battle, or struggling hand to\nhand in grim and bleeding conflict. The corners of this wonderful\napartment were decked with all sorts of flags and weapons, and in the\nmiddle of the painted ceiling was suspended a huge bird with the spread\nwings of an eagle and the head of an owl, that held in its curved\ntalons a superb girandole formed of a hundred extended swords, each\nbare blade having at its point a bright lamp in the shape of a star,\nwhile the clustered hilts composed the centre.\n\nOfficers in full uniform were ranged on both sides of the room, and a\nnumber of other men richly attired stood about, conversing with each\nother in low tones, ... but though Theos took in all these details\nrapidly at a glance, his gaze soon became fixed on the glittering\nPavilion that occupied the furthest end of the saloon, where on a\nmassive throne of ivory and silver sat the chief object of attraction,\n... Zephoranim the King. The steps of the royal dais were strewn\nankle-deep with flowers, ... . on either hand a bronze lion lay\ncouchant, ... . and four gigantic black statues of men supported the\nmonarch's gold-fringed canopy, their uplifted arms being decked with\ninnumerable rows of large and small pearls. The King's features were\nnot just then visible--he was leaning back in an indolent attitude,\nresting on his elbow, and half covering his face with one hand. The\nindividual in the silver coat-of-mail whispered something in Sah-luma's\near either by way of warning or advice, and then advanced, prostrating\nhimself before the dais and touching the ground humbly with his\nforehead and hands. The King stirred slightly, but did not alter his\nposition, ... he was evidently wrapped in a deep and seemingly\nunpleasant reverie.\n\n\"Dread my lord.... !\" began the Herald-in-Waiting. A movement of\ndecided impatience on the part of the monarch caused him to stop short.\n\n\"By my soul!\" said a rich, strong voice that made itself distinctly\naudible throughout the spacious hall--\"Thou art ever shivering on the\nedge of thy duty when thou shouldst plunge boldly into the midst\nthereof! How long wilt mouth thy words? ... Canst never speak plain?\"\n\n\"Most potent sovereign!\" went on the stammering herald--\"Sah-luma waits\nthy royal pleasure!\"\n\n\"Sah-luma!\" and the monarch sprang erect, his eyes flashing fire--\"Nay,\nthat HE should wait, bodes ill for thee, thou knave! How darest thou\nbid him wait?--Entreat him hither with all gentleness, as befits mine\nequal in the realm!\"\n\nAs he thus spoke, Theos was able to observe him more attentively;\nindeed it seemed as though a sudden and impressive pause had occurred\nin the action of a drama in order to allow him as spectator, to\nthoroughly master the meaning of one special scene. Therefore he took\nthe opportunity offered, and, looking full at Zephoranim, thought he\nhad never beheld so magnificent a man. Of stately height and herculean\nbuild, he was most truly royal in outward bearing,--though a\nphysiognomist judging him from the expression of his countenance would\nat once have given him all the worst vices of a reckless voluptuary and\nutterly selfish sensualist. His straight, low brows indicated brute\nforce rather than intellect,--his eyes, full, dark, and brilliant, had\nin them a suggestion of something sinister and cruel, despite their\nfine clearness and lustre, while the heavy lines of his mouth, only\npartly concealed by a short, thick black beard, plainly betokened that\nthe monarch's tendencies were by no means toward the strict and narrow\npaths of virtue.\n\nNevertheless he was a splendid specimen of the human animal at its best\nphysical development, and his attire, which was a mixture of the\ncivilized and savage, suited him as it certainly would not have suited\nany less stalwart frame. His tunic was of the deepest purple broidered\nwith gold,--his vest of pale amber silk was thrown open so as to\ndisplay to the greatest advantage his broad muscular chest and throat\nglittering all over with gems,--and he wore, flung loosely across his\nleft shoulder, a superb leopard skin, just kept in place by a clasp of\ndiamonds. His feet were shod with gold-colored sandals,--his arms were\nbare and lavishly decked with jewelled armlets,--his rough, dark hair\nwas tossed carelessly about his brow, whereon a circlet of gold studded\nwith large rubies glittered in the light,--from his belt hung a great\nsheathed sword, together with all manner of hunting implements,--and\nbeside him, on a velvet-covered stand, lay a short sceptre, having at\nits tip one huge egg-shaped pearl set in sapphires.\n\nNoting the grand poise of his figure, and the statuesque grace of his\nattitude, a strange, hazy, far-off memory began to urge itself on\nTheos's mind,--a memory that with every second grew more painfully\ndistinct, ... HE HAD SEEN ZEPHORANIM BEFORE! Where, he could not\ntell,--but he was as positive of it as that he himself lived! ... and\nthis inward conviction was accompanied by a certain undefinable\ndread,--a vague terror and foreboding, though he knew no actual cause\nfor fear.\n\nHe had however no time to analyze his emotion,--for just then the\nHerald-in-Waiting, having performed a backward evolution from the\nthrone to the threshold of the audience-chamber, beckoned impatiently\nto Sah-luma, who at once stepped forward, bidding Theos keep close\nbehind him. The harp-bearer followed, . . and thus all three approached\nthe dais where the King still stood erect, awaiting them. Zabastes the\nCritic glided in also, almost unnoticed, and joined a group of\ncourtiers at the furthest end of the long, gorgeously lighted room,\nwhile at sight of the Laureate the assembled officers saluted, and all\nconversation ceased. At the foot of the throne Sah-luma paused, but\nmade no obeisance,--raising his glorious eyes to the monarch's face he\nsmiled,--and Theos beheld with amazement, that here it was not the Poet\nwho reverenced the King, but the King who reverenced the Poet!\n\nWhat a strange state of things! he thought,--especially when the mighty\nZephoranim actually descended three steps of his flower-strewn dais,\nand grasping Sah-luma's hands raised them to his lips with all the\nhumility of a splendid savage paying homage to his intellectual\nconqueror! It was a scene Theos was destined never to forget, and he\ngazed upon it as one gazes on a magnificently painted picture, wherein\ntwo central figures fascinate and most profoundly impress the\nbeholder's imagination. He heard, with a vague sense of mingled\npleasure and sadness, the deep, mellow tones of the monarch's voice\nvibrating through the silence, ... .\n\n\"Welcome, my Sah-luma!--Welcome at all times, but chiefly welcome when\nthe heart is weighted by care! I have thought of thee all day, believe\nme! ... aye, since early dawn, when on my way to the chase I heard in\nthe depths of the forest a happy nightingale singing, and deemed thy\nvoice had taken bird-shape and followed me! And that I sent for thee in\nhaste, blame me not!--as well blame the desert athirst for rain, or the\nhungry heart agape for love to come and fill it!\" Here his restless eye\nflashed on Theos, who stood quietly behind Sah-luma, passive, yet\nexpectant of he knew not what.\n\n\"Whom hast thou there? ... A friend?\" This as Sah-luma apparently\nexplained something in a low tone, ... \"He is welcome also for thy\nsake\"--and he extended one hand, on which a great ruby signet burned\nlike a red star, to Theos, who, bending over it, kissed it with the\ngrave courtesy he fancied due to kings. Zephoranim appeared\ngood-naturedly surprised at this action, and eyed him somewhat\nscrutinizingly as he said: \"Thou art not of Sah-luma's divine calling\nassuredly, fair sir, else thou wouldst hardly stoop to a mere crowned\nhead like mine! Soldiers and statesmen may bend the knee to their\nchosen rulers, but to whom shall poets bend? They, who with arrowy\nlines cause thrones to totter and fall,--they, who with deathless\nutterance brand with infamy or hallow with honor the most potent names\nof kings and emperors,--they by whom alone a nation lives in the annals\nof the future,--what homage do such elect gods owe to the passing\nholders of one or more earthly sceptres? Thou art too humble, methinks,\nfor the minstrel-vocation,--dost call thyself a Minstrel? or a student\nof the art of song?\"\n\nTheos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch's countenance, as\nhe replied in low, clear tones:\n\n\"Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! ... nor do I deserve to be\ncalled even a student of that high, sweet music-wisdom in which\nSah-luma alone excels! All I dare hope for is that I may learn of him\nin some small degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some future\ntime I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common flower on earth\ncan approach to a fixed star in the furthest blue of heaven!\"\n\nSah-luma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative\nglance,--Zephoranim regarded him somewhat curiously.\n\n\"By my faith, thou'rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!\" he\nsaid--\"We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sah-luma's pleasure\nand our own! Stand thee near thy friend and master, and listen to the\nmelody of his matchless voice,--thou shalt hear therein the mysteries\nof many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of love, in which\nall other passions centre and have power.\"\n\nRe-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself indolently back in\nhis throne,--whereupon two pages brought a magnificent chair of inlaid\nivory and placed it near the foot of the dais at his right hand. In\nthis Sah-luma seated himself, the pages arranging his golden mantle\naround him in shining, picturesque folds,--while Theos, withdrawing\nslightly into the background, stood leaning against a piece of tapestry\non which the dead figure of a man was depicted lying prone on the sward\nwith a great wound in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering above him\nexpectant of its grim repast. Kneeling on one knee close to Sah-luma,\nthe harp-bearer put the harp in tune, and swept his fingers lightly\nover the strings,--then came a pause. A clear, small bell chimed\nsweetly on the stillness, and the King, raising himself a little,\nsigned to a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic of\nsome office.\n\n\"Let the women enter!\" he commanded--\"Speak but Sah-luma's name and\nthey will gather like waves rising to the moon,--but bid them be silent\nas they come, lest they disturb thoughts more lasting than their\nloveliness.\"\n\nThis with a significant glance toward the Laureate, who, sunk in his\nivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation.\n\nHis beautiful face had grown grave, . . even sad, ... he played idly\nwith the ornaments at his belt, ... and his eyes had a drowsy yet\nardent light within them, as they flashed now and then from under the\nshade of his long curling lashes. The slave departed on his errand ...\nand Zabastes edging himself out from the hushed and attentive throng of\nnobles stood as it were in the foreground of the picture, his thin lips\ntwisted into a sneer, and his lean hands grasping his staff viciously\nas though he longed to strike somebody down with it.\n\nA moment or so passed, and then the slave returned, his silver rod\nuplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-veiled\nfemale figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as fair ghosts\nfrom forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of flowers. They\nfloated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais, and there prostrated\nthemselves two by two before the King, whose fiery glance rested upon\nthem more carelessly than tenderly,--and as they rose, they threw back\ntheir veils, displaying to full view such exquisite faces, such\nlanguishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-white necks and arms, such\ngraceful voluptuous forms, that Theos caught at the tapestry near him\nin reeling dazzlement of sight and sense, and wondered how Sah-luma\nseated tranquilly in the reflective attitude he had assumed, could\nmaintain so unmoved and indifferent a demeanor.\n\nIndifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones, turning\nfrom the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his feet,--he\nscarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less the lovely\ndonors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their places on low\nsilken divans, provided for their accommodation, in a semicircle round\nthe throne. Again a silence ensued,--Sah-luma was evidently centred\nlike a spider in a web of his own thought-weaving,--and his attendant\ngently swept the strings of the harp again to recall his wandering\nfancies. Suddenly he looked up, . . his eyes were sombre, and a musing\ntrouble shadowed the brightness of his face.\n\n\"Strange it is, O King\"--he said in low, suppressed tones that had in\nthem a quiver of pathetic sweetness,--\"Strange it is that to-night the\nsoul of my singing dwells on sorrow! Like a stray bird flying 'mid\nfalling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight to storm, so does\nmy fancy soar among drear, flitting images evolved from the downfall of\nkingdoms,--and I seem to behold in the distance the far-off shadow of\nDeath...\"\n\n\"Talk not of death!\" interrupted the King loudly and in haste,--\"'Tis a\nraven note that hath been croaked in mine ears too often and too\nharshly already! What! ... hast thou been met by the mad Khosrul who\nlately sprang on me, even as a famished wolf on prey, and grasping my\nbridle-rein bade me prepare to die! 'Twas an ill jest, and one not to\nbe lightly forgiven! 'Prepare to die, O Zephoranim?' he cried--'For thy\ntime of reckoning is come!' By my soul!\" and the monarch broke into a\nboisterous laugh--\"Had he bade me prepare live 'twould have been more\nto the purpose! But yon frantic graybeard prates of naught but death,\n... 'twere well he should be silenced.\" And as he spoke, he frowned,\nhis hand involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his sword.\n\n\"Aye,--death is an unpleasing suggestion!\" suddenly said Zabastes, who\nhad gradually moved up nearer and nearer till he made one of the group\nimmediately round Sah-luma--\"'Tis a word that should never be mentioned\nin the presence of Kings! Yet, . . notwithstanding the incivility of\nthe statement, . . it is most certain that His Most Potent Majesty as\nwell as His Majesty's Most Potent Laureate, MUST..DIE.. !\" And he\naccompanied the words \"must..die...\" with two decisive taps of his\nstaff, smacking his withered lips meanwhile as though he tasted\nsomething peculiarly savory.\n\n\"And thou also, Zabastes!\" retorted the King with a dark smile,\njestingly drawing his sword and pointing it full at him,--then, as the\nold Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel, replacing it\ndashingly in its sheath,--\"Thou also! ... and thine ashes shall be cast\nto the four winds of heaven as suits thy vocation, while those of thy\nmaster and thy master's King lie honorably urned in porphyry and gold!\"\n\nZabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.\n\n\"It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim,\" he returned\ncomposedly--\"Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,--and the scattering\nof them is but a question of time! For urns of gold and porphyry do but\nexcite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein sealed,\nwhether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of reverent handling by\nfuture generations as those of many lesser men. And 'tis doubtful\nwhether the winds will know any difference in the scent or quality of\nthe various pinches of human dust tossed on their sweeping\ncircles,--for the substance of a man reduced to earth-atoms is always\nthe same,--and not a grain of him can prove whether he was once a\nMonarch crowned, a Minstrel pampered, or a Critic contemned!\"\n\nAnd he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument. The King\ndeigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sah-luma, who still sat\npensively silent.\n\n\"How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?\" he demanded\ngently--\"Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the midst\nof thy soul's sudden sadness?\"\n\nAt this, Sah-luma roused himself,--signing to his attendant he took the\nharp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed his hands\nover it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully. A ripple of\nmusic answered his delicate touch,--music as soft as the evening wind\nmurmuring among willows. Another instant and his voice thrilled on the\nsilence,--a voice wonderful, far-reaching, mellow, and luscious as with\nsuppressed tears, containing within it a passion that pierced to the\nheart of the listener, and a divine fullness such as surely was never\nbefore heard in human tones!\n\nTheos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with unwonted\nrapidity, . . what.. WHAT was it that Sah-luma sang? ... A Love-song!\nin those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the language of\nAl-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine, tender as the murmur\nof the sea on mellow, moon-entranced evenings,--an arrowy shaft of\nrhyme tipped with fire and meant to strike home to the core of feeling\nand there inflict delicious wounds! ... but, as each well-chosen word\nechoed harmoniously on his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every\nlimb, . . a black, frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an\nawful, maddening terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he\nwere suddenly thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever\nshine! For Sah-luma's song was HIS song! ... HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! ...\nHe knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his youth\nwhen he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to the music of\nhis inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every couplet..\nevery rhyme! ... The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . . HIS ALONE!\n... and Sah-luma had no right to it! He, Theos, was the Poet, . . not\nthis royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas and filched his\njewels of thought...aye! and he would tell him so to his face! ... he\nwould speak! ... he would cry aloud his claims in the presence of the\nKing and demand instant justice! ... .\n\nHe strove for utterance,--his voice was gone! ... his lips were\nmoveless as the lips of a stone image! Stricken absolutely mute, but\nwith his sense of hearing quickened to an almost painful acuteness, he\nstood erect and motionless,--rage and fear contending in his heart,\nenduring the torture of a truly terrific mystery of mind-despair, . .\nforced, in spite of himself, to listen passively to the love-thoughts\nof his own dead Past revived anew in his Rival's singing!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nTHE PROPHET OF DOOM.\n\n\nA few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,--then the first\nsharpness of his strange mental agony subsided. The strained tension of\nhis nerves gave way, and a dull apathy of grief inconsolable settled\nupon him. He felt himself to be a man mysteriously accurst,--banished\nas it were out of life, and stripped of all he had once held dear and\nvaluable. HOW HAD IT HAPPENED? Why was he set apart thus, solitary,\npoor, and empty of all worth, WHILE ANOTHER REAPED THE FRUITS OF HIS\nGENIUS? ... He heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking\nthe vast hall as the Laureate ended his song--and, drooping his head,\nsome stinging tears welled up in his eyes and fell scorchingly on his\nclasped hands--tears wrung from the very depth of his secretly tortured\nsoul. At that moment the beautiful Sah-luma turned toward him smiling,\nas one who looked for more sympathetic approbation than that offered by\na mixed throng,--and meeting that happy self-conscious, bland,\nhalf-inquiring gaze, he strove his best to return the smile. Just then\nZephoranim's fiery glance swept over him with a curious expression of\nwonder and commiseration.\n\n\"By the gods, yon stranger weeps!\" said the monarch in a half-bantering\ntone...then with more gentleness he added.. \"Yet 'tis not the first\ntime Sah-luma's voice hath unsealed a fountain of tears! No greater\ntriumph can minstrel have than this,--to move the strong man's heart to\nwoman's tenderness! We have heard tell of poets, who singing of death\nhave persuaded many straightway to die,--but when they sing of sweeter\nthemes, of lover's vows, of passion-frenzies, and languorous desires,\ncold is the blood that will not warm and thrill to their divinely\neloquent allurements. Come hither, fair sir!\" and he beckoned to Theos,\nwho mechanically advanced in obedience to the command--\"Thou hast\nthoughts of thine own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love's fervor of\ndelight, . . hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells\nwhereby the most dauntless heroes in every age have been caught,\nconquered, and bound by no stronger chain than a tress of hair, or a\nkiss more luscious than all the honey hidden in lotus-flowers?\"\n\nTheos looked up dreamily...his eyes wandered from the King to Sah-luma\nas though in wistful search for some missing thing, . . his lips were\nparched and burning and his brows ached with a heavy weight of pain,\n... but he made an effort to speak and succeeded, though his words came\nslowly and without any previous reflection on his own part.\n\n\"Alas, most potent Sovereign!\" he murmured.. \"I am a man of sad\nmemories, whose soul is like the desert, barren of all beauty! I may\nhave sung of love in my time, but my songs were never new,--never\nworthy to last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith, passion, or\nheart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams devise, Sah-luma\nknows, . . and in Sah-luma's song all my best thoughts are said!\"\n\nThere was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he spoke,--and the\nKing eyed him compassionately.\n\n\"Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered!\" he observed in gentle\naccents.. \"Thou hast a look as of one bereft of joy. Hast lost some\nmaiden love of thine? ... and dost thou mourn her still?\"\n\nA pang bitter as death shot through Theos's heart, . . had the monarch\nsuddenly pierced him with his great sword he could scarcely have\nendured more anguish! For the knowledge rushed upon him that he had\nindeed lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable, so pure and perfect,\nthat all the world weighed in the balance against it would have seemed\nbut a grain of dust compared to its inestimable value! ... but what\nthat love was, and from whom it emanated, he could no more tell than\nthe tide can tell in syllabled language the secret of its attraction to\nthe moon. Therefore he made no answer, . . only a deep, half-smothered\nsigh broke from him, and Zephoranim apparently touched by his dejection\ncontinued good-naturedly:\n\n\"Nay, nay!--we will not seek to pry into the cause of thy spirit's\nheaviness...Enough! think no more of our thoughtless question,--there\nis a sacredness in sorrow! Nevertheless we shall strive to make thee in\npart forget thy grief ere thou leavest our court and city, . .\nmeanwhile sit thou there\"--and he pointed to the lower step of the\ndais, . . \"And thou, Sah-luma, sing again, and this time let thy song\nhe set to a less plaintive key.\"\n\nHe leaned hack in his throne, and Theos sat wearily down among the\nflowers at the foot of the dais as commanded. He was possessed by a\nstrange, inward dread,--the dread of altogether losing the\nconsciousness of his own identity,--and while he strove to keep a firm\ngrasp on his mental faculties he at the same time abandoned all hope of\never extricating himself from the perplexing enigma in which he was so\ndarkly involved. Forcing himself by degrees into comparative calmness,\nhe determined to resign himself to his fate,--and the idea he had just\nhad of boldly claiming the ballad sung by Sah-luma as his own,\ncompletely passed out of his mind.\n\nHow could he speak against this friend whom he loved, ..aye!--more than\nhe had ever loved any living thing!--besides what could he prove? To\nbegin with, in his present condition ho could give no satisfactory\naccount of himself,--if he were asked questions concerning his nation\nor birth-place he could not answer them, . . he did not even know where\nhe had come from, save that his memory persistently furnished him with\nthe name of a place called \"ARDATH.\" But what was this \"Ardath\" to him,\nhe mused?--What did it signify? ... what had it to do with his\nimmediate position? Nothing, so far as he could tell! His intellect\nseemed to be divided into two parts--one a total blank, . . the other\nfilled with crowding images that while novel were yet curiously\nfamiliar. And how could he accuse Sah-luma of literary theft, when he\nhad none of his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case? Of course\nhe could easily repeat his boyhood's verses word for word, ... but what\nof that? He, a stranger in the city, befriended and protected by the\nLaureate, would certainly be considered by the people of Al-Kyris as\nfar more likely to steal Sah-luma's thoughts than that Sah-luma should\nsteal his!\n\nNo!--there was no help for it,--as matters stood he could say\nnothing,--he could only feel as though he were the sorrowful ghost of\nsome long-ago dead author returned to earth to hear others claiming his\nworks and passing them off as original compositions. And thus he was\nscarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sah-luma, giving back the\nharp to his attendant, rose up, and standing erect in an attitude\nunequalled for grace and dignity, began to recite a poem he remembered\nto have written when he was about twenty years of age,--a poem daringly\nplanned, which when published had aroused the bitterest animosity of\nthe press critics on account of what they called its \"forced\nsublimity.\" The sublimity was by no means \"forced\"--it was the\nspontaneous outcome of a fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and\nhigh-soaring aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . .\nall they saw was a young man presuming to be original, and down they\ncame upon him accordingly.\n\nHe recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured through\nthat ill-fated and cruelly condemned composition,--and now he was\nlistlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement it evoked\nhere in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed more\nstrange and weird than the strangest dream! It was a story of the gods\nbefore the world was made,--of love deep buried in far eternities of\nlight, . . of vast celestial shapes whose wanderings through the blue\ndeep of space were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and\nwonder-spheres of beauty, . . a fanciful legend of transcendent\nheavenly passion, telling how all created worlds throbbed amorously in\nthe purple seas of pure ether, and how Love and Love alone was the\ndominant cloud of the triumphal march of the Universe...And with what\nmatchless eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear\nand rounded tenderness of accent! ... how exquisitely his voice rose\nand fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many leaves,\n... while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entrancing\njoy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly art infused a\ntouch of minor pathos,--a suggestion of the eternal complaint of Nature\nwhich even in the happiest moments asserts itself in mournful\nunder-tones. The effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a\nfew soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp by his\nattendant harpist and introduced just at the right moments; and Theos,\nnotwithstanding the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened\nto every well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a\ngradually deepening sense of peace,--he knew not why, for the verses,\nin themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. The various\nimpressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness--the King\nmoved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and paling,\nhis hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels\nthat blazed on his breast--the women's eyes at one moment sparkled with\ndelight and at the next grew humid with tears,--the assembled courtiers\npressed forward, awed, eager, and attentive,--the very soldiers on\nguard seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper disturbed the\nharmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that rippled from the\nLaureate's lips.\n\nWhen he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of applause\nthat the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in the strong\nvibration of so many uplifted voices,--shouts of frenzied rapture\nechoed again and again through the vaulted roof like thuds of\nthunder,--shouts in which Theos joined,--as why should he not? He had\nas good a right as any one to applaud his own poem! It had been\nsufficiently abused heretofore,--he was glad to find it now so well\nappreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,--though he had no intention of\nputting forward any claim to its authorship. No,--for it was evident he\nhad in some inscrutable way been made an outcast from all literary\nhonor,--and a sort of wild recklessness grew up within him,--a bitter\nmirth, arising from curiously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and\ntenderness for Sah-luma,--and it was in this spirit that he loudly\ncheered the triumphant robber of his stores of poesy, and even kept up\nthe plaudits long after they might possibly have been discontinued.\nNever perhaps did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the\nexquisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit moved by it,\n... his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam of sunshine all over his\nbeautiful face, but, save for this, he gave no sign of even hearing the\ndeafening acclamations that resounded about him on all sides.\n\n\"A new Ilyspiros!\" cried the King enthusiastically, and, detaching a\nmagnificently cut ruby from among the gems he wore, he flung it toward\nhis favored minstrel. It flashed through the air like a bright spark of\nflame and fell, glistening redly, on the pavement just half-way between\nTheos and Sah-luma...Theos eyed it with faintly amused indifference,\n... the Laureate bowed gracefully, but did not stoop to raise it,--he\nleft that task to his harp-bearer, who, taking it up, presented it to\nhis master humbly on one knee. Then, and only then Sah-luma received\nit, kissed it lightly and placed it negligently among his other\nornaments, smiling at the King as he did so with the air of one who\ngraciously condescends to accept a gift out of kindly feeling for the\ndonor. Zabastes meanwhile had witnessed the scene with an expression of\nmingled impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly on his\nfurrowed features, and as soon as the hubbub of applause had subsided,\nhe struck his staff on the ground with an angry clang, and exclaimed\nirritably:\n\n\"Now may the god shield us from a plague of fools! What means this\nthroaty clamor? Ye praise what ye do not understand, like all the rest\nof the discerning public! Many is the time, as the weariness of my\nspirit witnesseth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehearse,--but never in\nall my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he given utterance\nto such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon as to-night! Strange\nit is that the so-called 'poetical' trick of confusedly heaping words\ntogether regardless of meaning, should so bewilder men and deprive them\nof all wise and sober judgment! By my faith! ... I would as soon listen\nto the gabble of geese in a farmyard as to the silly glibness of such\ninflated twaddle, such mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such\nranting verbosity...\"\n\nA burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,--laughter\nin which no one joined more heartily than Sah-luma himself. He had\nresumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he\nsurveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amusement,\nwhile the King's stentorian \"Ha, ha, ha!\" resounded in ringing peals\nthrough the great audience-chamber.\n\n\"Thou droll knave!\" cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the drops\nhis merriment had brought into his eyes--\"Wilt kill me with thy\nbitter-mouthed jests? ... of a truth my sides ache at thee! What ails\nthee now? ... Come,--we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be\nrestrained,--speak!--what flaw canst thou find in our Sah-luma's pearl\nof poesy?--what spots on the sun of his divine inspiration? As the\nSerpent lives, thou art an excellent mountebank and well deservest thy\nmaster's pay!\"\n\nHe laughed again,--but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His\nwithered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of\nimpenetrable obstinacy,--tucking his long staff under his arm he put\nhis fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts up\ncertain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he began:\n\"Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty Zephoranim, I would\nin the first place say that the poem so greatly admired by your\nMajesty, is totally devoid of common sense. It is purely a caprice of\nthe imagination,--and what is imagination? A mere aberration of the\ncerebral nerves,--a morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on\nthe impossible,--on things that have never been, and never will be.\nThus, Sah-luma's verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a\nmoon-struck madman,--moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED\nSUBLIMITY...\" here Theos gave an involuntary start,--then, recollecting\nwhere he was, resumed his passive attitude--\"which is in every way\ndistasteful to the ears that love plain language. For instance, what\nwarrant is there for this most foolish line:\n\n     \"'The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.'\n\n'Tis vile, 'tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any\nother stars chant? ... who can prove that the heavenly bodies are given\nto the study of music? Hath Sah-luma been present at their singing\nlesson?\" Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject,\nadvanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on: \"Hear yet another\njarring simile:\n\n     \"'The wild winds moan for pity of the world.'\n\nWas ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!--for the tales of\nshipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,--and however\nmuch a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of Nature, he\nis after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams. One couplet hath\nmost discordantly annoyed my senses--'tis the veriest doggerel:\n\n     \"'The sun with amorous clutch\n      Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!'\n\nO monstrous piece of extravagance!--for how can the Sun (his Deity set\napart) 'clutch' without hands?--and as for 'the emerald girdle of the\nrose'--I know not what it means, unless Sah-luma considers the green\ncalyx of the flower a 'girdle,' in which case his wits must be far\ngone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in the common\nnatural protection of a bud before it blooms! There was a phrase too\nconcerning nightingales,--and the gods know we have heard enough and\ntoo much of those over-praised birds! ...\" Here he was interrupted by\none of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the laughter of the\nwhole court broke forth in joyous echoes.\n\n\"Laugh--laugh!\" said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the throng\nwith a derisive smile--\"Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of folly!--and\ncling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for\nyou in the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty and\nperishable are they all,--they shine for a moment, then break and\nvanish,--and the colors wherewith they sparkled, colors deemed immortal\nin their beauty, shall pass away like a breath and be renewed no more!\"\n\n\"Not so!\" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but\nfeeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-\"for the\ncolors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the\nsoap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with\nthe seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but\nthe constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic\nenter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? ...\nnay!--for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with\nits fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on\nthe mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central\ndeeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and\npassion? ... Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or\nstir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals\nof a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and\nhabitude,--but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a\nperfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions?\nNo!--but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but\na thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,--not one\nworld but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his\nrhythmic splendor,--not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering\nsong-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The\nheart,--the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet's\ngenius,--and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!\"\n\nLoud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward,\nclapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder:\n\n\"Bravely spoken, sir stranger!\" he exclaimed--\"Thou hast well\nvindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!--thou hast a musical\ntongue of thine own!--who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in\ntime to come!--And thou, Zabastes--\" here he turned upon the old\nCritic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical\ndisdain--\"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual!\nThou art thyself a disappointed author--hence thy spleen! Thou art\nblind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,--for thee the very sun is a blot\nrather than a brightness,--thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have\ncreated a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee!\nAye, aye!--we know thee for a beauty hating fool,--and though we laugh\nat thee, we find thee wearisome! Stand thou aside and be straightway\nforgotten!--we will entreat Sah-luma for another song.\"\n\nThe discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an\nundertone,--and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on\nTheos, his self constituted advocate, with an appreciative and almost\ntender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich,\nsoft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking\narmor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous\nhum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The\ndoors were flung open,--the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and\nexcitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed:\n\n\"O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!\"\n\nZephoranim's black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his\nlips hard.\n\n\"So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!\" he said\nhalf-scornfully--\"Bring hither the captive,--an he chafes at his bonds\nwe will ourselves release him...\" and he touched his sword\nsignificantly--\"to a wider freedom than is found on earth!\"\n\nA thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women\nshuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption\nthat had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and\nflattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who\nsmiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child\nout of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward\nthe entrance of the audience-chamber.\n\nA band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor,\nand carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick,\nringing steps, across the hall toward the throne--arrived at the dais,\nthey halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact\nlines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of\na tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright\nflames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,--a\nman whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an\ninvoluntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the\nlips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden\nbranches. This was Khosrul,--the Prophet of a creed that was to\nrevolutionize the world,--the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to\nmen,--the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!\n\nTheos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which\nclung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long, untrimmed\nbeard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below\nhis shoulders,--at his majestic form which in spite of cords and\nfeathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed\ndignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring\nabout him, ... something commanding as well as defiant in the straight\nand steady look with which he confronted the King,--and for a moment or\nso a deep silence reigned,--silence apparently born of superstitious\ndread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance\nrested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated\nhaughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of\nhis sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his\nprisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his\nforehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the\njewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet\npanting of his quickened breath.\n\n\"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!\" he said slowly and with a sinister\nsmile--\"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou\ntrifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What\nsayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of the waning of glory? Wilt\nprophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith? ... Wilt mislead the people? ...\nWilt curse the King? ... Thou mad sorcerer!--devil bewitched and\nblasphemous! ... What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?\" And\nhe half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.\n\nKhosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.\n\n\"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim,\" he replied, and his voice,\ndeeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange,\nforeboding chill--\"Nothing--save thine own scorn of cowardice!\"\n\nThe monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame reddened\nhis dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive--and there\nwas something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man's bearing,\ncoupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to\ntouch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the\narmed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority ...\n\n\"Unloose his fetters!\" he commanded.\n\nThe men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright.\n\nZephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.\n\n\"Unloose him, I say! ... By the gods! must I repeat the same thing\ntwice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their\nsovereign? ... And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and\ntight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,--methinks ye might\nhave tied him with thread and met with small resistance! I have known\nmany a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when\ncaptured! Unloose him--and quickly too!--Our pleasure is that, ere he\ndies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man.\"\n\nIn trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey\nthis order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters\nwrenched asunder,--and in a very short space Khosrul stood at\ncomparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King's\ngenerosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to\nmove,--his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still\nbound,--and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure\nthat Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of\nactual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some\ngaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to\ntestify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called\nfor his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a\nsign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine\nfrom a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a\ncourteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly\nwakened from a deep dream,--shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled\nhand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,--then\npushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.\n\n\"Away ... Away!\" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to\nevery part of the vast hall--\"Wilt force me to drink blood?\" He\npaused,--and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. \"Blood\n... Blood! It stains the earth and sky! ... its red, red waves swallow\nup the land! ... The heavens grow pale and tremble,--the silver stars\nblacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that\nwhich shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest\ngathered! Blood ... blood! The blood of the innocent! ... 'tis a\nscarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders\n... founders ... never to rise again!\"\n\nThese words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced\na most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances,\nand the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as\nthough silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious\nnegative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places,\nthough they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.\n\n\"Thou art mad, Khosrul\"--then said the monarch in calmly measured\naccents--\"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now\nretarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great\nKings too oft degenerates into weakness--and this we cannot suffer to\nbe said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining\nyears. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,--and madman as\nthou art, thou showest a madman's cunning,--thou dost break the laws\nand art dangerous to the realm,--thou art proved a traitor, and must\nstraightway die. Thou art accused...\"\n\n\"Of honesty!\" interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy\nsatire in his tone. \"I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! 'Tis a most\ndeath-worthy deed!\"\n\nHe ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were\na Voice entering at will into the carven image of man. Zephoranim\nfrowned angrily, yet answered nothing--and a brief pause ensued. Theos\ngrew more and more painfully interested in the scene,--there was\nsomething in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and\nfraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright\nface alit with laughter.\n\n\"Now by the Sacred Veil,\"--he said gayly, addressing himself to the\nKing--\"Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much\ngravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,--a poet, tragic and\ntaciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked\nyou not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of\nAl-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst\noverhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I\nlive, 'twas not ill-devised for a madman's brain! ... and so solemn a\nranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of\nmy poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the\nCritic's chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to\nenter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a\ncontemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of\nthe major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether\nmarvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!\" And turning to\nKhosrul he added--\"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard?\nThou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,--and the King\nshall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and\nlasting sweetness!\"\n\nKhosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful,\nhalf-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep,\nsolemnly penetrating eyes.\n\n\"Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!\" he said\nmournfully--\"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon\nforgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath\nof the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of\nthe morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the\nmeasure of thine inspiration,--yet thou hast missed its true\nteaching,--and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy\nhands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God!\nAlas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! ... Thou shalt be\nsuddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!\"\n\nAnd as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed\nsteadfastly to--the King! There was a momentary hush...a stillness as\nof stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of\nall present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.\n\n\"By all the virtues of Nagaya!\" he cried--\"This is most excellent\nfooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite\nin the realm? ... Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts\npatience,--though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy\nwits,--'tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and\ngrave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma,\nthrough whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals\nof future history--for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the\nrenown of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand\nenemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the\nengines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma!--aye, even cry\naloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land,\nshould be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one\ncapable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!\"\n\nSah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic\nassurance of his sovereign's friendship,--but nevertheless there was a\nslight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had\nevidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul's words, and the\nrestless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of\nelectric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a\nsense of vague alarm. \"What is this Khosrul?\" he thought half\nresentfully--\"and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired\nSah-luma so dark and unmerited an end? ... \"Hark! ... what was that\nlow, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed?\n... He listened,--then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to\nhim, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were\nfixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had\nsuddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair,\noutstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror\npersonified.\n\n\"Victory... Victory!\" he cried, catching at the King's last word ...\n\"There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! ... Thy conquests\nare ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers\nof thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! ... Destruction\nclamors at thy palace-gates! ... and the enemy that cometh upon thee\nunawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they\nwho are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be\ntrodden down as wheat,--thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail\nas children bewildered with fear:--thy great engines of battle shall be\nto thee as naught,--and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be\nuseless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury!\nZephoranim! Zephoranim! ...\" and his voice shrilled with terrific\nemphasis through the vaulted chamber ... \"The days of recompense are\ncome upon thee,--swift and terrible as the desert-wind! ... The doom of\nAl-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the\nMagnificent shall fall.. shall fall! ... its beauty, its greatness, its\npleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the\nwaning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings\nshall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! ... Fire! ...\"\nand here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, his dark\ngarments brushing against Theos as he passed,--and springing on the\nfirst step, stood boldly within hand-reach of the King, who, taken\naback by the suddenness of his action, stared at him with a sort of\namazed and angry fascination.. \"To arms, Zephoranim! ... To arms! ...\ntake up thy sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire!\nFire! ... How shall the King quench it? ... how shall the mighty\nmonarch defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air\nwith red devouring tongues of flame! ... the thick smoke reeks of\nblood! ... Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the\nidolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of ashes!\nWho will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call upon the\ndesert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on\nthe wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters\nof the earth,--all nations shall shudder and be astonished at the\ndireful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress of kingdoms!\nWoe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered herself to be led astray by\nher rulers! ... she hath drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath\nfollowed after idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts\nof her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore because\nAl-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth repentance, so shall\ndestruction descend furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the\nmid-watches of the night,--she shall be swept away from the surface of\nthe earth, ... wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens,\nand the generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings,\nprinces, and warriors!--Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!\" and now\nhis wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous\nplaintiveness--\"Weep!--for never again on earth shall be found a fairer\ndwelling-place for the lovers of joy! ... never again shall be builded\na grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris!\nAl-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! ... thou\nart become a forgotten heap of ruin! ... the sands of the desert shall\ncover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire\nconcerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none shall shed tears for\nthe grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the names of thy\nmighty heroes and men of fame,--for thou shalt vanish utterly and be\nlost far out of memory even as though thou hadst never been!\"\n\nHere he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard,--his blazing eyes\npreternaturally large and brilliant fixed themselves steadfastly on the\nsculptured ivory shield that surmounted the back of the King's throne,\nand over his drawn and wrinkled features came an expression of such\nghastly horror that instinctively every one present turned their looks\nin the same direction. Suddenly a shriek, piercing and terrible, broke\nfrom his lips,--a shriek that like a swiftly descending knife seemed to\nsaw the air discordantly asunder.\n\n\"See ... See!\" he cried in fierce haste and eagerness ... \"See how the\ncrested head gleams! ... How the soft, shiny throat curves and\nglistens! ... how the lithe body twists and twines! ... Hence!--Hence,\naccursed Snake! ..thou poisoner of peace! ... thou quivering sting in\nthe flesh!--thou destroyer of the strength of manhood! What hast thou\nto do with Zephoranim, that thou dost wind thy many coils about his\nheart? ... Lysia ... Lysia! ...\" here the King started violently, his\nface flushing darkly red, \"Thou delicate abomination! ... Thou\ntyrannous treachery.. what shall be done unto thee in the hour of\ndarkness! Put off, put off the ornaments of gold and the jewels\nwherewith thou adornest thy beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of\nan endless affliction! ... for thou shalt be girdled round about with\nflame, and fire shall be thy garment! ... thy lips that have drunken\nsweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness!--vainly shalt thou make\nthyself fair and call aloud on thy legion of lovers, . . they shall be\nas dead men, deaf to thine entreaties, and none shall answer thee,--no,\nnot one! None shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort,--in the\nmidst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish! ... and my\nsoul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou unvirgined Virgin!--thou\nQueen-Courtesan!\"\n\nScarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King with a furious\noath sprang upon him, grasped him by the throat, and thrusting him\nfiercely down on the steps of the dais, placed one foot on his\nprostrate body. Then drawing his gigantic sword he lifted it on high,\n... the blight blade glittered in air...an audible gasp of terror broke\nfrom the throng of spectators, ... another second and Khosrul's life\nwould have paid the forfeit for his temerity...when crash! ... a sudden\nand tremendous clap of thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was\nextinguished! Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, close,\nsuffocating darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in sullen, vibrating\nechoes, and there was a short, impressive silence. Then piercing\nthrough the profound gloom came the clamorous cries and shrieks of\nfrightened women, . . the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and\nstruggling of a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless,\nnerveless, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit when\nstriving together for escape from some imminent deadly peril,--and\nthough the King's stentorian voice could be heard above all the tumult\nloudly commanding order, his alternate threats and persuasions were of\nno avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which the whole court was\nthrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to Nagaya and the\nSun-God.. curses from the soldiery, who intent on saving themselves\nwere brutally trying to force a passage to the door regardless of the\nwailing women, whose frantic appeals for rescue and assistance were\nheart-rending to hear, . . all these sounds increased the horror of the\nsituation,--and Theos, blind, giddy, and confused, listened to the\nuproar around him with something of the affrighted compassion that a\nstranger in Hell might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the\nceaseless plaints of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored to grope\nhis way to Sah-luma's side,--and just then lights appeared, . . lights\nthat were not of earth's kindling, . . strange, wandering flames that\ndanced and flitted along the tapestried walls like will-o'-the-wisps on\na dark morass, and flung a ghastly blue glare on the pale, uneasy faces\nof the scared people, till gathering in a sort of lurid ring round the\nthrone, they outlined in strong relief the enraged, Titanesque figure\nof Zephoranim whose upraised sword looked in itself like an arrested\nflash of lightning. Brighter and brighter grew the weird lustre,\nillumining the whole scene.. the vast length of the splendid hall, . .\nthe shining armor of the soldiers...the white robes of the women...the\nflags and pennons that hung from the roof and swayed to and fro as\nthough blown by a gust of wind.. every object near and distant was soon\nas visible as in broad day,--and then...a terrible cry of rage burst\nfrom the King,--the cry of a maddened wild beast.\n\n\"Death and fury!\" he shouted, striking his sword with a fierce clang\nagainst the silver pedestal of the throne, . . \"Where is Khosrul?\"\n\nThe silence of an absolute dismay answered him, ... Khosrul had fled!\nLike a cloud melting in air, or a ghost vanishing into the\nnether-world, he had mysteriously disappeared! ... he had escaped, no\none knew how, from under the very feet and out of the very grasp of the\nirate monarch, whose baffled wrath now knew no bounds.\n\n\"Dolts, idiots, cowards!\".. and he hurled these epithets at the\ntimorous crowd with all the ferocity of a giant hurling stones at a\nswarm of pigmies.. \"Babes that are frighted by a summer thunder-storm!\n... Ye have let yon accursed heretic slip from my hands ere I had\nchoked him with his own lie! O ye fools! Ye puny villains! ... I take\nshame to myself that I am King of such a race of weaklings! Lights! ...\nBring lights hither, ye whimpering slaves,--ye shivering poltroons!\n... What! call yourselves men! Nay, ye are feeble girls prankt out in\nmen's attire, and your steel corselets cover the faintest hearts that\never failed for dastard fear! Shut fast the palace-gates! ... close\nevery barrier! ... search every court and corner, lest haply this base\nfalse Prophet be still here in hiding,--he that blasphemed with ribald\ntongue the High Priestess of our Faith, the holy Virgin Lysia! ... Are\nye all turned renegades and traitors that ye will suffer him to go free\nand triumph in his lawless heresy? Ye shameless knaves! Ye milk-veined\nrascals! ... What abject terror makes ye thus quiver like aspen-leaves\nin a storm? ... this darkness is but a conjurer's trick to scare women,\nand Khosrul's followers can so play with the strings of electricity\nthat ye are duped into accepting the witch-glamour as Heaven's own\ncloud-flame! By the gods! If Al-Kyris falls, as yon dotard pronounceth,\nher ruins shall bury but few heroes! O superstitious and degraded\nsouls! ... I would ye were even as I am--a man dauntless,--a soldier\nunafraid.\"\n\nHis powerful and indignant voice had the effect of partially checking\nthe panic and restoring something like order,--the pushing and\nstruggling for an immediate exit ceased,--the armed guards in shamed\nsilence began to marshal themselves together in readiness to start on\nthe search for the fugitive,--and several pages rushed in with flaring\ntorches, which cast a wondrous fire-glow on the surging throng of eager\nand timid faces, the brilliant costumes, the flash of jewels, the\nglimmer of swords and the dark outlines of the fluttering\ntapestry,--all forming together a curious chiaroscuro, from which the\nmassive figure of Zephoranim stood out in bold and striking prominence\nagainst the white and silver background of his throne. Vaguely\nbewildered and lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Theos looked\nupon everything with an odd sense of strained calmness, . . the\nglittering saloon whirled before his eyes like a passing picture in a\nmagic glass...and then...an imperative knowledge forced itself upon his\nmind,--HE HAD WITNESSED THIS SELF-SAME SCENE BEFORE! Where? and when?\n... Impossible to say,--but he distinctly remembered each incident!\nThis impression however left him as rapidly as it had come, before he\nhad any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that moment\nSah-luma's hand caught his own,--Sah-luma's voice whispered in his ear:\n\n\"Let us away, my friend,--there will be naught now but mounting of\nguards and dire confusion,--the King is as a lion roused, and will not\ncease growling till his vengeance be satisfied! A plague on this\nshatter-pated Prophet!--he hath broken through my music, and jarred\npoesy into discord!--By the Sacred Veil!--Didst ever hear such a\nhideous clamor of contradictory tongues! ... all striving to explain\nwhat defies explanation, namely, Khosrul's flight, for which, after\nall, no one is to blame so much as Zephoranim himself,--but 'tis the\nprivilege of monarchs to shift their own mistakes and follies on to the\nshoulders of their subjects! Come! Lysia awaits us, and will not easily\npardon our tardy obedience to her summons,--let us hence ere the gates\nof the palace close.\"\n\nLysia! ... The \"unvirgined Virgin\"--the \"Queen Courtesan\"! So had said\nKhosrul. Nevertheless her name, like a silver clarion, made the heart\nof Theos bound with indescribable gladness and feverish expectation,\nand without an instant's pause he readily yielded to Sah-luma's\nguidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of the swaying crowd.\nArm-in-arm, the twain,--one a POET RENOWNED, the other a POET\nFORGOTTEN,--threaded their rapid way between the ranks of nobles,\nofficers, slaves, and court-lacqueys, who were all excitedly discussing\nthe recent scare, the Prophet's escape, and the dread wrath of the\nKing,--and hurrying along the vast Hall of the Two Thousand Columns,\nthey passed together out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nA VIRGIN UNSHRINED.\n\n\nUnder the cloudless, star-patterned sky, in the soft, warm air that\nbrimmed with the fragrance of roses, they drove once more together\nthrough the spacious streets of Al-Kyris--streets that were now nearly\ndeserted save for a few late passers-by whose figures were almost as\nindistinct and rapid in motion as pale, flitting shadows. There was not\na sign of storm in the lovely heavens, though now and again a sullen\nroll as of a distant cannonade hinted of pent-up anger lurking\nsomewhere behind that clear and exquisitely dark-blue ether, in which a\nmillion worlds blazed luminously like pendulous drops of white fire.\nSah-luma's chariot whirled along with incredible swiftness, the hoofs\nof the galloping horses occasionally striking sparks of flame from the\nsmooth mosaic-pictured pavement; but Theos now began to notice that\nthere was a strange noiselessness in their movements--that the whole\nCORTEGE appeared to be environed by a magic circle of silence--and that\nthe very night itself seemed breathlessly listening in entranced awe to\nsome unlanguaged warning from the gods invisible.\n\nCompared with the turbulence and terror just left behind at the King's\npalace, this weird hush was uncomfortably impressive, and gave a sense\nof fantastic unreality to the scene. The sleepy, mesmeric radiance of\nthe full moon, shining on the delicate traceries of the quaintly\nsculptured houses on either hand, made them look brittle and\nevanescent; the great heavy, hanging orange-boughs and the feathery\nfrondage of the tall palms seemed outlined in mere mist against the\nsky; and the glimpses caught from time to time of the broad and quietly\nflowing river were like so many flashes of light seen through a veil of\ncloud. Theos, standing beside his friend with one hand resting\nfamiliarly on his shoulder, dreamily admired the phantom-like beauty of\nthe city thus transfigured in the moonbeams, and though he vaguely\nwondered a little at the deep, mysterious stillness that everywhere\nprevailed, he scarcely admitted to himself that there was or could be\nanything unusual in it. He took his position as he found it--indeed he\ncould not well do otherwise, since he felt his fate was ruled by some\nresolute, unseen force, against which all resistance would be\nunavailing. Moreover, his mind was now entirely possessed by the\nhaunting vision of Lysia--a vision half-human, half-divine--a\nbeautiful, magical, irresistible Sweetness that allured his soul, and\nroused within him a wordless passion of infinite desire.\n\nHe exchanged not a syllable with Sah-luma--an indefinable yet tacit\nunderstanding existed between them,--an intuitive foreknowledge and\nsubtle perception of each other's character, intentions, and aims, that\nfor the moment rendered speech unnecessary. And there was something,\nafter all, in the profound silence of the night that, while strange,\nwas also eloquent--eloquent of meanings, unutterable, such as lie\nhidden in the scented cups of flowers when lovers gather them on idle\nsummer afternoons and weave them into posies for one another's wearing.\nHow fleetly the gilded, shell-shaped car sped on its way!--trees,\nhouses, bridges, domes, and cupolas, seemed to fly past in a varied\nwhirl of glistening color! Now and again a cluster of fire-flies broke\nfrom some thicket of shade and danced drowsily by in sparkling tangles\nof gold and green; here and there from great open squares and\nbranch-shadowed gardens gleamed the stone face of an obelisk, or the\nwhite column of a fountain; while over all things streamed the long\nprismatic rays flung forth from the revolving lights in the Twelve\nTowers of the Sacred Temple, like flaming spears ranged lengthwise\nagainst the limitless depth of the midnight horizon. With straining\nnecks, tossed manes, and foam flying from their nostrils, Sah-luma's\nfiery coursers dashed onward at almost lightning speed, and the journey\nbecame a wild, headstrong rush through the dividing air--a rush toward\nsome voluptuous end, dimly discerned, yet indefinite!\n\nAt last they stopped. Before them rose a lofty building, crested with\nfantastic pinnacles such as are formed by ice on the roof in times of\nintense cold; a great gate stood open, and pacing slowly up and down in\nfront of it was a tall slave in white tunic and turban, who, turning\nhis gleaming eyeballs on Sah-luma, nodded by way of salutation, and\nthen uttered a sharp, peculiar whistle. This summons brought out two\ncurious, dwarfish figures of men, whose awkward misshapen limbs\nresembled the contorted branches of wind-blown trees, and whose coarse\nand repulsive countenances betokened that malignant delight in\nevil-doing which only demons are supposed to know. These ungainly\nservitors possessed themselves of the Laureate's chafing steeds, and\nled them and the chariot away into some unseen courtyard; while the\nLaureate himself, still saying no word, kept fast hold of his\ncompanion's arm, and hurried him along a dark avenue overshadowed with\nthick boughs that drooped heavily downward to the ground--a solitary\nplace where the intense quiet was disturbed only by the occasional\ndrip, drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from the leaves, or the\nsweet, faint, gurgling sound of fountains playing somewhere in the\ndistance.\n\nOn they went for several paces, till at a sharp bend in the moss-grown\npath, an amethystine light broke full between the arched green\nbranches; directly in front of them glimmered a broad piece of water,\nand out of the purple-tinted depths rose the white, nude, lovely form\nof a woman, whose rounded, outstretched arms appeared to beckon them, .\n. whose mouth smiled in mingled malice and sweetness, . . and round\nwhose looped-up tresses sparkled a diadem of sapphire flame. With a cry\nof astonishment and ecstacy Theos sprang forward: Sah-luma held him\nback in laughing remonstrance.\n\n\"Wilt drown for a statue's sake?\" he inquired mirthfully. \"By my soul,\ngood Theos, if thy wits thus wander at sight of a witching, marble\nnymph illumed by electric glamours, what will become of thee when thou\nart face to face with living, breathing loveliness! Come, thou\nhotheaded neophyte! thou shalt not waste thy passion on images of\nstone, I warrant thee! Come!\"\n\nBut Theos stood still. His eyes roved from Sah-luma to the glittering\nstatue and from the statue back again to Sah-luma in mingled doubt and\ndread. A vague foreboding filled his mind, he fancied that a bevy of\nmocking devils peered at him from out the wooded labyrinth, ... and\nthat Sin was the name of the white siren yonder, whose delicate body\nseemed to palpitate with every slow ripple of the surrounding waters.\nHe hesitated,--with that often saving hesitation a noble spirit may\nfeel ere willfully yielding to what it instinctively knows to be\nwrong,--and for the briefest possible space an imperceptible line was\ndrawn between his own self-consciousness and the fascinating\npersonality of his lately found friend--a line that parted them asunder\nas though by a gulf of centuries.\n\n\"Sah-luma,\" he said, in a tremulous, low tone, \"tell me truly,--is it\ngood for us to be here?\"\n\nSah-luma regarded him in wide-eyed amazement.\n\n\"Good? good?\" he repeated with a sort of impatient disdain. \"What dost\nthou mean by 'good'? What is good? What is evil? Canst thou tell? If\nso, thou art wiser than I! Good to be here? If it is good to drown\nremembrance of the world in draughts of pleasure; if it is good to love\nand be beloved; if it is good to ENJOY, aye! enjoy with burning zest\nevery pulsation of the blood and every beat of the heart, and to feel\nthat life is a fiery delight, an exquisite dream of drained-off\nrapture, then it is good to be here! If,\" and he caught Theos's hand in\nhis own warm palm and pressed it, while his voice sank to a soft and\ninfinitely caressing sweetness, \"if it is good to climb the dizzy\nheights of joy and drowse in the deep sunshine of amorous eyes, . . to\nslip away on elfin wings into the limitless freedom of Love's\nsummerland, ... to rifle rich kisses from warm lips even as rosebuds\nare rifled from the parent rose, and to forget! ...--to forget all\nbitter things that are best forgotten--\"\n\n\"Enough, enough!\" cried Theos, fired with a reckless impulse of\npassionate ardor. \"On, on, Sah-luma! I follow thee! On! let us delay no\nmore!\"\n\nAt that moment a far-off strain of music saluted his ears--music\nevidently played on stringed instruments. It was accompanied by a\nringing clash of cymbals; he listened, and listening, saw a smile\nlighten Sah-luma's features--a smile sweet, yet full of delicate\nmockery. Their eyes met; a wanton impetuosity flashed like reflected\nflame from one face to the other, and then, without another instant's\npause, they hurried on.\n\nAcross a broad, rose-marbled terrace garlanded with a golden wealth of\norange-trees and odorous oleanders..... under a trellis-work covered\nwith magnolias whose half-shut, ivory-tinted buds glistened in the\nmoonlight like large suspended pearls, . . then through a low-roofed\nstone-corridor, close and dim, lit only by a few flickering oil-lamps\nplaced at far intervals, . . then on they went, till at last, ascending\nthree red granite steps on which were carved some curious hieroglyphs,\nthey plunged into what seemed to be a vast jungle enclosed in some\ndense tropical forest. What a strange, unsightly thicket of rank\nverdure was here, thought Theos! ... it was as though Nature, grown\ntired of floral beauty, had, in a sudden malevolent mood, purposely\ntorn and blurred the fair green frondage and twisted every bud awry!\nGreat, jagged leaves covered with prickles and stained all over with\nblotches as of spilt poison, . . thick brown stems glistening with\nslimy moisture and coiled up like the sleeping bodies of snakes, . .\nmasses of purple and blue fungi, . . and blossoms seemingly of the\norchid species, some like fleshy tongues, others like the waxen yellow\nfingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally through the matted\nfoliage,--while all manner of strange, overpowering odors increased the\nswooning oppressiveness of the sultry, languorous air.\n\nThis uncouth botanical garden was apparently roofed in by a lofty glass\ndome, decorated with hangings of watery-green silk, but the grotesque\ntrees and plants grew to so enormous a height that it was impossible to\ntell which were the falling draperies and which the straggling leaves.\nCurious birds flew hither and thither, voiceless creatures, scarlet and\namber winged; a huge gilded brazier stood in one corner from whence\nascended the constant smoke of burning incense, and there were\nrose-shaded lamps all about, that shed a subdued mysterious lustre on\nthe scene, and bestowed a pale glitter on a few fantastic clumps of\narums and nodding lotus-flowers that lazily lifted themselves out of a\ngreenish pool of stagnant water sunk deeply in on one side of the\nmarble flooring. Theos, holding Sah-luma's arm, stepped eagerly across\nthe threshold; he was brimful of expectation: . . and what mattered it\nto him whether the weed-like things that grew in this strange pavilion\nwere pure or poisonous, provided he might look once more upon the\nwitching face that long ago had so sweetly enticed him to his ruin! ...\nStay! what was he thinking of? Long ago? Nay, that was\nimpossible,--since he had only seen the Priestess Lysia for the first\ntime that very morning! How piteously perplexing it was to be thus\ntormented with these indistinct ideas!--these half-formed notions of\nprevious intimate acquaintance with persons and places he never could\nhave known before!\n\nAll at once he drew back with a startled exclamation; an enormous\ntigress, sleek and jewel-eyed, bounded up from beneath a tangled mass\nof red and yellow creepers and advanced toward him with a low savage\nsnarl.\n\n\"Peace, Aizif, peace;\" said Sah-luma, carelessly patting the animal's\nhead. \"Thou art wont to be wiser in distinguishing 'twixt thy friends\nand foes.\" Then turning to Theos he added--\"She is harmless as a\nkitten, this poor Aizif! Call her, good Theos, she will come to thy\nhand--see!\" and he smiled, as Theos, not to be outdone by his companion\nin physical courage, bent forward and stroked the cruel-looking beast,\nwho, while submitting to his caress, never for a moment ceased her\nsmothered snarling. Presently, however, she was seized with a sudden\nfit of savage playfulness,--and throwing herself on the ground before\nhim, she rolled her lithe body to and fro with brief thirsty roars of\nsatisfaction, . . roars that echoed through the whole pavilion with\nterrific resonance: then rising, she shook herself vigorously and\ncommenced a stealthy, velvet-footed pacing up and down, lashing her\ntail from side to side, and keeping those sly, emerald-like eyes of\nhers watchfully fixed on Sah-luma, who merely laughed at her fierce\nantics. Leaning against one of the dark, gnarled trees, he tapped his\nsandaled foot with some impatience on the marble pavement, while Theos,\nstanding close beside him, wondered whether the mysterious Lysia knew\nof their arrival.\n\nSah-luma appeared to guess his thoughts, for he answered them as though\nthey had been spoken aloud.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"she knows we are here--she knew the instant we entered\nher gates. Nothing is or can be hidden from her! He who would have\nsecrets must depart out of Al-Kyris and find some other city to dwell\nin, . . for here he shall be unable to keep even his own counsel. To\nLysia all things are made manifest; she reads human nature as one reads\nan open scroll, and with merciless analysis she judges men as being\nvery poor creatures, limited in their capabilities, disappointing and\nmonotonous in their passions, unproductive and circumscribed in their\ndestinies. To her ironical humor and icy wit the wisest sages seem\nfools; she probes them to the core, and discovers all their weaknesses;\n. . she has no trust in virtue, no belief in honesty. And she is right!\nWho but a madman would be honest in these days of competition and greed\nof gain? And as for virtue, 'tis a pretty icicle that melts at the\nfirst touch of a hot temptation! Aye! the Virgin Priestess of Nagaya\nhath a most profound comprehension of mankind's immeasurable brute\nstupidity; and, strong in this knowledge, she governs the multitude\nwith iron will, intellectual force, and dictative firmness: . . when\nshe dies I know not what will happen.\"\n\nHere he interrupted himself, and a dark shadow crossed his brows. \"By\nmy soul!\" he muttered, \"how this thought of death haunts me like the\nunburied corpse of a slain foe! I would there were no such thing as\nDeath; 'tis a cruel and wanton sport of the gods to give us life at all\nif life must end so utterly and so soon!\"\n\nHe sighed deeply. Theos echoed the sigh, but answered nothing. At that\nmoment the restless Aizif gave another appalling roar, and pounced\nswiftly toward the eastern side of the pavilion, where a large painted\npanel could be dimly discerned, the subject of the painting being a\nhideous idol, whose long, half-shut, inscrutable eyes leered through\nthe surrounding foliage with an expression of hateful cunning and\nmalevolence. In front of this panel the tigress lay down, licking the\npavement thirstily from time to time and giving vent to short purring\nsounds of impatience: . . then all suddenly she rose with ears pricked,\nin an attitude of attention. The panel slowly moved, it glided\nback,--and the great brute leaped forward, flinging her two soft paws\non the shoulders of the figure that appeared--the figure of a woman,\nwho, clad in glistening gold from head to foot, shone in the dark\naperture like a gilded image in a shrine of ebony. Theos beheld the\nbrilliant apparition in some doubt and wonder. Was this Lysia? He could\nnot see her face, as she wore a thick white veil through which only the\nfaintest sparkle of dark eyes glimmered like flickering sunbeams; nor\nwas he able to discern the actual outline of her form, as it was\ncompletely enveloped and lost in the wide, shapeless folds of her\nstiff, golden gown. Yet every nerve in his body thrilled at her\npresence! ... every drop of blood seemed to rush from his heart to his\nbrain in a swift, scorching torrent that for a second blinded his eyes\nwith a red glare and made him faint and giddy.\n\nWoman and tigress! They looked strangely alike, he thought, as they\nstood mutually caressing each other under the great drooping masses of\nfantastic leaves. Yet where was the resemblance? What possible\nsimilarity could there be between a tawny, treacherous brute of the\nforests, full of sly malice and voracious cruelty, and that dazzling,\ngold-garmented creature, whose small white hand, flashing with jewels,\nnow tenderly smoothed the black, silken stripes on the sleek coat of\nher savage favorite?\n\n\"Down, sweet Aizif, down!\" she said, in a grave, dulcet voice as softly\nlanguorous as the last note of a love-song. \"Down, my gentle one! thou\nart too fond, down! so!\" this as the tigress instantly removed its\nembracing paws from her neck, and, trembling in every limb, crouched on\nthe ground in abjectly submissive obedience. Another moment, and she\nadvanced leisurely into the pavilion, Aizif slinking stealthily along\nbeside her and seeming to imitate her graceful gliding movements, till\nshe stood within a few paces of Theos and Sah-luma, just near the spot\nwhere the lotus-flowers swayed over the grass-green, stagnant pool.\nThere she paused, and apparently scrutinized her visitors intently\nthrough the folds of her snowy veil. Sah-luma bent his head before her\nin a half haughty, half humble salutation.\n\n\"The tardy Sah-luma!\" she said, with an undercurrent of laughter in her\nmusical tones, \"the poet who loves the flattery of a foolish king, and\nthe applause of a still more foolish court! And so Khosrul disturbed\nthe flood of thine inspiration to-night, good minstrel? Nay, for that\nhe should die, if for no other crime! And this,\" here she turned her\nveiled features toward Theos, whose heart beat furiously as he caught a\nluminous flash from those half-hidden, brilliant eyes, \"this is the\nunwitting stranger who honored me by so daring a scrutiny this morning!\nVerily, thou hast a singularly venturesome spirit of thine own, fair\nsir! Still, we must honor courage, even though it border on rashness,\nand I rejoice to see that the wrathful mob of Al-Kyris hath yet left\nthee man enough to deserve my welcome! Nevertheless thou were guilty of\nmost heinous presumption!\" Here she extended her jewelled hand. \"Art\nthou repentant? and wilt thou sue for pardon?\"\n\nScarcely conscious of what he did, Theos approached her, and kneeling\non one knee took that fair, soft hand in his own and kissed it with\npassionate fervor.\n\n\"Criminal as I am,\" he murmured tremulously, \"I glory in my crime, nor\nwill I seek forgiveness? Nay, rather will I plead, with thee that I may\nsin so sweet a sin again, and blind myself with beauty unreproved!\"\n\nSlowly she withdrew her fingers from his clasp.\n\n\"Thou art bold!\" she said, with a touch of indolent amusement in her\naccents. \"But in thy boldness there is something of the hero. Knowest\nthou not that I, Lysia, High Priestess of Nagaya, could have thee\nstraightway slain for that unwise speech of thine?--unwise because\nover-hasty and somewhat over-familiar. Yes, I could have thee slain!\"\nand she laughed,--a rippling little laugh like that of a pleased child.\n\"Howbeit thou shalt not die this time for thy foolhardiness--thy looks\nare too much in thy favor! Thou art like Sah-luma in his noblest moods,\nwhen tired of verse-stringing and sonnet-chanting he condescends to\nremember that he is not quite divine! See how he chafes at that!\" and\nplucking a lotus-bud she threw it playfully at the Laureate, whose\nhandsome face flushed vexedly at her words. \"And thou art prudent, Sir\nTheos--do I not pronounce thy name aptly?--thou wilt be less petulant\nthan he, and less absorbed in self-adoration, for here men--even poets\n--are deemed no more than men, and their constant querulous claim to be\nconsidered as demi-gods meets with no acceptance! Wilt 'blind thyself\nwith beauty' as thou say'st? Well then, lose thine eyes, but guard thy\nheart!\"\n\nAnd with a careless movement she loosened her veil; it fell from her\nlike a soft cloud, and Theos, springing to his feet, gazed upon her\nwith a sense of enraptured bewilderment and passionate pain. It was as\nthough he saw the wraith of some fair, dead woman he had loved of old,\nrisen anew to redemand from him his former allegiance. O, unfamiliar\nyet well-known face! ... O, slumbrous, starry eyes that seemed to hold\nthe memory of a thousand love-thoughts! ... O, sweet curved lips\nwhereon a delicious smile rested as softly as sunlight on young\nrose-petals! Where, . . where, in God's name, had he seen all this\nmarvelous, witching, maddening loveliness BEFORE? His heart beat with\nheavy, laboring thuds, . . his brain reeled, . . a dim, golden,\nsuffused radiance seemed to hover like an aureole above that dazzling\nwhite brow, adorned with a clustering wealth of raven-black tresses,\nwhose massive coils were crowned with the strangest sort of diadem--a\nwreath of small serpents' heads cunningly fashioned in rubies and rose\nbrilliants, and set in such a manner that they appeared to lift\nthemselves erect from out the dusky hair as though in darting readiness\nto sting. Full of a vague, wild longing, he instinctively stretched out\nhis arms, . . then on a sudden impulse turned swiftly away, in a dizzy\neffort to escape from the basilisk fire-gleam of those sombre, haunting\neyes that plunged into his inmost soul, and there aroused such dark\ndesires, such retrospective evil, such wild weakness as shamed the\nbetterness of his nature! Sah-luma's clear, mocking laugh just then\nrang sharply through the perfumed stillness.\n\n\"Thou mad Theos! Whither art thou bound?\" cried the Laureate\nmirthfully. \"Wilt leave our noble hostess ere the entertainment has\nbegun? Ungallant barbarian! What frenzy possesses thee?\"\n\nThese words recalled him to himself. He came back slowly step by step,\nand with bowed head, to where Lysia stood--Lysia, whose penetrating\ngaze still rested upon him with strangely fixed intensity.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" he said, in a low, unsteady voice that to his own ears\nsounded full of suppressed yet passionate appeal. \"Forgive me, lady,\nthat for one moment I have seemed discourteous. I am not so, in very\ntruth. Sad fancies fret my brain at times, and--and there is that\nwithin thine unveiled beauty which sword-like wounds my soul! I am not\njoyous natured: ...unlike Sah-luma, chosen favorite of fortune, I have\nlost all, all that made my life once seem fair. I am dead to those that\nloved me, ... forgotten by those that honored me, . . a wanderer in\nstrange lands, a solitary wayfarer perplexed with many griefs to which\nI cannot give a name! Nevertheless,\" and he drew a quick, hard breath,\n\"if I may serve thee, fairest Lysia,--as Sah-luma serves thee,--subject\nto thy sovereign favor,--thou shalt not find me lacking in obedience!\nCommand me as thou wilt; let me efface myself to worship thee! Let me,\nif it be possible, drown thought,--slay memory,--murder conscience,--so\nthat I may once more, as in the old time, be glad with the gladness\nthat only love can give and only death can take away!\"\n\nAs he finished this unpremeditated, uncontrollable outburst his eyes\nwistfully sought hers. She met his look with a languid indifference and\na half-disdainful smile.\n\n\"Enough! restrain thine ardor!\" she said coldly, her dark dilating orbs\nshining like steel beneath the velvet softness of her long lashes.\n\"Thou dost speak ignorantly, unknowing what thy words involve--words to\nwhich I well might bind thee, were I less forbearing to thine\ninconsiderate rashness. How like all men thou art! How keen to plunge\ninto unfathomed deeps, merely to snatch the pearl of present pleasure!\nHow martyr-seeming in thy fancied sufferings, as though THY little wave\nof personal sorrow swamped the world! O wondrous human Egotism! that\nsees but one great absolute 'I' scrawled on the face of Nature! 'I' am\nafflicted, let none dare to rejoice! 'I' would be glad, let none\npresume to grieve!\" ... She laughed, a little low laugh of icy satire,\nand then resumed: \"I thank thee for thy proffered service, sir\nstranger, albeit I need it not,--nor do I care to claim it at thy\nhands. Thou art my guest--no more! Whether thou wilt hereafter deserve\nto be enrolled my bondsman depends upon thy prowess and--my humor!\"\n\nHer beautiful eyes flashed scornfully, and there was something cruel in\nher glance. Theos felt it sting him like a sharp blow. His nerves\nquivered,--his spirit rose in arms against the cynical hauteur of this\nwoman whom he loved; yes,--LOVED, with a curious sense of revived\npassion--passion that seemed to have slept in a tomb for ages, and that\nnow suddenly sprang into life and being, like a fire kindled anew on\ndead ashes!\n\nActing on a sudden proud impulse he raised his head and looked at her\nwith a bold steadfastness,--a critical scrutiny,--a calmly\ndiscriminating valuation of her physical charms that for the moment\ncertainly appeared to startle her self-possession, for a deep flush\ncolored the fairness of her face and then faded, leaving her pale as\nmarble. Her emotion, whatever it was, lasted but a second,--yet in that\nsecond he had measured his mental strength against hers, and had become\naware of his own supremacy! This consciousness filled him with peculiar\nsatisfaction. He drew a long breath like one narrowly escaped from\nclose peril. He had now no fear of her--only a great, all-absorbing,\nall-evil love, and to that he was recklessly content to yield. Her eyes\ndwelt glitteringly first upon him and then on Sah-luma, as the eyes of\na falcon dwell on its prey, and her smile was touched with a little\nmalice, as she said, addressing them both:\n\n\"Come, fair sirs! we will not linger in this wilderness of wild\nflowers. A feast awaits us yonder--a feast prepared for those who, like\nyourselves obey the creed of sweet self indulgence, ... the world-wide\ncreed wherein men find no fault, no shadow of inconsistency! The truest\nwisdom is to enjoy,--the only philosophy that which teaches us how best\nto gratify our own desires! Delight cannot satiate the soul, nor mirth\nengender weariness! Follow me!--\" and with a lithe movement she swept\ntoward the door, her pet tigress creeping closely after her; then\nsuddenly looking back she darted a lustiously caressing glance over her\nshoulder at Sah-luma and stretched out her hand. He at once caught it\nin his own and kissed it with an almost brusque eagerness.\n\n\"I thought you had forgotten me!\" he murmured in a vexed,\nhalf-reproachful tone.\n\n\"Forgotten you? Forgotten Sah-luma? Impossible!\" and her silvery\nlaughter shook the air into little throbs of music. \"When the greatest\npoet of the age is forgotten, then fall Al-Kyris! ... for there shall\nbe no more need of kingdoms!\"\n\nLaughing still and allowing her hand to remain in his, she passed out\nof the pavilion, and Theos followed them both as a man might follow the\nbeckoning sylphs in a fairy dream.\n\nA mellow, luminous, witch-like radiance seemed to surround them as they\nwent--two dazzling figures gliding on before him with the slow, light\ngrace of moonbeams flitting over a smooth ocean. They seemed made for\neach other, ... he could not separate them in his thoughts; but the\nstrangest part of the matter was the feeling he had, that he himself\nsomehow belonged to them and they to him. His ideas on the subject,\nhowever, were very indefinite; he was in a condition of more or less\nabsolute passiveness, save when strong shudders of grief, memory,\nremorse or roused passion shook him with sudden force like a storm\nblast shaking some melancholy cypress whose roots are in the grave. He\nmused on Lysia's scornful words with a perplexed pain. Was he then so\nselfish? \"The one great absolute 'I' scrawled on the face of Nature!\"\nCould that apply to him? Surely not! since in his present state of mind\nhe could hardly lay claim to any distinct personality, seeing that that\npersonality was forever merging itself and getting lost in the more\nclearly perfect identity of Sah-luma, whom he regarded with a species\nof profound hero-worship such as one man seldom feels for another. To\ncall himself a Poet NOW seemed the acme of absurdity; how should such\nan one as he attempt to conquer fame with a rival like Sah-luma already\nin the field and already supremely victorious?\n\nFull of these fancies, he scarcely heeded the wonders through which he\npassed, as he followed his two radiant guides along. His eyes were\ntired, and rested almost indifferently on the magnificence that\neverywhere surrounded him, though here and there certain objects\nattracted his attention as being curiously familiar. These lofty\ncorridors, gorgeously frescoed, . . these splendid groups of statuary,\n. . these palm-shaded nooks of verdure where imprisoned nightingales\nwarbled plaintive songs that were all the sweeter for their sadness,\n... these spacious marble loggias cooled by the rising and falling\nspray of myriad fountains--did he not dimly recognize all these things?\nHe thought so, yet was not sure,--for he had arrived at a pass when he\ncould neither rely on his reason nor his memory. Naught of deeper\nhumiliation could he have than this, to feel within himself that he was\nstill AN INTELLECTUAL, THINKING, SENTIENT HUMAN BEING, and that yet at\nthe same time, his INTELLIGENCE COULD DO NOTHING TO EXTRICATE HIM from\nthe terrific mystery which had engulfed him like a huge flood, and\nwherein he was now tossed to and fro as helplessly as a floating straw.\n\nOn, still on he went, treading closely in Sah-luma's footsteps and\nwistfully noting how often the myrtle-garlanded head of his friend\ndrooped caressingly toward Lysia's dusky perfumed locks, whence those\njewelled serpents' fangs darted flashingly upward like light from\ndarkness. On, still on, till at last he found himself in a grand\nvestibule, built entirely of sparkling red granite. Here were ten\nsphinxes, so huge in form that a dozen men might have lounged at ease\non each one of their enormous paws; they were ranged in rows of five on\neach side, and their coldly meditative eyes appeared to dwell\nsteadfastly on the polished face of a large black Disc placed\nconspicuously on a pedestal in the exact centre of the pavement.\nStrange letters shone from time to time on this ebony tablet, . .\nletters that seemed to be written in quicksilver; they glittered for a\nsecond, then ran off like phosphorescent drops of water, and again\nreappeared, but the same signs were never repeated twice over. All were\ndifferent, . . all were rapid in their coming and going as flashes of\nlightning. Lysia, approaching the Disc, turned it slightly; at her\ntouch it revolved like a flying wheel, and for a brief space was\nliterally covered with mysterious characters, which the beautiful\nPriestess perused with an apparent air of satisfaction. All at once the\nfiery writing vanished, the Disc was left black and bare,--and then a\nsilver ball fell suddenly upon it, with a clang, from some unseen\nheight, and rolling off again instantly disappeared. At the same moment\na harsh voice, rising as it were from the deepest underground, chanted\nthe following words in a monotonous recitative:\n\n\"Fall, O thou lost Hour, into the dreadful Past! Sink, O thou Pearl of\nTime, into the dark and fathomless abyss! Not all the glory of kings or\nthe wealth of empires can purchase thee back again! Not all the\nstrength of warriors or the wisdom of sages can draw thee forth from\nthe Abode of Silence whither thou art fled! Farewell, lost Hour!--and\nmay the gods defend us from thy reproach at the Day of Doom! In the\nname of the Sun and Nagaya, ... Peace!\"\n\nThe voice died away in a muffled echo, and the slow, solemn boom of a\nbrazen-tongued bell struck midnight. Then Theos, raising his eyes, saw\nthat all further progress was impeded by a great wall of solid rock\nthat glistened at every point with flashes of pale and dark violet\nlight--a wall composed entirely of adamantine spar, crusted thick with\nthe rough growth of oriental amethyst. It rose sheer up from the ground\nto an altitude of about a hundred feet, and apparently closed in and\ncompleted the vestibule.\n\nSurely there was no passing through such a barrier as this? ... he\nthought wonderingly; nevertheless Lysia and Sah-luma still went on, and\nhe--as perforce he was compelled--still followed. Arrived at the foot\nof the huge erection that towered above him like a steep cliff of\nmolten gems, he fancied he heard a faint sound behind it as of clinking\nglasses and boisterous laughter, but before he had time to consider\nwhat this might mean, Lysia laid her hand lightly on a small,\nprotruding knob of crystal, pressed it, and lo! ... the whole massive\nstructure yawned open suddenly without any noise, suspending itself as\nit were in sparkling festoons of purple stalactites over the\nvoluptuously magnificent scene disclosed.\n\nAt first it was difficult to discern more than a gorgeous maze of\nswaying light and color as though a great field of tulips in full bloom\nshould be seen waving to and fro in the breath of a soft wind; but\ngradually this bewildering dazzle of gold and green, violet and\ncrimson, resolved itself into definite form and substance; and Theos,\nstanding beside his two companions on the elevated threshold of the\npartition through which they had entered, was able to look down and\nsurvey with tolerable composure the wondrous details of the glittering\npicture--a picture that looked like a fairy-fantasy poised in a haze of\njewel-like radiance as of vaporized sapphire.\n\nHe saw beneath him a vast circular hall or amphitheatre, roofed in by a\nlofty dome of richest malachite, from the centre of which was suspended\na huge globe of fire, that revolved with incredible swiftness, flinging\nvivid, blood-red rays on the amber-colored silken carpets and\nembroideries that strewed the floor below. The dome was supported by\nrows upon rows of tall, tapering crystal columns, clear as translucent\nwater and green as the grass in spring, . . and between and beyond\nthese columns on the left-hand side there were large, oval-shaped\ncasements set wide open to the night, through which the gleam of a\nbroad lake laden with water-lilies could be seen shimmering in the\nyellow moon. The middle of the hall was occupied by a round table\ncovered with draperies of gold, white, and green, and heaped with all\nthe costly accessories of a sumptuous banquet such as might have been\nspread before the gods of Olympus in the full height of their legendary\nprime. Here were the lovely hues of heaped-up fruit,--the tender bloom\nof scattered flowers,--the glisten of jewelled flagons and goblets, the\nflash of massive golden dishes carried aloft by black slaves attired in\nwhite and crimson,--the red glow of poured-out wine; and here, in the\ndrowsy warmth, lounging on divans of velvet and embroidered satin,\neating, drinking, idly gossiping, loudly laughing, and occasionally\nbursting into wild snatches of song, were a company of\nbrilliant-looking personages,--all men, all young, all handsome, all\nrichly clad, and all evidently bent on enjoying the pleasures offered\nby the immediate hour. Suddenly, however, their noisy voices\nceased--with one accord, as though drawn by some magnetic spell, they\nall turned their heads toward the platform where Lysia had just\nsilently made her appearance,--and springing from their seats they\nbroke into a boisterous shout of acclamation and welcome. One young man\nwhose flushed face had all the joyous, wanton, effeminate beauty of a\npictured Dionysius, reeled forward, goblet in hand, and tossing the\nwine in air so that it splashed down again at his feet, staining his\nwhite garments as it fell with a stain as of blood, he cried, tipsily:\n\n\"All hail, Lysia! Where hast thou wandered so long, thou Goddess of\nMorn? We have been lost in the blackness of night, sunk in the depths\nof a hell-like gloom--but lo! now the clouds have broken in the east,\nand our hearts rejoice at the birth of day! Vanish, dull moon, and be\nashamed! ... for a fairer planet rules the sky! Hence, ye stars! ...\npuny glow-worms lazily crawling in the fields of ether! Lysia invests\nthe heaven and earth, and in her smile we live! Ha! art thou there,\nSah-luma? Come, praise me for my improvised love-lines; they are as\ngood as thine, I warrant thee! Canst compose when thou art drunk, my\ndainty Laureate? Drain a cup then, and string me a stanza! Where is thy\nfool Zebastes? I would fain tickle his long ears with ribald rhyme, and\nhearken to the barbarous braying forth of his asinine reflections!\nLysia! what, Lysia! ... dost thou frown at me? Frown not, sweet queen,\nbut rather laugh! ... thy laughter kills, 'tis true, but thy frown doth\ntorture spirits after death! Unbend thy brows! Night looms between them\nlike a chaos! ... we will have no more night, I say, but only noon! ...\na long, languorous, lovely noon, flower-girdled and sunbeam-clad!\n\n\"'With roses, roses, roses crown my head, For my days are few! And\nremember, sweet, when I am dead, That my heart was true!'\"\n\nSinging unsteadily, with the empty goblet upside-down in his hand, he\nlooked up laughing,--his bright eyes flashing with a wild feverish\nfire, his fair hair tossed back from his brows and entangled in a\nhalf-crushed wreath of vine-leaves,--his rich garments disordered, his\nwhole demeanor that of one possessed by a semi-delirium of sensuous\npleasure...when all at once, meeting Lysia's keen glance, he started as\nthough he had been suddenly stabbed,--the goblet fell from his clasp,\nand a visible shudder ran through his strong, supple frame. The low,\ncold, merciless laughter of the beautiful Priestess cut through the air\nhissingly like the sweep of a scimetar.\n\n\"Thou art wondrous merry, Nir-jalis,\" she said, in languid, lazily\nenunciated accents. \"Knowest thou not that too much mirth engenders\nweeping, and that excessive rejoicing hath its fitting end in grievous\nlamentation? Nay, even now already thou lookest more sadly! What sombre\ncloud has crossed thy wine-hued heaven? Be happy while thou mayest,\ngood fool! ... I blame thee not! Sooner or later all things must end!\n... in the mean time, make thou the most of life while life remains;\n'tis at its best an uncertain heritage, that once rashly squandered can\nnever be restored,--either here or hereafter.\"\n\nThe words were gently, almost tenderly, spoken; but Nir-jalis hearing\nthem, grew white as death--his smile faded, leaving his lips set and\nstern as the lips of a marble mask. Stooping, he raised his fallen\ngoblet and held it out almost mechanically to a passing slave, who\nre-filled it with wine, which he drank off thirstily at a draught,\nthough the generous liquid brought no color back to his drawn and ashy\nfeatures.\n\nLysia paid no further heed to his evident discomfiture; bidding\nSah-luma and Theos follow her, she descended the few steps that led\nfrom the raised platform into the body of the brilliant hall; the rocky\nscreen of amethyst closed behind her as noiselessly as it had opened,\nand in another moment she stood among her assembled guests, who at once\nsurrounded her with eager salutations and gracefully worded flatteries.\nSmiling on them all with that strange smile of hers that was more\nscornful than sweet, and yet so infinitely bewitching, she said little\nin answer to their greetings, . . she moved as a queen moves through a\ncrowd of courtiers, the varied light of crimson and green playing about\nher like so many sparkles of living flame, . . her dark head, wreathed\nwith those jewelled serpents, lifting itself proudly erect from her\nmuffling golden mantle, and her eyes shining with that frosty gleam of\nmockery which made them look so lustrous yet so cold. And now Theos\nperceived that at one end of the splendid banquet table a dais was\nerected, draped richly in carnation-colored silk, and that on this dais\na throne was placed--a throne composed entirely of BLACK crystals,\nwhose needle-like points sparkled with a dark flash as of bayonets seen\nthrough the smoke of battle. It was cushioned in black velvet, and\nabove it was a bent arch of ivory on which glittered a twisted snake of\nclustered emeralds.\n\nWith that slow, superb ease that distinguished all her actions, Lysia,\nattended closely by her tigress, mounted the dais,--and as she did so a\nloud clash of brazen bells rang out from some invisible turret beyond\nthe summit of the great dome. At the sound of the jangling chime four\nnegresses appeared--goblin creatures that looked as though they had\nsuddenly sprung from some sooty, subterranean region of gnomes--and\nhumbly prostrating themselves before Lysia, kissed the ground at her\nfeet. This done, they rose, and began to undo the fastenings of her\ngolden, domino-like garment; but either they were slow, or the fair\npriestess was impatient for she suddenly shook herself free of their\nhands, and, loosening the gorgeous mantle herself from its jewelled\nclasps, it fell slowly from her symmetrical form on the perfumed floor\nwith a rustle as of falling leaves.\n\nA sigh quivered audibly through the room--whether of grief, joy, hope,\nrelief, or despair it was difficult to tell. The pride and peril of a\nmatchless loveliness was revealed in all its fatal seductiveness and\ninvincible strength--the irresistible perfection of woman's beauty was\nopenly displayed to bewilder the sight and rouse the reckless passions\nof man! Who could look on such delicate, dangerous, witching charms\nunmoved? Who could gaze on the exquisite outlines of a form fairer than\nthat of any sculptured Venus and refuse to acknowledge its powerfully\nsweet attraction?\n\nThe Virgin Priestess of the Sun had stepped out of her shrine; . . no\nlonger a creature removed, impersonal, and sacred, she had become most\nabsolutely human. Moreover, she might now have been taken for a\nbacchante, a dancer, or any other unsexed example of womanhood inasmuch\nas with her golden mantle she had thrown off all disguise of modesty.\nHer beautiful limbs, rounded and smooth as pearl, could be plainly\ndiscerned through the filmy garb of silvery tissue that clung like a\npale mist about the voluptuous curves of her figure and floated behind\nher in shining gossamer folds; her dazzling white neck and arms were\nbare; and from slim wrist to snowy shoulder, little twining diamond\nsnakes glistened in close coils against the velvety fairness of her\nflesh. A silver serpent with a head of sapphires girdled her waist, and\njust above the full wave of her bosom, that rose and fell visibly\nbeneath the transparent gathers of her gauzy drapery, shone a large,\nfiery jewel, fashioned in the semblance of a human Eye. This singular\nornament was so life-like as to be absolutely repulsive, and as it\nmoved to and fro with its wearer's breathing it seemed now to stare\naghast,--anon to flash wickedly as with a thought of evil,--while more\noften still it assumed a restlessly watchful expression as though it\nwere the eye of a fiend-inquisitor intent on the detection of some\nsecret treachery. Poised between those fair white breasts it glared\nforth a glittering Menace; . . a warning of unimaginable horror; and\nTheos, gazing at it fixedly, felt a curious thrill run through him, as\nif, so to speak, a hook of steel had been suddenly thrust into his\nquivering veins to draw him steadily and securely on toward some\npitfall of unknown tortures. Then he remembered what Sah-luma had said\nabout the \"all-reflecting Eye, the weird mirror and potent dazzler of\nhuman sight,\" and wondered whether its mystical properties were such as\nto compel men to involuntarily declare their inmost thoughts, for it\nseemed to him that its sinister glow penetrated into the very deepest\nrecesses of his mind, and there discovered all the hidden weaknesses,\nfollies, and passions of the worst side of his nature!\n\nHe trembled and grew faint,--his dazed eyes wandered over the dainty\ngrace and marvel of Lysia's almost unclad loveliness with mingled\nemotions of allurement and repugnance. Fascinated, yet at the same time\nrepelled, his soul yearned toward her as the soul of the knight in the\nLore-lei legend yearned toward the singing Rhine-siren, whose embrace\nwas destruction; and then..... he became filled with a strange, sudden\nfear; fear, not for himself, but for Sah-luma, whose ardent glance\nburned into her dark, languid-lidded, amorous orbs with the lustre of\nflame meeting flame--Sah-luma, whose beautiful flushed face was as that\nof a god inspired, or lover triumphant. What could he do to shield and\nsave this so idolized friend of his?--this dear familiar for whom he\nhad such close and ever-increasing sympathy! Might he not possibly\nguard him in some way and ward off impending danger? But what danger?\nWhat spectral shadow of dread hovered above this brilliant scene of\nhigh feasting and voluptuous revelry? None that he could imagine or\ndefine, and yet he was conscious, of an omimous, unuttered premonition\nof peril in the very air--peril for Sah-luma, always for Sah-luma,\nnever for himself, ... Self seemed dead and entombed forever!\nInvoluntarily lifting his eyes to the great green dome where the globe\nof fire twirled rapidly like a rolling star, he saw some words written\nround it in golden letters, they were large and distinct, and ran thus:\n\n\"Live in the Now, but question not the Afterwards!\"\n\nA wise axiom! ... yet almost a platitude, for did not every one occupy\nthemselves exclusively with the Now, regardless of future consequences?\nOf course! Who but sages--or fools--would stop to question the\nAfterwards!\n\nJust then Lysia ascended her black crystal throne in all her statuesque\nmajesty, and sinking indolently amid its sable cushions, where she\nshone in her wonderful whiteness like a glistening pearl set in ebony,\nshe signed to her guests to resume their places at table. She was\ninstantly obeyed. Sah-luma took what was evidently his accustomed post\nat her right hand, while Theos found a vacant corner on her left, next\nto the picturesque, lounging figure of the young man Nir jahs, who\nlooked up at him with a half smile as he seated himself, and\ncourteously made more room for him among the tumbled emerald silk\ndiapers of the luxurious divan, they now shared together. Nir jahs was\nby no means sober, but he had recovered a little of his self-possession\nsince Lysia's sleepy eyes had darted such cold contempt upon him, and\nhe seemed for the present to be on his guard against giving any further\npossible cause of offence.\n\n\"Thou art a new comer,--a stranger, if I mistake not?\" he inquired in a\nlow, abrupt, yet kindly tone.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Theos in the same soft sotto-voce. \"I am a mere\nsojourner in Al-Kyris for a few days only, ... the guest of the divine\nSah-luma.\"\n\nNir-jahs raised his eyebrows with an expression of amused wonder.\n\n\"Divine!\" he ejaculated \"By my faith! what neophyte have we here!\" and\nsupporting himself on one elbow he stared at his companion as though he\nsaw in him some singular human phenomenon. \"Dost thou really believe,\"\nhe went on jestingly, \"in the divinity of poets? Dost thou think they\nwrite what they mean, or practice what they preach? Then art thou the\nveriest innocent that ever wore the muscular semblance of man! Poets,\nmy friend, are the most absolute impostors, . . they melodize their\nrhymed music on phases of emotion they have never experienced; as for\ninstance our Lameate yonder will string a pretty sonnet on the despair\nof love, he knowing nothing of despair, . . he will write of a broken\nheart, his own being unpricked by so much as a pin's point of trouble;\nand he will speak in his verso of dying for love when he would not let\nhis little finger ache for the sake of a woman who worshipped him! Look\nnot so vaguely! 'tis so, indeed! and as for the divine part of him,\nwait but a little, and thou shalt see thy poet-god become a satyr!\"\n\nHe laughed maliciously, and Theos felt an angry flush rising to his\nbrows. He could not bear to hear Sah-luma thus lightly maligned even by\nthis half-drunken reveller, it stung him to the quick, as if he\npersonally were included in the implied accusation of unworthiness.\nNir-jalis perceived his annoyance, and added good naturedly:\n\n\"Tush, man! Vex not thy soul as to thy friend's virtues or vices--what\nare they to thee? And of truth Sah-luma is no worse than the rest of\nus. All I maintain is that he is certainly no better. I have known many\npoets in my day, and they are all more or less alike--petulant as\nbabes, peevish as women, selfish as misers, and conceited as peacocks.\nThey SHOULD be different? Oh, yes!--they SHOULD be the perpetual youth\nof mankind, the faithful singers of love idealized and made perfect.\nBut then none of us are what we ought to be! Besides, if we were all\nvirtuous, . . by the gods! the world would become too dull a hole to\nlive in! Enough! Wilt drink with me?\" and beckoning a slave, he had his\nown goblet and that of Theos filled to the brim with wine.\n\n\"To our more intimate acquaintance!\" he said smilingly, and Theos,\nsomewhat captivated by the easy courtesy of his manner, could do no\nless than respond cordially to the proffered toast. At that moment a\ntriumphant burst of music, like the sound of mingled flutes, hautboys,\nand harps, pushed through the dome like a strong wind sweeping in from\nthe sea, and with it the hum and buzz of conversation began in good\nearnest. Theos, lifting his gaze toward Lysia's seat, saw that she was\nnow surrounded by the four attendant negresses, who, standing two on\neach side of her throne, held large fans of peacock plumes, which, as\nthey were waved slowly to and fro, emitted a thousand scintillations of\njewel-like splendor. A slave, attired in scarlet, knelt on one knee\nbefore her, proffering a golden salver loaded with the choicest fruits\nand wines; a lazy smile played on her lips--lips that outrivaled the\ndewy tint of half-opening roses; the serpents in her hair and on her\nrounded arms quivered in the light like living things; the great\nSymbolic Eye glanced wickedly out from the white beauty of her heaving\nbreast; and as he surveyed her, thus resplendent in all the startling\nseductiveness of her dangerous charms, her loveliness entranced and\nintoxicated him like the faint perfume of some rare and powerful\nexotic, ... his senses seemed to sink drowningly in the whelming\ninfluence of her soft and dazzling grace; and though he still resented,\nhe could not resist her mesmeric power. No wonder, he thought, that\nSah-luma's eyes darkened with passions as they dwelt on her! ... and no\nwonder that he, like Sah-luma, was content to be gently but surely\ndrawn within the glittering web of her magic spell--a spell fatal, yet\ntoo bewilderingly sweet for human strength to fight against. The\nmysterious sense he had of danger lurking somewhere for Sah-luma\napplied, so he fancied, in no way to himself--it did not much matter\nwhat happened to HIM--HE was a mere nobody. He could be of no use\nanywhere; he was as one banished into strange exile; his brain--that\nbrain he had once deemed so clear, so subtle, so eminently reasoning\nand all-comprehensive--was now nothing but a chaotic confusion of vague\nsuggestions, and only served to very slightly guide him in the\nimmediate present, giving him no practical clue at all as to the past\nthrough which he had lived, or the circumstances he most wished to\nremember. He was a fool--a dreamer--ungifted--unfamous! ... were he to\ndie, not a soul would regret his loss. His own fate therefore concerned\nhim little--he could handle fire recklessly and not feel the flame; he\ncould, so he believed, run any risk, and yet escape, comparatively free\nof harm.\n\nBut with Sah-luma it was different! Sah-luma must be guarded and\ncherished; his was a valuable life--the life of a genius such as the\nworld sees but once in a century--and it should not, so Theos\ndetermined,--be emperilled or wasted; no! not even for the sake of the\nsensuous, exquisite, conquering beauty of this dazzling Priestess of\nthe Sun--the fairest sorceress that ever triumphed over the frail yet\nimmortal Spirit of Man!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nTHE LOVE THAT KILLS.\n\n\nHow the time went he could not tell; in so gay and gorgeous a scene\nhours might easily pass with the swiftness of unmarked moments. Peals\nof laughter echoed now and again through the vaulted dome, and excited\nvoices were frequently raised in clamorous disputations and contentious\narguments that only just sheered off the boundary-line of an actual\nquarrel. All sorts of topics were discussed--the laws, the existing\nmode of government, the latest discoveries in science, and the military\nprowess of the King--but the conversation chiefly turned on the spread\nof disloyalty, atheism, and republicanism among the population of\nAl-Kyris,--and the influence of Khosrul on the minds of the lower\nclasses. The episode of the Prophet's late capture and fresh escape\nseemed to be perfectly well known to all present, though it had\noccurred so recently; one would have thought the detailed account of it\nhad been received through some private telephone, communicating with\nthe King's palace.\n\nAs the banquet progressed and the wine flowed more lavishly, the\nassembled guests grew less and less circumspect in their general\nbehavior; they flung themselves full length on their luxurious couches,\nin the laziest attitudes, now pulling out handfuls of flowers from the\ntall porcelain jars that stood near, and pelting one another with them\nfor mere idle diversion, . . now summoning the attendant slaves to\nrefill their wine-cups while they lay lounging at ease among their\nheaped-up cushions of silk and embroidery; and yet with all the\nvoluptuous freedom of their manners, the picturesque grace that\ndistinguished them was never wholly destroyed. These young men were\ndissolute, but not coarse; bold, but not vulgar; they took their\npleasure in a delicately wanton fashion that was infinitely more\ndangerous in its influence on the mind than would have been the gross\nmirth and broad jesting of a similar number of uneducated plebeians.\nThe rude licentiousness of an uncultivated boor has its safety-valve in\ndisgust and satiety, . . but the soft, enervating sensualism of a\ntrained and cultured epicurean aristocrat is a moral poison whose\neffects are so insidious as to be scarcely felt till all the native\nnobility of character has withered, and naught is left of a man but the\nshadow-wreck of his former self.\n\nThere was nothing repulsive in the half-ironical, half-mischievous\nmerriment of these patrician revellers; their witticisms were brilliant\nand pointed, but never indelicate; and if their darker passions were\nroused, and ready to run riot, they showed as yet no sign of it. They\nENJOYED--yes! with that selfish animal enjoyment and love of personal\nindulgence which all men, old and young without exception, take such\ndelight in--unless indeed they be sworn and sorrowful anchorites, and\neven then you may be sure they are always regretting the easy license\nand libertinage of their bygone days of unbridled independence when\nthey could foster their pet weaknesses, cherish their favorite vices,\nand laugh at all creeds and all morality as though Divine Justice were\na mere empty name, and they themselves the super-essence of creation.\nAh, what a ridiculous spectacle is Man! the two-legged pigmy of limited\nbrain, and still more limited sympathies, that, standing arrogantly on\nhis little grave the earth, coolly criticises the Universe, settles\nlaw, and measures his puny stature against that awful Unknown Force,\ndeeply hidden, but majestically existent, which for want of ampler\ndesignation we call GOD--God, whom some of us will scarcely recognize,\nsave with the mixture of doubt, levity, and general reluctance; God,\nwhom we never obey unless obedience is enforced by calamity; God, whom\nwe never truly love, because so many of us prefer to stake our chances\nof the future on the possibility of His non-existence!\n\nStrangely enough, thoughts of this God, this despised and forgotten\nCreator, came wandering hazily over Theos's mind at the present moment\nwhen, glancing round the splendid banquet-table, he studied the\ndifferent faces of all assembled, and saw Self, Self, Self, indelibly\nimpressed on every one of them. Not a single countenance was there that\ndid not openly betray the complacent hauteur and tranquil vanity of\nabsolute Egotism, Sah-luma's especially. But then Sah-luma had\nsomething to be proud of--his genius; it was natural that he should be\nsatisfied with himself--he was a great man! But was it well for even a\ngreat man to admire his own greatness? This was a pertinent question,\nand somewhat difficult to answer. A genius must surely be more or less\nconscious of his superiority to those who have no genius? Yet why? May\nit not happen, on occasions, that the so-called fool shall teach a\nlesson to the so-called wise man? Then where is the wise man's\nsuperiority if a fool can instruct him? Theos found these suggestions\ncuriously puzzling; they seemed simple enough, and yet they opened up a\nvista of intricate disquisition which he was in no humor to follow. To\nescape from his own reflections he began to pay close attention to the\nconversation going on around him, and listened with an eager, almost\npainful interest, whenever he heard Lysia's sweet, languid voice\nchiming through the clatter of men's tongues like the silver stroke of\na small bell ringing in a storm at sea.\n\n\"And how hast thou left thy pale beauty Niphrata?\" she was asking\nSah-luma in half-cold, half-caressing accents. \"Does her singing still\ncharm thee as of yore? I understand thou hast given her her freedom. Is\nthat prudent? Was she not safer as thy slave?\"\n\nSah-luma glanced up quickly in surprise. \"Safer? She is as safe as a\nrose in its green sheath,\" he replied. \"What harm should come to her?\"\n\n\"I spoke not of harm,\" said Lysia, with a lazy smile. \"But the day may\ncome, good minstrel, when thy sheathed rose may seek some newer\nsunshine than thy face! ... when thy much poesy may pall upon her\nspirit, and thy love-songs grow stale! ... and she may string her harp\nto a different tune than the perpetual adoration-hymn of Sah-luma!\"\n\nThe handsome Laureate looked amused.\n\n\"Let her do so then!\" he laughed carelessly. \"Were she to leave me I\nshould not miss her greatly; a thousand pieces of gold will purchase me\nanother voice as sweet as hers,--another maid as fair! Meanwhile the\nchild is free to shape her own fate,--her own future. I bind her no\nlonger to my service; nevertheless, like the jessamine-flower, she\nclings,--and will not easily unwind the tendrils of her heart from\nmine.\"\n\n\"Poor jessamine-flower!\" murmured Lysia negligently, with a touch of\nmalice in her tone. \"What a rock it doth embrace; how little\nvantage-ground it hath wherein to blossom!\" And her drowsy eyes shot\nforth a fiery glance from under their heavily fringed drooping white\nlids.\n\nSah-luma met her look with one of mingled vexation and reproach; she\nsmiled and raising a goblet of wine to her lips, kissed the brim, and\ngave it to him with an indescribably graceful, swaying gesture of her\nwhole form that reminded one of a tall white lily bowing in the breeze.\nHe seized the cup eagerly, drank from it and returned it,--his\nmomentary annoyance, whatever it was, passed, and a joyous elation\nillumined his fine features. Then Lysia, refilling the cup, kissed it\nagain and handed it to Theos with so much soft animation and tenderness\nin her face as she turned to him, that his enforced calmness nearly\ngave way, and he had much ado to restrain himself from falling at her\nfeet in a transport of passion, and crying out! ... \"Love me, O thou\nsorceress-sovereign of beauty! ... love me, if only for an hour, and\nthen let me die! ... for I shall have lived out all the joys of life in\none embrace of thine!\" His hand trembled as he took the goblet, and he\ndrank half its contents thirstily,--then imitating Sah-luma's example,\nhe returned it to her with a profound salutation. Her eyes dwelt\nmeditatively upon him.\n\n\"What a dark, still, melancholy countenance is thine, Sir Theos!\" she\nsaid abruptly--\"Thou art, for sure, a man of strongly repressed and\nconcentrated passions, ... 'tis a nature I love! I would there were\nmore of thy proud and chilly temperament in Al-Kyris! ... Our men are\nlike velvet-winged butterflies, drinking honey all day and drowsing in\nsunshine--full to the brows of folly,--frail and delicate as the little\ndancing maidens of the King's seraglio, . . nervous too, with weak\nheads, that art apt to ache on small provocation, and bodies that are\napt to fail easily when but slightly fatigued. Aye!--thou art a man\nclothed complete in manliness,--moreover...\"\n\nShe paused, and leaning forward so that the dark shower of her perfumed\nhair brushed his arm ... \"Hast ever heard travellers talk of volcanoes?\n... those marvellous mountains that oft wear crowns of ice on their\nsummits and yet hold unquenchable fire in their depths? ... Methinks\nthou dost resemble these,--and that at a touch, the flames would leap\nforth uncontrolled!\"\n\nHer magical low voice, more melodious in tone than the sound of harps\nplayed by moonlight on the water, thrilled in his ears and set his\npulses beating madly,--with an effort he checked the torrent of\nlove-words that rushed to his lips, and looked at her in a sort of\nwildly wondering appeal. Her laughter rang out in silvery sweet\nripples, and throwing herself lazily back in her throne, she called..\n\n\"Aizif! ... Aizif!\"\n\nThe great tigress instantly bounded forward like an obedient hound, and\nplaced its fore-paws on her knees, while she playfully held a sugared\ncomfit high above its head.\n\n\"Up, Aizif! up!\" she cried mirthfully.. \"Up! and be like a man for\nonce! ... snatch thy pleasure at all hazards!\"\n\nWith a roar, the savage brute leaped and sprang, its sharp white teeth\nfully displayed, its sly green eyes glisteningly prominent,--and again\nLysia's rich laughter pealed forth, mingling with the impatient snarls\nof her terrific favorite. Still she held the tempting morsel in her\nlittle snowy hand that glittered all over with rare gems,--and still\nthe tigress continued to make impotent attempts to reach it, growing\nmore and more ferocious with every fresh effort,--till all at once she\nshut her palm upon the dainty so that it could not be seen, and lightly\ncatching the irritated beast by the throat brought its eyes on a level\nwith her own. The effect was instantaneous, ... a strong shudder passed\nthrough its frame--and it cowered and crouched lower and lower, in\nabject fear,--the sweat broke out, and stood in large drops on its\nsleek hide, and panting heavily, as the firm grasp its mistress slowly\nrelaxed, it sank down prone, in trembling abasement on the second step\nof the dais, still looking up into those densely brilliant gazelle eyes\nthat were full of such deadly fascination and merciless tyranny.\n\n\"Good Aizif!\" said Lysia then, in that languid, soft voice, that while\nso sweet, suggested hidden treachery.. \"Gentle fondling! ... Thou hast\nfairly earned thy reward! ... Here! ... take it!\"--and unclosing her\nroseate palm, she showed the desired bonne-bouche, and offered it with\na pretty coaxing air,--but the tigress now refused to touch it, and lay\nas still as an animal of painted stone.\n\n\"What a true philosopher she is, my sweet Aizif!\" she went on amusedly\nstroking the creature's head,--\"Her feminine wit teaches her what the\ndull brains of men can never grasp, . . namely, that pleasures, no\nmatter how sweet, turn to ashes and wormwood when once obtained,--and\nthat the only happiness in this world is the charm of DESIRE! There is\na subject for thee, Sah-luma! ... write an immortal Ode on the\nmysteries, the delights, the never-ending ravishment of Desire! ... but\ncarry not thy fancy on to desire's fulfilment, for there thou shalt\nfind infinite bitterness! The soul that wilfully gratifies its dearest\nwish, has stripped life of its supremest joy, and stands thereafter in\nan emptied sphere, sorrowful and alone,--with nothing left to hope for,\nnothing to look forward to, save death, the end of all ambition!\"\n\n\"Nay, fair lady,\"--said Theos suddenly,--\"We who deem ourselves the\nchildren of the high gods, and the offspring of a Spirit Eternal, may\nsurely aspire to something beyond this death, that, like a black seal,\ncloses up the brief scroll of our merely human existence! And to us,\ntherefore, ambition should be ceaseless,--for if we master the world,\nthere are yet more worlds to win: and if we find one heaven, we do but\naccept it as a pledge of other heavens beyond it! The aspirations of\nMan are limitless,--hence his best assurance of immortality, ... else\nwhy should he perpetually long for things that here are impossible of\nattainment? ... things that like faint, floating clouds rimmed with\nlight, suggest without declaring a glory unperceived?\"\n\nLysia looked at him steadfastly, an under-gleam of malice shining in\nher slumbrous eyes.\n\n\"Why? ... Because, good sir, the gods love mirth! ... and the wanton\nImmortals are never more thoroughly diverted, than, when leaning\ndownward from their clear empyrean, they behold Man, their Insect-Toy,\narrogating to himself a share in their imperishable Essence! To keep up\nthe Eternal Jest, they torture him with vain delusions, and prick him\non with hopes never to be realized; aye! and the whole vast Heaven may\nwell shake with thunderous laughter at the pride with which he doth put\nforth his puny claim to be elected to another and fairer state of\nexistence! What hath he done? ... what does he do, to merit a future\nlife? ... Are his deeds so noble? ... is his wisdom so great? ... is\nhis mind so stainless? He, the oppressor of all Nature and of his\nbrother man,--he, the insolent, self-opinionated tyrant, yet bound\nslave of the Earth on which he dwells ... why should he live again and\ncarry his ignoble presence into the splendors of an Eternity too vast\nfor him to comprehend? ..Nay, nay! ... I perceive thou art one of the\ncredulous, for whom a reasonless worship to an unproved Deity is, for\nthe sake of state-policy, maintained, . . I had thought thee wiser! ...\nbut no matter! thou shalt pay thy vows to the shrine of Nagaya\nto-morrow, and see with what glorious pomp and panoply we impose on the\nfaithful, who like thee believe in their own deathless and divinely\nconstituted natures, and enjoy to the full the grand Conceit that\npersuades them of their right to Immortality!\"\n\nHer words carried with them a certain practical positiveness of\nmeaning, and Theos was somewhat impressed by their seeming truth. After\nall, it WAS a curious and unfounded conceit of a man to imagine himself\nthe possessor of an immortal soul,--and yet ... if all things were the\noutcome of a divine Creative Influence, was it not unjust of that\nCreative Influence to endow all humanity with such a belief if it had\nno foundation whatever? And could injustice be associated with divine\nlaw? ...\n\nHe, Theos, for instance, was certain of his own immortality,--so\ncertain that, surrounded as he was by this brilliant company of evident\natheists, he felt himself to be the only real and positive existing\nBeing among an assembly of Shadow-figures,--but it was not the time or\nthe place to enter into a theological discussion, especially with\nLysia, . . and for the moment at least, he allowed her assertions to\nremain uncontradicted. He sat, however, in a somewhat stern silence,\nnow and then glancing wistfully and anxiously at Sah-luma, on whom the\npotent wines were beginning to take effect, and who had just thrown\nhimself down on the dais at Lysia's feet, close to the tigress that\nstill lay couched there in immovable quiet. It was a picture worthy of\nthe grandest painter's brush, ... that glistening throne black as jet,\nwith the fair form of Lysia shining within it, like a white sea-nymph\nat rest in a grotto of ocean-stalactites, . . the fantastically attired\nnegresses on each side, with their waving peacock-plumes,--the vivid\ncarnation-color of the dais, against which the black and yellow stripes\nof the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant contrast, . . and the\ngraceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet Laureate, who, half sitting,\nhalf reclining on a black velvet cushion, leaned his handsome head\nindolently against the silvery folds of Lysia's robe, and looked up at\nher with eyes in which burned the ardent admiration and scarcely\nrestrained passion of a privileged lover.\n\nSuddenly and quite involuntarily Theos thought of Niphrata, ... alas,\npoor maiden! how utterly her devotion to Sah-luma was wasted! What did\nhe care for her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish worship? Nothing?\n... less than nothing! He was entirely absorbed by the\nsovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High Priestess,--this\nwitch-like weaver of spells more potent than those of Circe; and musing\nthereon, Theos was sorry for Niphrata, he knew not why. He felt that\nshe had somehow been wronged,--that she suffered, ... and that he, as\nwell as Sah-luma, was in some mysterious way to blame for this, though\nhe could by no means account for his own share in the dimly suggested\nreproach. This peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all\nthe vaguely incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through his\nperplexed brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing animation and\ninterest of the scene that immediately surrounded him.\n\nThe general conversation was becoming more and more noisy, and the\nlaughter more and more boisterous,--several of the young men were now\nvery much the worse for their frequent libations, and Nir-jalis,\nparticularly, began again to show marked symptoms of an inclination to\nbreak loose from all the bonds of prudent reserve. He lay full length\non his silk divan, his feet touching Theos, who sat upright,--and,\nsinging little snatches of song to himself, he pulled the vine-wreath\nfrom his tumbled fair locks as though he found it too weighty, and\nflung it on the ground among the other debris of the feast. Then\nfolding his arms lazily behind his head, he stared straight and fixedly\nbefore him at Lysia, seeming to note every jewel on her dress, every\ncurve of her body, every slight gesture of her hand, every faint, cold\nsmile that played on her lovely lips. One young man whom the others\naddressed as Ormaz, a haughty, handsome fellow enough, though with\nrather a sneering mouth just visible under his black mustache, was\ntalking somewhat excitedly on the subject of Khosrul's cunningly\ndevised flight, . . for it seemed to be universally understood that the\nvenerable Prophet was one of the Circle of Mystics,--persons whose\nknowledge of science, especially in matters connected with electricity,\nenabled them to perform astonishing juggleries, that were frequently\naccepted by the uninitiated vulgar as almost divine miracles. Not very\nlong ago, according to Ormaz, who was animatedly recalling the\ncircumstance for the benefit of the company, the words \"FALL,\nAL-KYRIS!\" had appeared emblazoned in letters of fire on the sky at\nmidnight, and the phenomenon had been accompanied by two tremendous\nvolleys of thunder, to the infinite consternation of the multitude, who\nreceived it as a supernatural manifestation. But a member of the King's\nPrivy Council, a satirical skeptic and mistruster of everybody's word\nbut his own, undertook to sift the matter,--and adopting the dress of\nthe Mystics, managed to introduce himself into one of their secret\nassemblies, where with considerable astonishment, he saw them make use\nof a small wire, by means of which they wrote in characters of azure\nflame on the whiteness of a blank wall,--moreover, he discovered that\nthey possessed a lofty turret, built secretly and securely in a deep,\nunfrequented grove of trees, from whence, with the aid of various\ncurious instruments and reflectors, they could fling out any pattern or\ndevice they chose on the sky, so that it should seem to be written by\nthe finger of Lightning. Having elucidated these mysteries, and become\nhighly edified thereby, the learned Councillor returned to the King,\nand gave full information as to the result of his researches, whereupon\nforty Mystics were at once arrested and flung into prison for life, and\ntheir nefarious practices were made publicly known to all the\ninhabitants of the city. Since then, no so-called \"spiritual\"\ndemonstrations had taken place till now, when on this very night\nZephoranim's Presence-Chamber had been suddenly enveloped in the\nthunderous and terrifying darkness which had so successfully covered\nKhosrul's escape.\n\n\"The King should have slain him at once--\" declared Ormaz emphatically,\nturning to Lysia as he spoke.. \"I am surprised that His Majesty\npermitted so flagrant an impostor and trespasser of the law to speak\none word, or live one moment in his royal presence.\"\n\n\"Thou art surprised, Ormaz, at most things, especially those which\nsavor of simple good-nature and forbearance...\" responded Lysia coldly.\n\"Thou art a wolfish, youth, and wouldst tear thine own brother to\nshreds if he thwarted thy pleasure! For myself I see little cause for\nastonishment, that a soldier-hero like Zephoranim should take some pity\non so frail and aged a wreck of human wit as Khosrul. Khosrul\nblasphemes the Faith, . . what then? ... do ye not all blaspheme?\"\n\n\"Not in the open streets!\" said Ormaz hastily.\n\n\"No--ye have not the mettle for that!\"--and Lysia smiled darkly, while\nthe great eye on her breast flashed forth a sardonic lustre--\"Strong as\nye all are, and young, ye lack the bravery of the weak old man who, mad\nas he may be, has at least the courage of his opinions! Who is there\nhere that believes in the Sun as a god, or in Nagaya as a mediator? Not\none, . . but ye are cultured hypocrites all, and careful to keep your\nheresies secret!\"\n\n\"And thou, Lysia!\" suddenly cried Nir-jalis, . . \"Why if thou canst so\nliberally admire the valor of thy sworn enemy Khosrul, why dost not\nTHOU step boldly forth, and abjure the Faith thou art Priestess of, yet\nin thy heart deridest as a miserable superstition?\"\n\nShe turned her splendid flashing orbs slowly upon him, ... what an\nawful chill, steely glitter leaped forth from their velvet-soft depths!\n\n\"Prithee, be heedful of thy speech, good Nirjalis!\" she said, with a\nquiver in her voice curiously like the suppressed snarl of her pet\ntigress.. \"The majority of men are fools, ... like thee! ... and need\nto be ruled according to their folly!\"\n\nOrmaz broke into a laugh. \"And thou dost rule them, wise Virgin, with a\nrod of iron!\" he said satirically ... \"The King himself is but a slave\nin thy hands!\" \"The King is a devout believer,\"--remarked a dainty,\neffeminate-looking youth, arrayed in a wonderfully picturesque garb of\nglistening purple,--\"He pays his vows to Nagaya three times a day, at\nsunrise, noon, and sunset,--and 'tis said he hath oft been seen of late\nin silent meditation alone before the Sacred Veil, even after midnight.\nMaybe he is there at this very moment, offering up a royal petition for\nthose of his less pious subjects who, like ourselves, love good wine\nmore than long prayers. Ah!--he is a most austere and noble monarch,--a\nvery anchorite and pattern of strict religious discipline! \"And he\nshook his head to and fro with an air of mock solemn fervor. Every one\nlaughed, . . and Ormaz playfully threw a cluster of half-crushed roses\nat the speaker.\n\n\"Hold thy foolish tongue, Pharnim,--\" he said,--\"The King doth but show\na fitting example to his people, . . there is a time to pray, and a\ntime to feast, and our Zephoranim can do both as becomes a man. But of\nhis midnight meditations I have heard naught, . . since when hath he\ndeserted his Court of Love for the colder chambers of the Sacred\nTemple?\"\n\n\"Ask Lysia!\" muttered Nir-jalis drowsily, under his breath--\"She knows\nmore of the King than she cares to confess!\"\n\nHis words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they were distinct enough\nfor all present to hear. A glance of absolute dismay went round the\ntable, and a breathless silence followed like the ominous hush of a\nheated atmosphere before a thunder-clap. Nir-jalis, apparently struck\nby the sudden stillness, looked lazily round from among the tumbled\ncushions where he reclined,--a vacant, tipsy smile on his lips.\n\n\"What a company of mutes ye are!\" he said thickly..\n\n\"Did ye not hear me? I bade ye ask Lysia, . .\" and all at once he sat\nbolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of passion.. \"Ask\nLysia!\" he repeated loudly.. \"Ask her why the mighty Zephoranim creeps\nin and out the Sacred Temple at midnight like a skulking slave instead\nof a King! ... at midnight, when he should be shut within his palace\nwalls, playing the fool among his women! I warrant 'tis not piety that\npersuades him to wander through the underground Passage of the Tombs\nalone and in disguise! Sah-luma! ... pretty pampered hound as thou art!\n... thou art near enough to Our Lady of Witcheries,--ask her, ... ask\nher! ... she knows, . . \"and his voice sank into an incoherent murmur,\n. . \"she knows more than she cares to confess!\"\n\nAnother deep and death like pause ensued, ... and then Lysia's silvery\ncold tones smote the profound silence with calm, clear resonance.\n\n\"Friend Nir-jalis,\" she said, . . how tuneful were her accents, . . how\nchilly sweet her smile! ... \"Methinks thou art grown altogether too\nwise for this world! ... 'tis pity thou shouldest continue to linger in\nso narrow and incomplete a sphere! ... Depart hence therefore! ... I\nshall frely excuse thine absence, since THY HOUR HAS COME! ...\"\n\nAnd, taking from the table at her side a tall crystal chalice fashioned\nin the form of a lily set on a golden stem, she held it up toward him.\nStarting wildly from his couch he looked at her, as though doubting\nwhether he had heard her words aright, . . a strong shudder shook him\nfrom head to foot, . . his hands clenched themselves convulsively\ntogether,--and then slowly, slowly, he staggered to his feet and stood\nupright. He was suddenly but effectually sobered--the flush of\nintoxication died off his cheeks--and his eyes grew strained and\npiteous. Theos, watching him in wonder and fear, saw his broad chest\nheave with the rapid-drawn gasping of his breath, ..he advanced a step\nor two--then all at once stretched out his hands in imploring agony.\n\n\"Lysia!\" he murmured huskily. \"Lysia! ... pardon! ... spare me! ... For\nthe sake of past love have pity!\"\n\nAt this Sah-luma sprang up from his lounging posture on the dais, his\nhand on the hilt of his dagger, his whole face flaming with wrath.\n\n\"By my soul!\" he cried, \"what doth this fellow prate of? ... Past love?\n... Thou profane boaster! ... how darest thou speak of love to the\nPriestess of the Faith?\"\n\nNir-jalis heeded him not. His eyes were fixed on Lysia, like the eyes\nof a tortured animal who vainly seeks for mercy at the hand of its\ndestroyer. Step by step he came hesitatingly to the foot of her throne,\n. . and it was then that Theos perceived rear at hand a personage he\nimmediately recognized,--the black scarlet-clad slave Gazia, who had\nbrought Lysia's message to Sah-luma that same afternoon. He had made\nhis appearance now so swiftly and silently, that it was impossible to\ntell where he had come from,--and he stood close to Nir-jalis, his\nmuscular firms folded tightly across his chest, and his hideous mouth\ncontorted into a grin of cruel amusement and expectancy. Absolute quiet\nreigned within the magnificent banquet hall, . . the music had\nceased,--and not a sound could be heard, save the delicate murmur of\nthe wind outside swaying the water-lilies on the moonlit lake. Every\none's attention was centred on the unhappy young man, who with lifted\nhead and rigidly clasped hands, faced Lysia as a criminal faces a\njudge, . . Lysia, whose dazzling smile beamed upon him with the\nbrightness of summer sunbeams,--Lysia, whose exquisite voice lost none\nof its richness as she spoke his doom.\n\n\"By the vow which thou hast vowed to me, Nir-jalis--\" she said slowly..\n\"and by thine oath sworn on the Symbolic Eye of Raphon\".. here she\ntouched the dreadful Jewel on her breast--\"which bound thy life to my\nkeeping, and thy death to my day of choice, I herewith bestow on thee\nthe Chalice of Oblivion--the Silver Nectar of Peace! Sleep, and wake no\nmore!--drink and die! The gateways of the Kingdom of Silence stand open\nto receive thee! ... thy service is finished! ...... fare-thee-well!\"\n\nWith the utterance of the last word, she gave him the glittering cup\nshe held. He took it mechanically,--and for one instant glared about\nhim on all sides, scanning the faces of the attentive guests as though\nin the faint hope of some pity, some attempt at rescue. But not a\nsingle look of compassion was bestowed upon him save by Theos, who,\nfull of struggling amazement and horror, would have broken out into\nindignant remonstrance, had not an imperative glance from Sah-luma\nwarned him that any interference on his part would only make matters\nworse. He therefore, sorely against his will, and only for Sah-luma's\nsake, kept silence, watching Nir-jalis meanwhile in a sort of horrible\nfascination.\n\nThere was something truly awful in the radiant unquenchable laughter\nthat lurked in Lysia's lovely eyes, . . something positively devilish\nin the grace of her manner, as with a negligent movement, she reseated\nherself in her crystal throne, and taking a knot of magnolia-flowers\nthat lay beside her, idly toyed with their creamy buds, all the while\nkeeping her basilisk gaze fixed immovably and relentlessly on her\nsentenced victim. He, grasping the lily-shaped chalice convulsively in\nhis right hand, looked up despairingly to the polished dome of\nmalachite, with its revolving globe of fire that shed a solemn\nblood-red glow upon his agonized young face, . . a smile was on his\nlips,--the dreadful smile of desperate, maddened misery.\n\n\"Oh, ye malignant gods!\" he cried fiercely--\"ye immortal Furies that\nmade Woman for Man's torture, ... Bear witness to my death! ... bear\nwitness to my parting spirit's malediction! Cursed be they who love\nunwisely and too well! ... cursed be all the wiles of desire and the\nhaunts of dear passion!--cursed he all fair faces whose fairness lures\nmen to destruction! ... cursed be the warmth of caresses, the beating\nof heart against heart, the kisses that color midnight with fire!\nCursed be Love from birth unto death!--may its sweetness be brief, and\nits bitterness endless!--its delight a snare, and its promise\ntreachery! O ye mad lovers!--fools all!\" ... and he turned his splendid\nwild eyes round on the hushed assemblage,--\"Despise me and my words as\nye will, throughout ages to come, the curse of the dead Nir-jalis shall\ncling!\"\n\nHe lifted the goblet to his lips, and just then his delirious glanced\nlighted on Sah-luma.\n\n\"I drink to thee, Sir Laureate!\" he said hoarsely, and with a ghastly\nattempt at levity--\"Sing as sweetly as thou wilt, thou must drain the\nsame cup ere long!\"\n\nAnd without another second's hesitation he drank off the entire\ncontents of the chalice at a draught. Scarcely had he done so, when\nwith a savage scream he fell prone on the ground, his limbs twisted in\nacute agony,--his features hideously contorted,--his hands beating the\nair wildly, as though in contention with some invisible foe, ..while in\nstrange and terrible dissonance with his tortured cries, Lysia's\nlaughter, musically mellow, broke out in little quick peals, like the\nlaughter of a very young child.\n\n\"Ah, ah, Nir-jalis!\" she exclaimed. \"Thou dost suffer! That is well!\n... I do rejoice to see thee fighting for life in the very jaws of\ndeath! Fain would I have all men thus tortured out of their proud and\ntyrannous existence! ... their strength made strengthless, their\narrogance brought to naught, their egotism and vain-glory beaten to the\ndust! Ah, ah! thou that wert the complacent braggart of love,--the\nself-sufficient proclaimer of thine own prowess, where is thy boasted\nvigor now? ... Writhe on, good fool! ... thy little day is done! ...\nAll honor to the Silver Nectar whose venom never fails!\"\n\nLeaning forward eagerly, she clapped her hands in a sort of fierce\necstasy--and apparently startled by the sound, the tigress rose up from\nits couchant posture, and shaking itself with a snarling yawn, glared\nwatchfully at the convulsed human wretch whose struggles became with\neach moment more and more frightful to witness. The impassive,\ncold-blooded calmness with which all the men present, even Sah-luma,\nlooked on at the revolting spectacle of their late comrade's torture,\nfilled Theos with shuddering abhorrence, ... sick at heart, he strove\nto turn away his eyes from the straining throat and upturned face of\nthe miserable Nir-jalis,--a face that had a moment or two before been\nbeautiful, but was now so disfigured as to be almost beyond\nrecognition. Presently as the anguish of the poisoned victim increased,\nshriek after shriek broke from his pallid lips, . . rolling himself on\nthe ground like a wild beast, he bit his hands and arms in his frenzy\ntill he was covered with blood, ... and again and yet again the dulcet\nlaughter of the High Priestess echoed through the length and breadth of\nthe splendid hall,--and even Sah-luma, the poet Sah-luma, condescended\nto smile! That smile, so cold, so cruel, so unpitying, made Theos for a\nmoment hate him, . . of what use, he thought, was it, to be a writer of\nsoft and delicate verse, if the inner nature of the man was merciless,\nselfish, and utterly regardless of the woes of others? ... The rest of\nthe guests were profoundly indifferent,--they kept silence, it is true,\n... but they went on drinking their wine with perfectly unabated\nenjoyment.. they were evidently accustomed to such scenes. The\nattendant slaves stood all mute and motionless, with the exception of\nGazra, who surveyed the torments of Nir-jalis with an air of\nprofessional interest, and appeared to be waiting till they should have\nreached that pitch of excruciating agony when Nature, exhausted, gives\nup the conflict and welcomes death as a release from pain.\n\nBut this desirable end was not yet. Suddenly springing to his feet,\nNir-jalis tore open his richly jewelled vest, and pressed his two hands\nhard upon his heart, ... the veins in his flesh were swollen and\nblue,--his labored breath seemed as though it must break his ribs in\nits terrible, panting struggle,--his face, livid and lined with purple\nmarks like heavy bruises, bore not a single trace of its former\nfairness, ... and his eyes, rolled up and fixed glassily in their\nquivering sockets, seemed to be dreadfully filled with the speechless\nmemory of his lately spoken curse. He staggered toward Theos, and\ndropped heavily on his knees, . .\n\n\"Kill me!\" he moaned piteously, feebly pointing to the sheathed dagger\nin the other's belt. \"In mercy! ... Kill me! ... One thrust! ...\nrelease me! ... this agony is more than I can bear, ... Kill ... Kill.\n... !\"\n\nHis voice died away in an inarticulate, gasping cry,--and Theos stared\ndown upon him in dizzy fear and horror! For...HE HAD SEEN THIS SAME\nNIR-JALIS DYING THUS CRUELLY BEFORE! Oh God! ... where,--where had\nthis tragedy been previously enacted? Bewildered and overcome with\nunspeakable dread, he drew his dagger--he would at least, he thought,\nput the tortured sufferer out of his misery, ... but scarcely had his\nweapon left the sheath, when Lysia's clear, cold voice exclaimed:\n\n\"Disarm him!\" and with the silent rapidity of a lightning-flash, Gazra\nglided to his side, and the steel was snatched from his hand. Full of\noutraged pride and wrath, he sprang up, a torrent of words rushing to\nhis lips, but before he could utter one, two slaves pounced upon him,\nand holding his arms, dexterously wound a silk scarf tight about his\nmouth.\n\n\"Be silent!\" whispered some one in his ear,--\"As you value your life\nand the life of Sah-luma,--be silent!\"\n\nBut he cared nothing for this warning, . . reckless of consequences, he\ntore the scarf away and breaking loose from the hands that held him,\nmade a bound toward Lysia ... here he paused. Her eyes met his\nlanguidly, shedding a sombre, mysterious light upon him through the\nblack shower of her abundant hair, ... the evil glitter of the great\nSymbolic Gem she wore fixed him with its stony yet mesmeric luster ...\na delicious smile parted her roseate lips,--and breaking off a\nmagnolia-bud from the cluster she held, she kissed and gave it to him...\n\n\"Be at peace, good Theos!\" she said in a low, tender tone, . . \"Beware\nof taking up arms in the defence of the unworthy, . . rather reserve\nthy courage for those who know how best to reward thy service!\"\n\nAs one in a trance he took the flower she offered,--its fragrance,\nsubtle and sweet, seemed to steal into his veins, and rob his manhood\nof all strength, ... sinking submissively at her feet he gazed up at\nher in wondering wistfulness and ardent admiration, . . never was there\na woman so bewilderingly beautiful as she! What were the sufferings of\nNir-jalis now? ... what was anything compared to the strangely\nenervating ecstasy he felt in letting his eyes dwell fondly on the\nfairness of her face, the whiteness of her half-veiled bosom, the\ndelicate, sheeny dazzle of her polished skin, the soft and supple\ncurves of her whole exquisite form, . . and spell-bound by the witchery\nof her loveliness, he almost forgot the very presence of her dying\nvictim. Occasionally indeed, he glanced at the agonized creature where\nhe lay huddled on the ground in the convulsive throes of his dreadful\ndeath-struggle,--but it was now with precisely the same quiet and\ndisdainful smile as that for which he had momentarily hated Sah-luma!\nThere was a sound of singing somewhere,--singing that had a mirthful\nunder-throbbing in it, as though a thousand light-footed fairies were\ndancing to its sweet refrain! And Nir-jalis heard it! ... dying inch by\ninch as he was, he heard it, and with a last superhuman effort forced\nhimself up once more to his feet, ... his arms stiffly outstretched, .\n. his anguished eyes full of a softened, strangely piteous glory.\n\n\"To die!\" he whispered in awed accents that penetrated the air with\nsingular clearness--\"To die! ... nay...not so! ... There is no death!\n... I see it all! ... I know! ... .To die is to live! ... to live\nagain.. and to remember...to remember,--and repent, . . the past!\"\n\nAnd with the last word he fell heavily, face forward, a corpse. At the\nsame moment a terrific roar resounded through the dome, and the tigress\nAizif sprang stealthily down from the dais, and pounced upon the warm,\nlifeless body, mounting guard over it in an ominously significant\nattitude, with glistening eyes, lashing tail and nervously quivering\nclaws. A slight thrill of horror ran through the company, but not a man\nmoved.\n\n\"Aizif!--Aizif!\" called Lysia imperiously.\n\nThe animal looked round with an angry snarl, and seemed for once\ndisposed to disobey the summons of its mistress. She therefore rose\nfrom her throne, and stepping forward with a swift, agile grace, caught\nthe savage beast by the neck, and dragged it from its desired prey.\nThen, with the point of her little, silver-sandaled foot, she turned\nthe fallen face of the dead man slightly round, so that she might\nobserve it more attentively, and noting its livid disfigurement, smiled.\n\n\"So much for the beauty and dignity of manhood!\" she said with a\ncontemptuous shrug of her snowy shoulders,--\"All perished in the space\nof a few brief moments! Look you, ye fair sirs that take pride in your\nstrength and muscular attainments! ... Ye shall not find in all\nAl-Kyris a fairer face or more nobly knit frame than was possessed by\nthis dead fool, Nir-jalis, and yet, lo!--how the Silver Nectar doth\nmake havoc on the sinews of adamant, the nerves of steel, the stalwart\nlimbs! Tried by the touchstone of Death, ye are, with all your vaunted\nintelligence, your domineering audacity and self-love, no better than\nthe slain dogs that serve vultures for carrion! ...--moreover, ye are\nless than dogs in honesty, and vastly shamed by them in fidelity!\"\n\nShe laughed scornfully as she spoke, still grasping the tigress by the\nneck in one slight hand,--and her glorious eyes flashed a mocking\ndefiance on all the men assembled. Their countenances exhibited various\nexpressions of uneasiness amounting to fear, . . some few smiled\nforcedly, others feigned a careless indifference, . . Sah-luma flushed\nan angry red, and Theos, though he knew not why, felt a sudden pricking\nsense of shame. She marked all these signs of disquietude with\napparently increasing amusement, for her lovely face grew warm and\nradiant with suppressed, malicious mirth. She made a slight imperative\ngesture of command to Gazra, who at once approached, and, bending over\nthe dead Nir-jalis, proceeded to strip off all the gold clasps and\nvaluable jewels that had so lavishly adorned the ill-fated young man's\nattire,--then beckoning another slave nearly as tall and muscular as\nhimself, they attached to the neck and feet of the corpse round,\nleaden, bullet-shaped weights, fastened by means of heavy iron chains.\nThis done, they raised the body from the floor and carried it between\nthem to the central and largest casement of all that stood open to the\nmidnight air, and with a dexterous movement flung it out into the\nwaters of the lake beneath. It fell with a sullen splash, the pale\nlilies on the surface rocking stormily to and fro as though blown by a\ngust of wind, while great circling ripples shone softly in the yellow\ngleam of the moonlight, as the dead man sank down, down, down like a\nstone into his crystal-quiet grave.\n\nLysia returned to her throne with a serene step and unruffled brow,\nfollowed by the sulky and disappointed Aizif, . . smiling gently on\nTheos and Sah-luma she reseated herself, and touched a small bell at\nher side. It gave a sharp kling-klang like a suddenly struck\ncymbal--and lo! ... the marble floor yawned asunder, and the\nbanquet-table with all its costly fruits and flowers vanished\nunderground with the swiftness of lightning! The floor closed again, .\n. the broad, circular centre-space of the hall was now clear from all\nobstruction,--and the company of revellers roused themselves a little\nfrom their drowsy postures of half-inebriated languor. The singing\nvoices that had stirred Nir-jalis to sudden animation even in his dying\nagony, sounded nearer and nearer, and the globe of fire overhead\nchanged its hue from that of crimson to a delicate pink. At the extreme\nend of the glittering vista of pale-green, transparent columns, a door\nsuddenly opened, and a flock of doves came speeding forth, their white,\nspread wings colored softly in the clear rose-radiance,--they circled\nround and round the dome three times, then fluttered in a palpitating\narch over Lysia's head, and finally sped straight across the hall to\nthe other end, where they streamed snowily through another aperture and\ndisappeared. Still nearer rippled the sound of singing, . . and all at\nonce a troop of girls came dancing noiselessly as fire-flies into the\nfull, quivering pinkness of the jewel-like light that floated about\nthem, . . girls as lovely, as delicate, as dainty as cyclamens that\nwave in the woods in the early days of an Italian spring. Their\ngarments were so white, so transparent, so filmy and clinging, that\nthey looked like elves robed in mountain-vapor rather than human\ncreatures, . . there were fifty of them in all, and as they tripped\nforward, they, like the doves that had heralded their approach,\nsurrounded Lysia flutteringly, saluting her with gestures of exquisite\ngrace and devout humility, while she, enthroned in supreme fairness,\nwith her tigress crouched beside her, looked down on them like a\ngoddess calmly surveying a crowd of vestal worshippers. Their\nsalutations done, they rushed pell-mell, like a shower of white\nrose-leaves drifting before a gale, into the exact centre of the hall,\nand there poising bird-like, with their snowy arms upraised as though\nabout to fly, they waited, . . their lovely faces radiant with\nlaughter, their eyes flashing dangerous allurement, their limbs\nglistening like polished alabaster through the gauzy attire that\nbetrayed rather than concealed their exquisite forms. Then came the\nsoft pizzicato of pulled strings, ... and a tinkling jangle of silver\nbells beating out a measured, languorous rhythm,--and with one accord,\nthey all merged together in the voluptuous grace of a dance more\nravishing, more wild and wondrous than ever poet pictured in his\nword-fantasies of fairy-land! Theos drank in the intoxicating delight\nof the scene with eager, dazzled eyes and heavily beating heart, ..the\nmysterious passion of mingled love and hatred he felt for Lysia stole\nover him more strongly than ever in the sultry air of this strange\nnight, . . this night of sweet delirium, in which all that was most\ndangerous and erring in his nature woke into life and mastered his\nbetter will! A curious, instinctive knowledge swept across his\nmind,--namely THAT SAH-LUMA'S EMOTIONS WERE THE FAITHFUL REFLEX OF HIS\nOWN,--but as he had felt no anger against his rival in fame, so now he\nhad no jealousy of his possible rival in love. Their sympathies were\ntoo closely united for distrust to mar the friendship so ardently\nbegun, ... nevertheless, as he fell resistlessly deeper and deeper into\nthe glittering snares that were spread for his destruction, he was\nCONSCIOUS OF EVIL THOUGH HE LACKED FORCE TO OVERCOME IT. At any rate,\nhe would save Sah-luma from harm, he resolved, if he could not save\nhimself! Meantime he watched the bewildering evolutions and witching\nentanglements of the gliding maze of fair faces, snowy bosoms and\ntwining limbs, that palpitated to and fro under the soft rose-light of\nthe dome like white flowers colored by the sunset, and, glancing ever\nand again at Lysia's imperial sorceress-beauty, he thought dreamily ...\n\"Better the love that kills than no love at all!\" And he thereupon gave\nhimself up a voluntary captive to the sway of his own passions,\ndetermining to enjoy the immediate present, no matter what the future\nmight have in store. Outside, the water-lilies nodded themselves to\nsleep in their shrouding, dark leaves, . . and the unbroken smoothness\nof the lake spread itself out in the moon like a sheet of molten gold\nover the spot where Nir-jalis had found his chilly rest. \"THE CURSE OF\nTHE DEAD NIR-JALIS SHALL CLING!\" Yes,--possibly!--in the hereafter! ...\nbut now his parting malison seemed but a foolish clamor against\ndestiny, ... he was gone! ... none of his late companions missed him,\n... none regretted him--like all dead men, once dead he was soon\nforgotten!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nA STRANGE TEMPTATION.\n\n\nOn went the dance, ... faster, faster, and ever faster! Only the pen of\nsome mirth-loving, rose-crowned Greek bard could adequately describe\nthe dazzling, wild beauty and fantastic grace of those whirling fairy\nforms, that now inspired to a bacchante-like ardor, urged one another\nto fresh speed with brief soft cries of musical rapture! Now\nadvancing,--now retreating ... now intermingling all together in an\nundulating garland of living loveliness, ... now parting asunder with\nan air of sweet coquettishness and caprice, ...--anon meeting again,\nand winding arm within arm,--till bending forward in attitudes of the\ntenderest entreaty, they seemed, with their languid, praying eyes and\nclasped hands, to be waiting for Love to soothe the breathless\nsweetness of their parted lips with kisses! The light in the dome again\nchanged its hue,--from pale rose-pink it flickered to delicate\namber-green, flooding the floor with a radiance as of watery moonbeams,\nand softening the daintily draped outlines of that exquisite group of\nhuman blossoms, till they looked like the dimly imagined shapes of\nNereids floating on the glistening width of the sea.\n\nAnd now the extreme end of the vast hall began to waver to and fro as\nthough shaken at its foundation by subterranean forces,--a flaring\nshaft of flame struck through it like the sweeping blade of a Titan's\nsword,--and presently with a thunderous noise the whole wall split\nasunder, and recoiling backwards on either side, disclosed a garden,\ngolden with the sleepy glory of the late moon, and peacefully fair in\nall the dreamy attractiveness of drooping foliage, soft turf, and\nstar-sprinkled, violet sky. In full view, and lit up by the reflected\nradiance flung out from the dome, a rushing waterfall made sonorous\nsurgy music of its own as it tumbled headlong into a rocky recess\novergrown with lotus-lilies and plumy fern,--here and there, small,\nwhite and gold tents or pavilions glimmered invitingly through the\nshadows cast by the great magnolia trees, from whose lovely half-shut\nbuds balmy odors crept deliciously through the warm air. The sound of\nsweet pipes and faintly tinkling cymbals echoed from distant shady\nnooks, as though elfin shepherds were guarding their fairy flocks in\nsome hidden corner of this ambrosial pasturage, and ever by degrees the\nlight grew warmer and more mellow in tint, till it resembled the deep\nhue of an autumn, yellow sunset, flecked through with emerald haze.\n\nAnother clash of cymbals! ... this time stormily persistent and\nconvincing! ... another! ... yet another! ... and then, a chime of\nbells,--a steady ringing, persuasive chime, such as brings tears to the\neyes of many a wanderer, who, hearing a similar sound when far away\nfrom home, straightway thinks of the village church of his earlier\nyears, . . those years of the best happiness we ever know on earth,\nbecause we enjoy in them the bliss of ignorance, the glory of youth! A\ncurious stifling sensation began to oppress Theos's heart as he\nlistened to those bells, . . they reminded him of such strange things,\n... things to which he could not give a name,--things foolish, yet\nsweet, . . odd suggestions of fair women who were wont to pray for\nthose they loved, and who believed, . . alas, the pity of it!--that\ntheir prayers would be heard ... and granted! What was it that these\ndear, loving, credulous ones said, when in the silence of the night\nthey offered up their patient supplications to an irresponsive Heaven?\n\"LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION, BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL!\" Yes! ... he\nremembered,--those were the words,--the simple-wise words that for\npositive-practical minds had neither meaning nor reason,--and that yet\nwere so infinitely pathetic in their perfect humility and absolute\ntrust!\n\n\"LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION!\" ... He murmured the phrase under his\nbreath as he gazed with straining eyes out into the languorous beauty\nof that garden-scene that spread its dewy, emerald glamour before\nhim,--and--\"deliver us from evil!\" broke from his lips in a\nhalf-sobbing sigh, as the peal of the chiming bells softened by degrees\ninto a subdued tunefulness of indistinct and tremulous semitones, and\nthe clarion-clearness of the cymbals again smote the still air with\nforceful and jarring clangor. Then...like a rainbow-garmented Peri\nfloating easefully out of some far-off sphere of sky-wonders,--an\naerial Maiden-Shape glided into the full lustre of the varying\nlight,--a dancer, nude save for the pearly glistening veil that was\ncarelessly cast about her dainty limbs, her white arms and delicate\nankles being adorned with circlets of tiny, golden bells, which kept up\na melodious jingle-jangle as she moved. And now began the strangest\nmusic,--music that seemed to hover capriciously between luscious melody\nand harsh discord,--a wild and curious medley of fantastic, minor\nsuggestions in which the imaginative soul might discover hints of tears\nand folly, love and madness. To this uncertain yet voluptuous measure\nthe glittering girl-dancer leaped forward with a startlingly beautiful\nabruptness,--and halting, as it were, on the boundary-line between the\ndome and the garden beyond, raised her rounded arms in a snowy arch\nabove her head, and so for one brief instant, looked like an exquisite\nangel ready to soar upward to her native realm. Her pause was a mere\nbreathing space in duration, ... dropping her arms again with a swift\ndecision that set all the little bells on them clashing stormily, she\nstraightway hurled herself, so to speak, into the giddy paces of a\ndance that was more like an enigma than an exercise. Round and round\nshe floated wildly, like an opal-winged butterfly in a net of\nsunbeams,--now seemingly shaken by delicate tremors as aspen leaves are\nshaken by the faintest wind, ..now assuming the most voluptuous\neccentricities of posture, . . sometimes bending wistfully toward the\nvelvet turf on which she trod, as though she listened to the chanting\nof demon voices underground, . . and again, with her waving white\nhands, appearing to summon spirits downward from their wanderings in\nupper air. Her figure was in perfect harmony with the seductive grace\nof her gestures,--not only her twinkling feet, but her whole body\ndanced,--her very features bespoke entire abandonment to the frenzy of\nrapid movement,--her large black eyes flashed with something of\nfierceness as well as languor; her raven hair streamed behind her like\na dark spread wing, . . her parted lips pouted and quivered with\nexcitement and ardor while ever and anon she turned her beautiful head\ntoward the eagerly attentive group of revelers who watched her\nperformance, with an air of indescribable sweetness, malice, and\nmockery. Again and again she whirled,--she flew, she sprang,--and wild\ncries of \"Hail, Nelida!\" \"Triumph to Nelida!\" resounded uproariously\nthrough the dome. Suddenly the character of the music changed, ... from\nan appealing murmurous complaint and persuasion, it rose to a martial\nand almost menacing fervor; the roll of drums and the shrill, reedy\nwarbling of pipes and other fluty minstrelsy crossed the silvery thread\nof strung harps and viols, ... the light from the fiery globe shot\nforth a new effulgence, this time in two broad rays, one a dazzling,\npale azure, the other a clear, pearly white. Nelida's graceful\nmovements grew slower and slower, till she merely seemed to sway\nindolently to and fro like a mermaid rocking herself to sleep on the\nsummit of a wave, ... and then,--from among the veiling shadows of the\ntrees, there stepped forth a man,--beautiful as a sculptured god, of\nmagnificently moulded form and noble stature, clothed from chest to\nknee in a close fitting garb of what seemed to be a thick network of\nmassively linked gold. His dark hair was crowned with ivy, and at his\nbelt gleamed an unsheathed dagger. Slowly and with courtly grace he\napproached the panting Nelida, who now, with half-closed eyes and\nslackening steps, looked as though she were drowsily footing her way\ninto dreamland. He touched her snowy shoulder,--she started with an\ninimitable gesture of surprise, ... a smile, brilliant as morning,\ndawned on her face,--withdrawing herself slightly, she assumed an air\nof haughtily sweet disdain and refusal, ... then capriciously\nrelenting, she gave him her hand, and in another instant, to the sound\nof a joyous melody that seemed to tumble through the air as billows\ntumble on the beach, the dazzling pair whirled away in a giddy waltz\nlike two bright flames blown suddenly together by the wind. No language\ncould give an adequate idea of the marvelous bewitchment and beauty of\ntheir united movements, and as they flew over the dark smooth turf,\nwith the flower-laden trees drooping dewily about them, and the yellow\nmoonbeams like melted amber beneath their noiseless feet, ... while the\npale sapphire and white radiations from the dome, sparkling upon them\naureole-wise, gave them the appearance of glittering birds circling\nthrough a limitless space of luminous and never-clouded ether. On, on!\n... and they scarcely touched the earth as they spun dizzily round and\nround, their gracefully entwined limbs shining like polished ivory in\nthe light, ... on, on!--with ever-increasing swiftness they sped, till\ntheir two forms seemed to merge into one, ... when as though oppressed\nby their own abandonment of joy they paused hoveringly, their embracing\narms closing round one another, their lips almost touching, ... their\neyes reflecting each other's ardent looks, ... then, ... their figures\ngrew less and less distinct, ... they appeared to melt mysteriously\ninto the azure, pearly light that surrounded them, and finally, like\nfaint clouds fading on the edge of a sea-horizon, they vanished! The\neffect of this brief voluptuous dance, and its equally voluptuous end,\nwas simply indescribable,--the young men, who had watched it through in\nsilence and flushed ecstasy, now sprang from their couches with shouts\nof rapture and unrestrained excitement, and seizing the other\ndancing-maidens who had till now remained in clustered, half-hidden\ngroups behind the crystalline columns of the hall, whirled them off\ninto the inviting pleasaunce beyond, where the little white and gold\npavilions peeped through the heavy foliage,--and before Theos, in the\npicturesque hurry and confusion of the scene, could quite realize what\nhad happened, the great globe in the dome was suddenly extinguished,\n... a firm hand closed imperiously on his own, and he was drawn along\nswiftly, he knew not whither!\n\nA slight tremor shook him as he discovered that Sah-luma was no longer\nby his side ... the friend whom he so ardently desired to protect had\ngone,--and he could not tell where. He glanced about him,--in the\nsemi-obscurity he was able to discern the sheen of the lake with its\nwhite burden of water-lilies, and the branchy outlines of the moonlit\ngarden, ... and ... yes! it was Lysia whose grasp lay so warmly on his\narm, ... Lysia whose lovely, tempting face was so perilously near his\nown,--Lysia whose smile colored the soft gloom with such alluring\nlustre! ... His heart beat,--his blood burned,--he strove in vain to\nimagine what fate was now in store for him. He was conscious of the\nbeauty of the night that spread its star-embroidered splendors about\nhim,--conscious too of the vital youth and passion that throbbed\namorously in his veins, endowing him with that keenly sweet, headstrong\nrapture which is said to come but once in a lifetime, and which in the\nvery excess of its fond folly is too often apt to bring sorrow and\nendless remorse in its train. One moment more and he found himself in\nan exquisitely adorned pavilion of painted silk, faintly lit by one\nlamp of tenderest rose lustre, and carpeted with gold-spangled tissue.\nIt was surrounded by a thicket of orange trees in full bloom, and the\nfragrance of the waxen-white flowers clung heavily to the air,\nbreathing forth delicate suggestions of languor and sleep. The measured\nrush of the near waterfall alone disturbed the deep silence, with now\nand then the subdued and plaintive trill of a nightingale soothing\nitself to rest with its own song in some deep shadowed copse. Here, on\na couch of heaped-up, stemless roses, such as might have been prepared\nfor the repose of Titania, Lysia seated herself, while Theos stood\ngazing at her in fascinated wonderment and gradually increasing\nmasterfulness of passion. She looked lovelier than ever in that dim,\nsoft, mingled light of rosy lamp and silver moonbeams,--her smile was\nno longer cold but warmly sweet,--her eyes had lost their mocking\nglitter, and swam in a soft languor that was strangely\nbewitching,--even the Orbed Symbol on her white bosom seemed for once\nto drowse. Her lips parted in a faint sigh,--a glance like fire flashed\nfrom beneath her black, silken lashes, ...\n\n\"Theos!\" she said tremulously. \"Theos!\" and waited.\n\nHe, mute and oppressed by indistinct, hovering recollections, fed his\ngaze on her seductive fairness for one earnest moment longer,--then\nsuddenly advancing he knelt before her, and took her unresisting hands\nin his.\n\n\"Lysia!\"--and his voice, even to his own ears, had a solemn as well as\npassionate thrill,--\"Lysia, what wouldst thou have with me? Speak! ...\nfor my heart aches with a burden of dark memories,--memories conjured\nup by the wizard spell of thine eyes,--those eyes so cruel-sweet that\nseem to lure me to my soul's ruin! Tell me--have we not met before? ...\nloved before? ... wronged each other and God before? ... parted before?\n... Maybe 'tis but a brain sick fancy,--nevertheless my spirit knows\nthee,--feels thee,--clings to thee,--and yet recoils from thee as one\nwhom I did love in by-gone days of old! My thoughts of thee are\nstrange, fair Lysia!\"--and he pressed her warm, delicate fingers with\nunconscious fierceness,--\"I would have sworn that in the Past thou\ndidst betray me!\"\n\nHer low laugh stirred the silence into a faint, tuneful echo.\n\n\"Thou foolish dreamer!\" she murmured half mockingly, half tenderly ...\n\"Thou art dazed with wine, steeped in song, bewitched with beauty, and\nknowest nothing of what thou sayest! Methinks thou art a crazed poet,\nand more fervid than Sah-luma in the mystic nature of thine\nutterance,--thou shouldst be Laureate, not he! What if thou wert\noffered his place? ... his fame?\"\n\nHe looked at her, surprised and perplexed, and paused an instant before\nreplying. Then he said slowly:\n\n\"So strange a thing could never be ... for Sah-luma's place, once\nempty, could not again be filled! I grudge him not his\nglory-laurels,--moreover, ... what is Fame compared to Love!\" He\nuttered the last words in a low tone as though he spoke them to\nhimself, ... she heard,--and a flash of triumph brightened her\nbeautiful face.\n\n\"Ah! ...\" and she drooped her head lower and lower till her dark,\nfragrant tresses touched his brow ... \"Then, ... thou dost love me?\"\n\nHe started. A dull pang ached in his heart,--a chill of vague\nuncertainty and dread. Love! ... was it love indeed that he felt? ...\nlove, ... or ... base desire? Love ... The word rang in his ears with\nthe same sacred suggestiveness as that conveyed by the chime of\nbells,--surely, Love was a holy thing, ... a passion pure, impersonal,\ndivine, and deathless,--and it seemed to him that somewhere it had been\nwritten or said ... \"Wheresoever a man seeketh himself, there he\nfalleth from Love\" And he, ... did he not seek himself, and the\ngratification of his own immediate pleasure? Painfully he considered,\n... it was a supreme moment with him,--a moment when he felt himself to\nbe positively held within the grasp of some great Archangel, who,\nturning grandly reproachful eyes upon him, demanded ...\n\n\"Art thou the Servant of Love or the Slave of Self?\" And while he\nremained silent, the silken sweet voice of the fairest woman he had\never seen once more sent its musical cadence through his brain in that\nfateful question:\n\n\"Thou dost love me?\"\n\nA deep sigh broke from him, ... he moved nearer to her, ... he entwined\nher warm waist with his arms, and stared upon her as though he drank\nher beauty in with his eyes. Up to the crowning masses of her dusky\nhair where the little serpents' heads darted forth glisteningly,--over\nthe dainty curve of her white shoulders and bosom where the symbolic\nEye seemed to regard him with a sleepy weirdness,--down to the\nblue-veined, small feet in the silvery sandals, and up again to the red\nwitchery of her mouth and black splendor of those twin fire-jewels that\nflashed beneath her heavy lashes--his gaze wandered hungrily,\nsearchingly, passionately,--his heart beat with a loud, impatient\neagerness like a wild thing struggling in its cage, but though his lips\nmoved, he said no word,--she too was silent. So passed or seemed to\npass some minutes,--minutes that were almost terrible in the weight of\nmysterious meaning they held unuttered. Then, with a half-smothered\ncry, he suddenly released her and sprang erect.\n\n\"Love!\" he cried, ... \"Nay!--'tis a word for children and angels!--not\nfor me! What have I to do with love? ... what hast thou? ... thou,\nLysia, who dost make the lives of men thy sport and their torments thy\nmockery! There is no name for this fever that consumes me when I look\nupon thee, ... no name for this unquiet ravishment that draws me to\nthee in mingled bliss and agony! If I must perish of mine own\nbitter-sweet frenzy, let me be slain now and most utterly, ... but Love\nhas no abiding-place 'twixt me and thee, Lysia! ... Love! ... ah, no,\nno! ... speak no more of love ... it hath a charmed sound, recalling to\nmy soul some glory I have lost!\"\n\nHe spoke wildly, incoherently, scarcely knowing what he said, and she,\nhalf lying on her couch of roses, looked at him curiously, with somber,\nmeditative eyes. A smile of delicate derision parted her lips.\n\n\"Of a truth, our late feasting hath roused in thee a most singular\ndelirium!\" she murmured indolently with a touch of cold amusement in\nher accents--\"Thou dost seem to dwell in the Past rather than the\nPresent! What ails thee? ... Come hither--closer!\"--and she stretched\nout her lovely arms on which the twisted diamond snakes glittered in\nsuch flashing coils,--\"Come! ... or is thy manful guise mere feigning,\nand dost thou fear me?\"\n\n\"Fear thee!\"--and stung to a sudden heat Theos made one bound to her\nside and seizing her slim wrists, held them in a vise-like grip--\"So\nlittle do I fear thee, Lysia, so well do I know thee, that in my very\ncaresses I would slay thee, couldst thou thus be slain! Thou art to me\nthe living presence of an unforgotten Sin,--a sin most deadly sweet and\nunrepented of, . . ah! why dost thou tempt me!\"--and he bent over her\nmore ardently--\"must I not meet my death at thy hands? I must,--and\nmore than death!--yet for thy kiss I will risk hell,--for one embrace\nof thine I will brave perdition! Ah, cruel enchantress!\"--and winding\nhis arms about her, he drew her close against his breast and looked\ndown on the dreamy fairness of her face,--\"Would there WERE such a\nthing as Death for souls like mine and thine! Would we might die most\nabsolutely thus, heart against heart, never to wake again and loathe\neathtypo or archaism? other! Who speaks of the cool sweetness of the\ngrave,--the quiet ending of all strife,--the unbreaking seal of Fate,\nthe deep and stirless rest? ... These things are not, and never were, .\n. for the grave gives up its dead,--the strife is forever and ever\nresumed,--the seal is broken, and in all the laboring Universe there\nshall be found no rest, and no forgetfulness, . . ah, God! ... no\nforgetfulness!\" A shudder ran through his frame,--and clasping her\nalmost roughly, he stooped toward her till his lips nearly touched\nhers, . . \"Thou art accursed, Lysia,--and I share thy curse! Speak--how\nshall we cheer each other in the shadow-realm of fiends? Thou shall be\nQueen there, and I thy servitor,--we will make us merry with the griefs\nof others,--our music shall be the dropping of lost women's tears, and\nthe groans of betrayed and tortured men,--and the light around us shall\nbe quenchless fire! Shall it not be so, Lysia? ... and thinkest thou\nthat we shall ever regret the loss of Heaven?\"\n\nThe words rushed impetuously from his lips; he thought little and cared\nless what he said, so long as he could, by speech, no matter how\nincoherent, relieve in part, the terrible oppression of vague memories\nthat burdened his brain. But she, listening, drew herself swiftly from\nhis embrace and stood up,--her large eyes fixed full upon him with an\nexpression of wondering scorn and fear.\n\n\"Thou art mad!\" she said, a quiver of alarm in her voice ... \"Mad as\nKhosrul, and all his evil-croaking brethren! I offer thee Love,--and\nthou pratest of death,--life is here in all the fulness of the now, for\nthy delight, and thou ravest of an immortal Hereafter which is not, and\ncan never be! Why talk thus wildly? ... why gaze on me with so\ndistraught a countenance? But an hour agone, thou wert the model of a\ncold discretion and quiet valor,--thus I had judged thee worthy of my\nfavor--favor sought by many, and granted to few, . . but an thou dost\nwander amid such chaotic and unreasoning fancies, thou canst not serve\nme,--nor therefore canst thou win the reward that would otherwise have\nawaited thee.\"...\n\nHere she paused,--a questioning, keen under-glance flashed from beneath\nher dark lashes, . . he, however, with pained, wistful eyes raised\nsteadfastly to hers, gave no sign of apology or contrition for the\ndisconnected strangeness of his recent outburst. Only he became\ngradually conscious of an inward, growing calm,--as though the Divine\nVoice that had once soothed the angry waves of Galilee were now hushing\nhis turbulent emotions with a soft \"Peace be still!\" She watched him\nclosely, . .and all at once apparently rendered impatient by his\nimpassive attitude, she came coaxingly toward him, and laid one soft\nhand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Canst thou not be happy, Theos?\" she whispered gently--\"Happy as other\nmen are, when loved as thou art loved?\"\n\nHis upturned gaze rested on the glittering serpents' heads that crowned\nher dusky tresses,--then on the great Eye that stared watchfully\nbetween her white breasts. A strong tremor shook him, and he sighed.\n\n\"Happy as other men are, when they love and are deceived in love!\"--he\nsaid.. \"Yes, even so, Lysia,--I can be happy!\"\n\nShe threw one arm about him. \"Thou shalt not be deceived\"--she murmured\nquickly,--\"Thou shalt be honored above the noblest in the realm, . .\nthy dearest hopes shall be fulfilled, . . thy utmost desires shall be\ngranted, . . riches, power, fame,--all shall be thine,--IF THOU WILT DO\nMY BIDDING!\"\n\nShe uttered the last words with slow and meaning emphasis. He met her\neager, burning looks quietly, almost coldly,--the curious numb apathy\nof his spirit increased, and when he spoke, his voice was low and faint\nlike the voice of one who speaks unconsciously in his sleep.\n\n\"What canst thou ask that I will not grant?\" he said listlessly.. \"Is\nit not as it was in the old time,--thou to command, and I to obey? ...\nSpeak, fair Queen!--how can I serve thee?\"\n\nHer answer came, swift and fierce as the hiss of a snake:\n\n\"KILL SAH-LUMA!\"\n\nThe brief sentence leaped into his brain with the swift, fiery action\nof some burning drug,--a red mist rose to his eyes,--pushing her\nfiercely from him, he started to his feet in a bewildered, sick horror.\nKILL SAH-LUMA! ... kill the gracious, smiling, happy creature whose\nevery minute of existence was a joy,--kill the friend he loved,--the\npoet he worshipped! ... Kill him! ... ah God! ... never! ... never! ...\nHe staggered backward dizzily,--and Lysia with a sudden stealthy\nspring, like that of her favorite tigress, threw herself against his\nbreast and looked up at him, her splendid eyes ablaze with passion, her\nblack hair streaming, her lips curved in a cruel smile, and the hateful\nJewel on her breast seeming to flash with ferocious vindictiveness.\n\n\"Kill him!\" she repeated eagerly--\"Now--in his sottish slumber,--now\nwhen he hath lost sight of his Poetmission in the hot fumes of\nwine,--now, when, despite his genius, he hath made of himself a thing\nlower than the beasts! Kill him! ...--I will keep good council, and\nnone shall ever know who did the deed! He loves me, and I weary of his\nlove, . . I would have him dead--dead as Nir-jalis! ... but were he to\ndrain the Silver Nectar, the whole city would cry out upon me for his\nloss,--therefore he may not perish so. But an thou wilt slay him, . .\nsee!\" and she clung to Theos with the fierce tenacity of some wild\nanimal--\"All this beauty of mine, is thine!--thy days and nights shall\nbe dreams of rapture,--thou shalt be second to none in Al-Kyris,--thou\nshalt rule with me over King and people,--and we will make the land a\npleasure-garden for our love and joy! Here is thy weapon..\"--and she\nthrust into his hand a dagger,--the very dagger her slave Gazra, had\ndeprived him of, when by its prompt use he might have mercifully ended\nthe cruel torments of Nir-jalis,--\"Let thy stroke be strong and\nunfaltering, . . stab him to the heart,--the cold, cold, selfish heart\nthat has never ached with a throb of pity! ... kill him!--'tis an easy\ntask,--for lo! how fast he sleeps!\"\n\nAnd suddenly throwing back a rich gold curtain that depended from one\nside of the painted pavilion, she disclosed a small interior chamber\nhung with amber and crimson, where, on a low, much-tumbled couch\ncovered with crumpled glistening draperies, lay the King's Chief\nMinstrel,--the dainty darling of women,--the Laureate of the realm,\nsunk in a heavy, drunken stupor, so deep as to be almost death-like.\nTheos stared upon him amazed and bewildered, . . how came he there? Had\nhe heard any of the conversation that had just passed between Lysia and\nhimself? ... Apparently not, . . he seemed bound as by chains in a\nstirless lethargy. His posture was careless, yet uneasy,--his brilliant\nattire was torn and otherwise disordered,--and some of his priceless\njewels had fallen on the couch, and gleamed here and there like big\nstray dewdrops. His face was deeply flushed, and his straight dark\nbrows were knit frowningly, his breathing was hurried and irregular, .\n. one arm was thrown above his head,--the other hung down nervelessly,\nthe relaxed fingers hovering immediately above a costly jewelled cup\nthat had dropped from his clasp,--two emptied wine flagons lay cast on\nthe ground beside him, and he had evidently experienced the discomfort\nand feverous heat arising from intoxication, for his silken vest was\nloosened as though for greater ease and coolness, thus leaving the\nsmooth breadth of his chest bare and fully exposed. To this Lysia\npointed with a fiendish glee, as she pulled Theos forward.\n\n\"Strike now!\" she whispered.. \"Quick.. why dost thou hesitate?\"\n\nHe looked at her fixedly, . . the previous hot passion he had felt for\nher froze like ice within his veins, ... her fairness seemed no longer\nso distinctly fair, . . the witching radiance of her eyes had lost its\ncharm, . .... and he motioned her from him with a silent gesture of\nstern repugnance. Catching sight of the sheeny glimmer of the lake\nthrough the curtained entrance of the tent, he made a sudden spring\nthither--dashed aside the draperies, and flung the dagger he held, far\nout towards the watery mirror. It whirled glittering through the air,\nand fell with a quick splash into the silver-rippled depths,--and,\ngravely contented, he turned upon her, dauntless and serene in the\nconsciousness of power.\n\n\"Thus do I obey thee!\" he said, in firm tones that thrilled through and\nthrough with scorn and indignation,--\"Thou evil Beauty! ... thou fallen\nFairness! ... Kill Sah-luma? ... Nay, sooner would I kill myself...or\nthee! His life is a glory to the world, . . his death shall never\nprofit thee!\"...\n\nFor one instant a lurid anger blazed in her face,--the next her\nfeatures hardened themselves into a rigidly cold expression of disdain,\nthough her eyes widened with wrathful wonder. A low laugh broke from\nher lips.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried--\"Art thou angel or demon that thou darest defy me?\nThou shouldst be either or both, to array thyself in opposition against\nthe High Priestess of Nagaya, whose relentless Will hath caused empires\nto totter and thrones to fall! HIS life a glory to the world? ...\" and\nshe pointed to Sah-luma's recumbent figure with a gesture of loathing\nand contempt, . . \"HIS? ... the life of a drunken voluptuary? ... a\nsensual egotist? ... a poet who sees no genius save his own, and who\ncondemns all vice, save that which he himself indulges in! A laurelled\nswine! ... a false god of art! ... and for him thou dost reject Me! ...\nah, thou fool!\" and her splendid eyes shot forth resentful fire.. \"Thou\nrash, unthinking, headstrong fool! thou knowest not what thou hast\nlost! Aye, guard thy friend as thou wilt,--thou dost guard him at thine\nown peril! ... think not that he, . . or thou, ... shall escape my\nvengeance! What!--dost thou play the heroic with me? ... thou who art\nMan, and therefore NO hero? ... For men are cowards all, except when in\nthe heat of battle they follow the pursuit of their own brief glory!\n... poltroons and knaves in spirit, incapable of resisting their own\npassions! ... and wilt THOU pretend to be stronger than the rest? ...\nWilt thou take up arms against thyself and Destiny? Thou madman!\"--and\nher lithe form quivered with concentrated rage--\"Thou puny wretch that\ndost first clutch at, and then refuse my love!--thou who dost oppose\nthy miserable force to the Fate that hunts thee down!--thou who dost\ngaze at me with such grave, child-foolish eyes! ... Beware, . . beware\nof me! I hate thee as I hate ALL men! ... I will humble thee as I have\nhumbled the proudest of thy sex! ..--wheresoever thou goest I will\ntrack thee out and torture thee! ... and thou shalt die--miserably,\nlingeringly, horribly,--as I would have every man die could I fulfil my\nutmost heart's desire! To-night, be free! ... but to-morrow as thou\nlivest, I will claim thee!\"\n\nLike an enraged Queen she stood,--one white, jewelled arm stretched\nforth menacingly,--her bosom heaving, and her face aflame with wrath,\nbut Theos, leaning against Sah-luma's couch, heard her with as much\nimpassiveness as though her threatening voice were but the sound of an\nidle wind. Only, when she ceased, he turned his untroubled gaze calmly\nand full upon her,--and then,--to his own infinite surprise she\nshivered and shrank backwards, while over her countenance flitted a\nvague, undefinable, almost spectral expression of terror. He saw it,\nand swift words came at once to his lips,--words that uttered\nthemselves without premeditation.\n\n\"To-morrow, Lysia, thou shalt claim nothing!\" he said in a still,\ncomposed voice that to himself had something strange and unearthly in\nits tone ... \"Not even a grave! Get thee hence! ... pray to thy gods if\nthou hast any,--for truly there is need of prayer! Thou shalt not harm\nSah-luma, . . his love for thee may be his present curse,--but it shall\nnot work his future ruin! As for me, . . though canst not slay me,\nLysia,--seeing that to myself I am dead already! ... dead, yet alive in\nthought, . . and thou dost now seem to my soul but the shadow of a past\nCrime, . . the ghost of a temptation overcome and baffled! Ah, thou\nsweet Sin!\" here he suddenly moved toward her and caught her hands\nhard, looking fearlessly the while at her flushed half-troubled\nface,--\"I do confess that I have loved thee, . . I do own that I have\nfound thee fair! ... but now--now that I see thee as thou art, in all\nthe nameless horror of thy beauty, I do entreat,\".. and his accents\nsank to a low yet fervent supplication--\"I do entreat the most high God\nthat I may be released from thee forever!\"\n\nShe gazed upon him with dilated, terrified eyes, ... and he dimly\nwondered, as he looked, why she should seem to fear him?--Not a word\ndid she utter in reply, . . step by step she retreated from him, . .\nher glittering, exquisite form grew paler and more indistinct in\noutline--and presently, catching at the gold curtain that divided the\ntwo pavilions, she paused...still regarding him steadfastly. An evil\nsmile curved her lips, . . a smile of cold menace and derisive scorn, .\n. the iris-colored jewel on her breast darted forth vivid flashes of\nazure, and green and gray, . . the snakes in her hair seemed to rise\nand hiss at him, . . and then,--with an awful unspoken threat written\nresolvedly on every line of her fair features, . . she let the gold\ndraperies fall softly,--and so disappeared, . . leaving him alone with\nSah-luma! He stood for a moment half amazed, half perplexed,--then,\ndrawing a deep breath, he pushed the clustering hair off his forehead\nwith an unconscious gesture of relief. She was gone! ... and he felt as\nthough he had gained a victory over something, though he knew not what.\nThe cold air from the lake blew refreshingly on his heated brow, . .\nand a thousand odors from orange-flowers and jessamine floated\ncaressingly about him. The night was very still,--and approaching the\nopening of the tent, he looked out. There, in the soft sky gloom, moved\nthe majestic procession of the Undiscovered Worlds seeming to be no\nmore than bright dots on the measureless expanse of pure ether, . .\nthere, low on the horizon, the yellow moon swooned languidly downwards\nin a bed of fleecy cloud,--the drowsy chirrup of a dreaming bird came\nsoftly now and again from the deep-branched shadows of the heavy\nfoliage,--and the lilies on the surface of the lake nodded mysteriously\namong the slow ripples, like wise, white elves whispering to one\nanother some secret of fairyland. And Sah-luma still slept, . . and\nstill that puzzled and weary frown darkened the fairness of his broad\nbrow, . . and, coming back to his side, Theos stood watching him with a\nyearning and sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels that had\nfallen out of his dress, he replaced them one by one,--and strove to\nre-arrange the tossed and tumbled garb as best he might. While he was\nthus occupied his hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a\nsilver chain from the Laureate's belt,--he glanced at it, . . it was\ncovered with fine writing, and turning it more toward the light, he\nsoon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and smoothly flowing as a\nwell-modulated harmony. He read them slowly with a faint smile,--he\nrecognized them as HIS OWN!--they were part of a poem he had long ago\nbegun, yet have never finished! And now Sah-luma had the same idea! ...\nmoreover he had chosen the same rhythm, the same words! ... well! ...\nafter all, what did it matter? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was\nconcerned,--he had ceased to care for his own personality or\ninterests,--Sah-luma had become dearer to him than himself!\n\nHis immediate anxiety was centered in the question of how to rouse his\nfriend from the torpor in which he lay, and get him out of this\nvoluptuous garden of delights, before any lurking danger could overtake\nhim. Full of this intention, he presently ventured to draw aside the\ncurtain that concealed Lysia's pavilion, . . and looking in, he saw to\nhis great relief, that she was no longer there. Her couch of crushed\nroses scented the place with heavy fragrance, and the ruby lamp was\nstill burning, . . but she herself had departed. Now was the time for\nescape!--thought Theos--now,--while she was absent,--now, if Sah-luma\ncould be persuaded to come away, he might reach his own palace in\nsafety, and once there, he could be warned of the death that threatened\nhim through the treachery of the woman he loved. But would he believe\nin, or accept, the warning? At any rate some effort must be made to\nrescue him, and Theos, without more ado, bent above him and called\naloud:\n\n\"Sah-luma! ... Wake! Sah-luma!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE PASSAGE OF THE TOMBS.\n\n\nSah-luma stirred uneasily and smiled in his sleep.\n\n\"More wine!\" he muttered thickly--\"More, . . more I say! What! wilt\nthou stint the generous juice that warms my soul to song? Pour, . .\npour out lavishly! I will mix the honey of thy luscious lips with the\ncrimson bubbles on this goblet's brim, and the taste thereof shall be\nas nectar dropped from paradise! Nay, nay! I will drink to none but\nMyself,--to the immortal bard Sah-luma,--Poet of poets,--named first\nand greatest on the scroll of Fame! ... aye, 'tis a worthy toast and\nmerits a deeper draught of mellow vintage! Fill...fill again!--the\nworld is but the drunken dream of a God Poet and we but the mad\nrevellers of a shadow day! 'Twill pass--'twill pass, . . let us enjoy\nere all is done,--drown thought in wine, and love, and music, . . wine\nand music...\"\n\nHis voice broke in a short, smothered sigh,--Theos surveyed him with\nmingled impatience, pity, and something of repulsion, and there was a\nwarm touch of indignant remonstrance in his tone when he called again:\n\n\"Sah-luma! Rouse thee, man, for very shame's sake! Art thou dead to the\nhonor of thy calling, that thou dost wilfully consent to be the victim\nof wine-bibbing and debauchery? O thou frail soul! how hast thou\nquenched the heavenly essence within thee! ... why wilt thou be thus\nself-disgraced and all inglorious? Sah-luma! Sah-luma!\"--and he shook\nhim violently by the arm--\"Up,--up, thou truant to the faith of Art! I\nwill not let thee drowse the hours away in such unseemliness, . . wake!\nfor the night is almost past,--the morning is at hand, and danger\nthreatens thee,--wouldst thou be found here drunk at sunrise?\"\n\nThis time Sah-luma was thoroughly disturbed, and with a half uttered\noath he sat up, pushed his tumbled hair from his brows, and stared at\nhis companion in blinking, sleepy wonderment.\n\n\"Now, by my soul! ... thou art a most unmannerly ruffian!\" he said\npettishly, yet with a vacant smile,--\"what question didst thou bawl\nunmusically in mine ear? Will I be drunk at sunrise? Aye! ... and at\nsunset too, Sir Malapert, if that will satisfy thee! Hast thou been\ngrudged sufficient wine that thou dost envy me my slumber? What dost\nthou here? ... where hast thou been?\".. and, becoming more conscious of\nhis surroundings he suddenly stood up, and catching hold of Theos to\nsupport himself, gazed upon him suspiciously with very dim and\nbloodshot eyes ... \"Art thou fresh from the arms of the ravishing\nNelida? ... is she not fair? a choice morsel for a lover's banquet? ...\nDoth she not dance a madness into the veins? ... aye, aye!--she was\nreserved for thee, my jolly roysterer! but thou art not the first nor\nwilt thou be the last that hath revelled in her store of charms! No\nmatter!\"--and he laughed foolishly ... \"Better a wild dancer than a\ntame prude!\" Here he looked about him in confused bewilderment.. \"Where\nis Lysia? Was she not here a moment since? ...\" and he staggered toward\nthe neighboring pavilion, and dashed the dividing curtain aside ...\n\"Lysia! ... Lysia! ...\" he shouted noisily,--then, receiving no answer,\nhe flung himself down on the vacant couch of roses, and gathering up a\nhandful of the crumpled flowers, kissed them passionately,--\"The witch\nhas flown!\" he said, laughing again that mirthless, stupid laugh as he\nspoke--\"She doth love to tantalize me thus! ... Tell me! what dost thou\nthink of her? Is she not a peerless moon of womanhood? ... doth she not\neclipse all known or imaginable beauty? ... Aye! ... and I will tell\nthee a secret,--she is mine!--mine from the dark tresses down to the\ndainty feet! ... mine, all mine, so long as I shall please to call her\nso! ...--notwithstanding that the foolish people of Al-Kyris think she\nis impervious to love, self-centered, holy and 'immaculate'! Bah! ...\nas if a woman ever was 'immaculate'! But mark you! ... though she loves\nme,--me, crowned Laureate of the realm, she loves no other man! And\nwhy? Because no other man is found half so worthy of love! All men must\nlove her, . . Nirjalis loved her, and he is dead because of overmuch\npresumption, . . and many there be who shall still die likewise, for\nlove of her, but _I_ am her chosen and elected one,--her faith is\nmine!--her heart is mine,--her very soul is mine!--mine I would swear\nthough all the gods of the past, present, and future denied her\nconstancy!\"\n\nHere his uncertain, wandering gaze met the grave, pained, and almost\nstern regard of Theos. \"Why dost thou stare thus owl-like upon me?\"--he\ndemanded irritably.. \"Art thou not my friend and worshipper? Wilt\npreach? Wilt moralize on the folly of the time,--the vices of the age?\nThou lookest it,--but prithee hold thy peace an thou lovest me!--we can\nbut live and die and there's an end, . . all's over with the best and\nwisest of us soon,--let us be merry while we may!\"\n\nAnd he tossed a cluster of roses playfully in the air, catching them as\nthey fell again in a soft shower of severed fluttering pink and white\npetals. Theos listened to his rambling, unguarded words with a sense of\nacute personal sorrow. Here was a man, young, handsome, and endowed\nwith the rarest gift of nature, a great poetic genius,--a man who had\nattained in early manhood the highest worldly fame together with the\nfriendship of a king, and the love of a people, . . yet what was he in\nhimself? A mere petty Egoist, . . a poor deluded fool, the unresisting\nprey of his own passions, . . the besotted slave of a treacherous woman\nand the voluntary degrader of his own life! What was the use of Genius,\nthen, if it could not aid one to overcome Self, . . what the worth of\nFame, if it were not made to serve as a bright incentive and noble\nexample to others of less renown? As this thought passed across his\nmind, Theos sighed, . . he felt curiously conscience-stricken, ashamed,\nand humiliated, THROUGH Sah-luma, and solely for Sah-luma's sake! At\npresent, however, his chief anxiety was to get his friend safely out of\nLysia'a pavilion before she should return to it, and his spirit chafed\nwithin him at each moment of enforced delay.\n\n\"Come, come, Sah-luma!\" he said at last, gently, yet with persuasive\nearnestness.. \"Come away from this place, . . the feast is over,--the\nfair ones are gone, . . why should we linger? Thou art\nhalf-asleep,--believe me 'tis time thou wert home and at rest. Lean\nupon me, ... so! that is well!\"--this, as the other rose unsteadily to\nhis feet and lurched heavily against him, . . \"Now let me guide\nthee,--though of a truth I know not the way through this wondrous\nwoodland maze, . . canst tell me whither we should turn? ... or hast\nthou no remembrance of the nearest road to thine own dwelling?\"--\n\nThus speaking, he managed to lead his stupefied companion out of the\ntent into the cool, dewy garden, where, feeling somewhat refreshed by\nthe breath of the night wind blowing on his face, Sah-luma straightened\nhimself, and made an absurd attempt to look exceedingly dignified.\n\n\"Nay, an thou wilt depart with such scant ceremony\"--he grumbled\npeevishly--\"get thee thence and find out the road as best thou mayest!\n... why should I aid thee? For myself I am well contented here to\nremain and sleep,--no better couch can the Poet have than this\nviolet-scented moss\"--and he waved his arm with a grandiloquent\ngesture,--\"no grander canopy than this star-besprinkled heaven! Leave\nme,--for my eyes are wondrous heavy, and I would fain slumber\nundisturbed till the break of day! By my soul, thou art a rough\ncompanion! ...\" and he struggled violently to release himself from\nTheos's resolute and compelling grasp.. \"Where wouldst thou drag me?\"\n\n\"Out of danger and the shadow of death!\" replied Theos firmly.. \"Thy\nlife is threatened, Sah-luma, and I will not see thee slain! If thou\ncanst not guard thyself, then I must guard thee! ... Come, delay no\nlonger, I beseech thee!--do I not love thee, friend?--and would I urge\nthee thus without good reason? O thou misguided soul! thou dost most\nignorantly court destruction, but if my strength can shield thee, thou\nshalt not die before thy time!\"\n\nAnd he hurried his pace, half leading, half carrying the reluctant\npoet, who, however, was too drowsy and lethargic to do more than feebly\nresent his action,--and thus they went together along a broad path that\nseemed to extend itself in a direct line straight across the grounds,\nbut which in reality turned and twisted about through all manner of\nperplexing nooks and corners,--now under trees so closely interwoven\nthat not a glimpse of the sky could be seen through the dense darkness\nof the crossed boughs,--now by gorgeous banks of roses, pale yellow and\nwhite, that looked like frozen foam in the dying glitter of the\nmoon,--now beneath fairy-light trellis work, overgrown with jasamine,\nand peopled by thousands of dancing fire-flies,--while at every\nundulating bend or sharp angle in the road, Theos's heart beat quickly\nin fear lest they should meet some armed retainer or spy of Lysia's,\nwho might interrupt their progress, or perhaps peremptorily forbid\ntheir departure. Nothing of the kind happened, or seemed likely to\nhappen,--the splendid gardens were all apparently deserted,--and not a\nliving soul was anywhere to be seen. Presently through an archway of\ntwisted magnolia stems, Theos caught a glimpse of the illuminated pool\nwith the marble nymph in its centre which had so greatly fascinated him\non his first arrival,--and he pressed forward eagerly, knowing that now\nthey could not be very far from the gates of exit. All at once the tall\nfigure of a man clad in complete armor came into sudden view between\nsome heavily drooping boughs,--it stood out for a second, and then\nhurriedly disappeared, muffling its face in a black mantle as it fled.\nNot, however, before Theos had recognized those dark, haughty features,\nthose relentless brows, and that, stern almost lurid smile! ... and\nwith a quick convulsive movement he grasped his companion's arm.\n\n\"Hist, Sah-luma!\" he whispered ... \"Saw you not the King?\"\n\nSah-luma started as though he had received a dagger thrust, . . his\nvery lips turned pale in the moonlight.\n\n\"The KING?\" he echoed, with an accent of incredulous amazement ... \"The\nKing? ... thou art mad! ... it could not be! Where didst thou see him?\"\n\nIn silence Theos pointed to the dark shrubbery. Sahluma shook himself\nfree of his friend's hold, and, standing erect, gazed in the direction\nindicated, with an expression of mingled fear, distrust, bewilderment,\nand wrath on his features, . . he was suddenly but effectually sobered,\nand all the delicate beauty of his face came back like the rich tone of\na fine picture restored. His hand fell instinctively toward the\njewelled hilt of the poniard at his belt.\n\n\"The King?\" he muttered under his breath, ... \"The King? ... Then.. is\nKhosrul right after all, and must one learn wisdom from a madman? ...\nBy my soul! ... If I thought...\" Here he checked himself abruptly and\nturned upon Theos ... \"Nay, thou art deceived!\" he said with a forced\nsmile.. \"'Twas not the King! ... 'twas some rash, unknown intruder\nwhose worthless life must pay the penalty of trespass!\"--and he drew\nhis flashing weapon from his sheath.. \"THIS shall unmask him! ... And\nthou, my friend, get thee away and home, . . fear nothing for my\nsafety! ... go hence and quickly; I'll follow thee anon!\"\n\nAnd before Theos could utter a word of warning, he plunged impetuously\ninto the innermost recess of the dense foliage behind which the\nmysterious armed figure had just vanished, and was instantly lost to\nsight.\n\n\"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!\"--called Theos passionately ... \"Come back!\nWhether wilt thou go? ... Sah-luma!\"\n\nOnly silence answered him,--silence rendered even more profound by the\nsubdued, faint rustling of the wind among the leaves,--and agitated by\nall manner of vague alarms and dreary forebodings, he stood still for a\nmoment hesitating as to whether he should follow his friend or no. Some\ninstinct stronger than himself, however, persuaded him that it would be\nbest to continue his road,--he therefore went on slowly, hoping against\nhope that Sah-luma might still rejoin him,--but herein he was\ndisappointed. He waited a little while near the illuminated water,\ndreamily eying the beautiful marble nymph crowned with her wreath of\namethystine flame, . . she resembled Lysia somewhat, he thought,--only\nthis was a frozen fairness, while the peerless charms of the cruel High\nPriestess were those of living flesh and blood. Yet the remembrance of\nall the tenderly witching loveliness that might have been his, had he\nslain Sah-luma at her bidding, now moved him neither to regret nor\nlover's passion, but only touched his spirit with a sense of bitter\nrepulsion, . . while a strange pity for the Poet Laureate's infatuation\nawoke in him,--pity that any man could be so reckless, blind, and\ndesperate as to love a woman for her mere perishable beauty of body,\nand never care to know whether the graces of her mind were equal to the\ngraces of her form.\n\n\"We men have yet to learn the true meaning of love,\"--he mused rather\nsadly--\"We consider it from the selfish standpoint of our own unbridled\npassions,--we willingly accept a fair face as the visible reflex of a\nfair soul, and nine times out of ten, we are utterly mistaken! We begin\nwrongly, and we therefore end miserably,--we should love a woman for\nwhat she IS, and not for what she appears to be. Yet, how are we to\nfathom her nature? how shall we guess, . . how can we decide? Are we\nfooled by an evil fate?--or do we in our loves and marriages\ndeliberately fool ourselves?\"\n\nHe pondered the question hazily without arriving at any satisfactory\nanswer, . . and as Sah-luma still did not return, he resumed his slow,\nunguided, and solitary way. He presently found himself in a close\nboscage of tall trees straight as pines, and covered with very large,\nthick leaves that exhaled a peculiarly faint odor,--and here, pausing\nabruptly, he looked anxiously about him. This was certainly not the\navenue through which he had previously come with Sah-luma, . . and he\nsoon felt uncomfortably convinced that he had somehow taken the wrong\npath. Perceiving a low iron gate standing open in front of him, he went\nthither and discovered a steep stone staircase leading down, down into\nwhat seemed to be a vast well, black and empty as a starless midnight.\nPeering doubtfully into this gloomy pit, he fancied he saw a small,\nblue flame wavering to and fro at the bottom, and, pricked by a sudden\nimpulse of curiosity, he made up his mind to descend.\n\nHe went down slowly and cautiously, counting each step as he placed his\nfoot upon it, . . there were a hundred steps in all, and at the end the\nlight he had seen completely vanished, leaving him in the most profound\ndarkness. Confused and startled, he stretched out his hands\ninstinctively as a blind man might do, and thus came in contact with\nsomething sharp, pointed, and icy cold like the frozen talon of a dead\nbird. Shuddering at the touch, he recoiled,--and was about to try and\ngrope his way up the stairs again, when the light once more appeared,\nthis time casting a thin, slanting, azure blaze through the dense\nshadows,--and he was able gradually to realize the horrors of the place\ninto which he had unwittingly adventured. One faint cry escaped his\nlips,--and then he was mute and motionless,--chilled to the very heart.\nA great awe and speechless dread overwhelmed him, . . for he--a living\nman and fully conscious of life--stood alone, surrounded by a ghastly\nmultitude of skeletons, skeletons bleached white as ivory and\nglistening with a smooth, moist polish as of pearl. Shoulder to\nshoulder, arm against arm, they stood, placed upright, and as close\ntogether as possible,--every bony hand held a rusty spear,--and on\nevery skull gleamed a small metal casque inscribed with hieroglyphic\ncharacters. Thousands of eyeless sockets seemed to turn toward him in\nblank yet questioning wonder, suggesting awfully to his mind that the\neyes might still be there, fallen far back into the head from whence\nthey yet SAW, themselves unseen,--thousands of grinning jaws seemed to\nmock at him, as he leaned half-fainting against the damp, weed-grown\nportal,--he fancied he could hear the derisive laugh of death echoing\nhorribly through those dimly distant arches! This, . . this, he thought\nwildly, was the sequel to his brief and wretched history! ... for this\none end he had wandered out of the ways of his former life, and\nforgotten almost all he had ever known,--here was the only poor finale\nan all-wise and all-potent God could contrive for the close of His\nmarvelous symphony of creative Love and Light! ... Ah, cruel, cruel!\nThen there was no justice, no pity, no compensation in all the width\nand breadth of the Universe, if Death indeed was the end of\neverything!--and God or the great Force called by that name was nothing\nbut a Tyrant and Torturer of His helpless creature, Man! So thinking,\ndully and feebly, he pressed his hand on his aching eyes, to shut out\nthe sight of that grim crowd of fleshless, rigid Shapes that everywhere\nconfronted him, . . the darkness of the place seemed to descend upon\nhim crushingly, and, reeling forward, he would have fallen in a swoon,\nhad not a strong hand suddenly grasped his arm and supported him firmly\nupright.\n\n\"How now, my son!\"--said a grave, musical voice that had in it a\ncertain touch of compassion, . . \"What ails thee? ... and why art thou\nhere? Art thou condemned to die! ... or dost thou seek an escape from\ndeath?\"\n\nMaking an effort to overcome the sick giddiness that confused his\nbrain, he looked up,--a bright lamp flared in his eyes, contrasting so\ndazzlingly with the surrounding gloom that for a moment he was\nhalf-blinded by its brilliancy, but presently steadying his gaze he was\nable to discern the dark outline of a tall, black-garmented figure\nstanding beside him,--the figure of an old man, whose severe and\ndignified aspect at first reminded him somewhat of the prophet Khosrul.\nOnly that Khosrul's rugged features had borne the impress of patient,\nlong-endured, bitter suffering, and the personage who now confronted\nhim had a face so calm and seriously impassive that it might have been\ntaken for that of one newly dead, from whose lineaments all traces of\nearthly passion had forever been smoothed away.\n\n\"Art thou condemned to die, or dost thou seek an escape from death?\"\nThe question had, or seemed to have, a curious significance,--it\nreiterated itself almost noisily in his ears,--his mind was troubled by\nvague surmises and dreary forebodings,--speech was difficult to him,\nand his lips quivered pathetically, when he at last found force to\nframe his struggling thoughts into language.\n\n\"Escape from death!\" he murmured, gazing wildly around as he spoke, on\nthe vast skeleton crowd that encircled him.. \"Old man, dost thou also\ntalk of dream-like impossibilities? Wilt thou also maintain a creed of\nhope when naught awaits us but despair? Art thou fooled likewise with\nthe glimmering Soul-mirage of a never-to-be-realized future? ... Escape\nfrom death? ... How?--and where! Art not these dry and vacant forms\nsufficiently eloquent of the all-omnipotence of Decay?\" ... and he\ncaught his unknown companion almost fiercely by the long robe, while a\nsound that was half a sob and half a sigh came from his aching throat..\n\"Lo you, how emptily they stare upon us! ... how frozen-piteous is\ntheir smile! ... Poor, poor frail shapes! ... nay!--who would think\nthese hollow shells of bone had once been men! Men with strong hearts,\nwarm-flowing blood, and throbbing pulses, . . men of thought and\naction, who maybe did most nobly bear themselves in life upon the\nearth, and yet are now forgotten, . . men--ah, great Heaven! can it be\nthat these most rueful, loathly things have loved, and hoped, and\nlabored through all their days for such an end as this! Escape from\ndeath! ... alas, there is no escape, . . 'tis evident we all must die,\n. . die, and with dust-quenched eyes unlearn our knowledge of the sun,\nthe stars, the marvels of the universe,--for us no more shall the\nflowers bloom or the sweet birds sing; the poem of the world will write\nitself anew in every roseate flushing of the dawn,--but we,--we who\nhave joyed therein,--we who have sung the praises of the light, the\nharmonies of wind and sea, the tunefulness of woods and fields,--we\nwhose ambitious thoughts have soared archangel-like through unseen\nempyreans of space, there to drink in a honeyed hope of Heaven,--we\nshall be but DEAD! ... mute, cold, and stirless as deep, undug stones,\n. . dead! ... Ah God, thou Utmost Cruelty!\"--and in a sudden access of\ngrief and passion he raised one hand and shook it aloft with a menacing\ngesture--\"Would I might look upon Thee face to face, and rebuke Thee\nfor Thy merciless injustice!\"\n\nHe spoke wildly as though possessed by a sort of frenzy,--his unknown\ncompanion heard him with an air of mild and pitying patience.\n\n\"Peace--peace! Blaspheme not the Most High, my son!\" he said gently,\nyet reproachfully. \"Distraught as thou dost seem with some strange\nmisery, and sick with fears, forbear thine ignorant fury against Him\nwho hath for love's dear sake alone created thee. Control thy soul in\npatience!--surely thou art afflicted by thine own vain and false\nimaginings, which for a time contort and darken the clear light of\ntruth. Why dost thou thus disquiet thyself concerning the end of life,\nseeing that verily it hath NO end? ... and that what we men call death\nis not a conclusion but merely a new beginning? Waste not thy pity on\nthese skeleton forms,--the empty dwellings of martial spirits long\nsince fled, . . as well weep over fallen husks of corn from which the\nblossoms have sprung right joyously upward! This world is but our\nroadside hostelry, wherein we heaven-bound sojourners tarry for one\nbrief, restless night,--why regret the loss of the poor refreshment\noffered thee here, when there are a thousand better feasts awaiting\nthee elsewhere on thy way? Come,--let me lead thee hence, . . this\nplace is known as the Passage of the Tombs,--and communicates with the\nInner Court of the Sacred Temple,--and if, as I fear, thou art a stray\nfugitive from the accursed Lysia's band of lovers, thou mayest be\ntracked hither and quickly slain. Come,--I will show thee a secret\nlabyrinth by which thou canst gain the embankment of the river, and\nfrom thence betake thyself speedily home, . . if thou hast a home...\"\nhere he paused, and a keen, questioning glance flashed in his dark\neyes. \"But,--notwithstanding thy fluency of speech and fashion of\nattire, methinks thou hast the lost and solitary air of one who is a\nstranger in the city of Al-Kyris?\"\n\nTheos sighed.\n\n\"A stranger I am indeed!\" he said drearily--\"A stranger to my very self\nand all my former belongings! Ask me no questions, good father, for, as\nI live, I cannot answer them! I am oppressed by a nameless and\nmysterious suffering, . . my brain is darkened,--my thoughts but\nhalf-formed and never wholly uttered, and I,--I who once deemed human\nintelligence and reason all-supreme, all-clear, all-absolute, am now\ncompelled to use that reason reasonlessly, and to work with that\nintelligence in helpless ignorance as to what end my mental toil shall\nserve! Woeful and strange it is!--yet true; . . I am as a broken straw\nin a whirlwind,--or the pale ghost of my own identity groping for\nthings forgotten in a land of shadows; . . I know not whence I came,\nnor whither I go! Nay, do not fear me,--I am not mad: I am conscious of\nmy life, my strength, and physical well-being,--and though I may speak\nwildly, I harbor no ill-intent toward any man--my quarrel is with God\nalone!\"\n\nHe paused,--then resumed in calmer accents,--\"You judge rightly,\nreverend sir,--I am a stranger in Al-Kyris. I entered the city-gates\nthis morning when the sun was high,--and ere noon I found courteous\nwelcome and princely shelter,--I am the guest of the poet Sah-luma.\"\n\nThe old man looked at him half compassionately.\n\n\"Ah, Sah-luma is thine host?\" he said with a touch of melancholy\nsurprise in his tone--\"Then wherefore art thou here? ... here in this\ndark abode where none may linger and escape with life? ... how earnest\nthou within the bounds of Lysid's fatal pleasaunce! ... Has the\nLaureate's friendship thus misguided thee?\"\n\nTheos hesitated before replying. He was again moved by that curious\ninstinctive dread of hearing Sah-luma's name associated with any sort\nof reproach,--and his voice had a somewhat defiant ring as he answered:\n\n\"Nay, surely I am neither child nor woman that I should weakly yield to\nguidance or misleading! Some trifling matter of free-will remains to me\nin spite of mine affliction,--and that I have supped with Sah-luma at\nthe Palace of the High Priestess, has been as much my choice as his\nexample. Who among men would turn aside from high feasting and mirthful\ncompany? ... not I, believe me! ... and Sah-luma's desires herein were\nbut the reflex of mine own. We came together through the woodland, and\nparted but a moment since...\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly, startled by a sudden clash as of steel and the\ntramp-tramp of approaching feet. His aged companion caught him by the\narm...\n\n\"Hush!\" he whispered.. \"Not a word more.. not a breath! ... or thy life\nmust pay the penalty! Quick,--follow me close! ... step softly! ...\nthere is a hiding-place near at hand where we may couch unseen till\nthese dread visitants pass by.\"\n\nMoving stealthily and with anxious precaution, he led the way to a\nniche hollowed deeply out in the thickness of the wall, and turning his\nlamp aside so that not the faintest glimmer of it could be perceived,\nhe took Theos by the hand, and drew him into what seemed to be a huge\ncavernous recess, utterly dark and icy cold.\n\nHere, crouching low in the furthest gloom, they both waited\nsilently,--Theos ignorant as to the cause of the sudden alarm, and\nwondering vaguely what strange new circumstance was about to happen.\nThe measured tramp-tramp of feet came nearer and nearer, and in another\nmoment the flare of smoking torches illumined the vaulted passage,\ncasting many a ruddy flicker and flash on the ivory-gleaming whiteness\nof the vast skeleton army that stood with such grim and pallid patience\nas though waiting for a marching signal.\n\nPresently there appeared a number of half-naked men, carrying short\naxes stained with blood,--coarse, savage, cruel-looking brutes all,\nwhose lowering faces bore the marks of a thousand unrepented\ncrimes,--these were followed by four tall personages clad in flowing\nwhite robes and closely masked,--and finally there came a band of black\nslaves clothed in vivid scarlet, dragging between them two writhing,\nbleeding creatures,--one a man, the other a girl in her earliest youth,\nboth convulsed by the evident last agonies of death.\n\nArrived at the centre of that part of the vault where the skeleton\ncrowd was thickest, this horrible cortege halted, while one of the\nmasked personages undid from his girdle a large bunch of keys. And now\nTheos, watching everything with dreadful interest from the obscure\ncorner where he was, thanks to his unknown friend, successfully\nconcealed, perceived for the first time a low, iron door, heavily\nbarred, and surmounted by sharp spikes as long as drawn daggers. When\nthis dreary portal was, with many a jarring groan and clang, slowly\nopened, such an awful cry broke from the lips of the tortured man as\nmight have wrung compassion from the most hardened tyrant. Wresting\nhimself fiercely out of the grasp of the slaves who held him, he\nstruggled to his feet, while the blood poured from the cruel wounds\nthat were inflicted all over his body, and raising his manacled hands\naloft he cried..\n\n\"Mercy! ... mercy! ... not for me, but for her! ... for her, my love,\nmy life, my tenderest little one! ... What is her crime, ye fiends? ...\nwhy do ye deem love a sin and passion a dishonor? ... Shall there be no\nmore heart-longings because ye are cold? ... Spare her! ... she is so\nyoung, so fond, so innocent of all reproach save one, the shame of\nloving me! Spare her! ... or, if ye will not spare, slay her at once!\n... now!--now, with swift compassionate sword, . . but cast her not\nalive into yon hideous serpent's den! ... not alive! ... ah no, no,--ye\ngods have pity! ...\"\n\nHere his voice broke and a sudden light passed over his agonized\ncountenance. Gazing steadfastly at the girl, whose beautiful, white\nbody now lay motionless on the cold stone, with a cloud of fair hair\nfalling veil-like over it, his eyes seemed to strain themselves out of\ntheir sockets in the intensity of his eager regard, when all at once he\ngave vent to a wild peal of delirious laughter and exclaimed..\n\n\"Dead.. dead! ... Thanks be to the merciless gods for this one gift of\ngrace at the last! Dead.. dead! ... O the blessed favor and freedom of\ndeath! ... Sweetheart, they can torture thee no more.. no more! ... Ah,\ndevils that ye are!\" and his voice grown frantically loud, pierced the\ngloomy arches with terrible resonance, as he saw the red-garmented\nslaves vainly endeavoring to rouse, with ferocious blows and thrusts,\nnew life in the fair, stiffening corpse before them.. \"This time ye are\nbaffled! ... Baffled!--and I live to see your vanquishment! Give her to\nme!\" and he stretched out his trembling arms ... \"Give her...she is\ndead--and ye cannot offer to Nagaya any lifeless thing! I will weave\nher a shroud of her own gold hair--I will bury her softly away in the\ndarkness--I will sing to her as I used to sing in the silent summer\nevenings, when we fancied our secret of forbidden love unknown,--and\nwith my lips on hers, I will pray.. pray for the pardon of passion\ngrown stronger...than...life! ...\"\n\nHe ceased, and swaying forward, fell, . . a shiver ran through his\nlimbs...one deep, gasping sigh...and all was over. The band of\ntorturers gathered round the body, uttering fierce oaths and\nexclamations of dismay.\n\n\"Both dead!\" said one of the individuals in white.. \"'Tis a most fatal\naugury!\"\n\n\"Fatal indeed!\" said another, and turning to the men with the blood\nstained axes, he added angrily--\"Ye were too swift and lavish of your\nweapons--ye should have let these criminals suffer slowly inch by inch,\nand yet have left them life enough wherewith to linger on in anguish\nmany hours.\"\n\nThe wretches thus addressed looked sullen and humiliated, and\napproaching the two corpses, would have brutally inflicted fresh wounds\non them, had not the seeming chief of the party interfered.\n\n\"Let be.. let be!\" he said austerely--\"Ye cannot cause the dead to\nfeel, . . would that it were possible! Then might the glorious and god\nlike thirst of vengeance in our great High Priestess be somewhat more\nappeased in this matter. For the unlawful communion of love between a\nvestal virgin and an anointed priest cannot be too utterly abhorred and\ncondemned,--and these twain, who thus did foully violate their vows,\nhave perished far too easily. The sanctity of the Temple has been\noutraged, . . Lysia will not be satisfied, . . and how shall we pacify\nher righteous wrath, concerning this too tranquil death of the\nundeserving and impure?\"\n\nDrawing all together in a close group they held a whispered\nconsultation, and finally, appearing to have come to some sort of\ndecision, they took up the dead bodies one after another, and flung\nthem carelessly into the dark aperture lately unclosed. As they did\nthis, a stealthy, rustling sound was heard, as of some great creature\nmoving to and fro in the far interior, but they soon locked and barred\nthe iron portal once more, and then took their departure rather\nhurriedly, leaving the vault by the way Theos had entered it--namely,\nup the stone stairway that led into Lysia's palace-gardens. As the last\necho of their retreating steps died away and the last glimmer of their\nlurid torches vanished, Theos sprang out from his hiding-place,--his\nvenerable companion slowly followed.\n\n\"Oh, God! Can such things be!\" he cried loudly, reckless of all\npossible risk for himself as his voice rang penetratingly through the\ndeep silence--\"Were these brute-murderers actual men?--or but the\nwandering, grim shadows of some long past crime? ... Nay,--surely I do\nbut dream!--and ghouls and demons born out of nightmare-sleep do vex my\ntroubled spirit! Justice! ... justice for the innocent! ... Is there\nnone in all Al-Kyris?\"\n\n\"None!\" replied the old man who stood beside him, lamp in hand, fixing\nhis dark, melancholy eyes upon him as he spoke--\"None! ... neither in\nAl-Kyris nor in any other great city on the peopled earth! Justice? ...\nI who am named Zuriel the Mystic, because of my tireless searching into\nthings that are hidden from the unstudious and unthinking,--I know that\nJustice is an idle name,--an empty braggart-word forever on the mouths\nof kings and judges, but never in their hearts! Moreover,--what is\nguilt? ... What is innocence? Both must be defined according to the law\nof the realm wherein we dwell,--and from that law there can be no\nappeal. These men we lately saw were the chief priests and executioners\nof the Sacred Temple,--they have done no wrong--they have simply\nfulfilled their duty. The culprits slain deserved their fate,--they\nloved where loving was forbidden,--torture and death was the strictly\nordained punishment, and herein was justice,--justice as portioned out\nby the Penal Code of the High Court of Council.\"\n\nTheos heard, and gave an expressive gesture of loathing and contempt.\n\n\"O narrow jurisdiction! ... O short-sighted, false equity!\" he\nexclaimed passionately. \"Are there different laws for high and low? ...\nMust the weak and defenceless be condemned to death for the self-same\nsin committed openly by their more powerful brethren who yet escape\nscot-free? What of the High Priestess then? ... If these poor\nlover-victims merited their doom, why is not Lysia slain? ... Is not\nSHE a willingly violated vestal? ... doth SHE not count her lovers by\nthe score? ... are not her vows long since broken? ... is not her life\na life of wanton luxury and open shame? ... Why doth the Law, beholding\nthese things, remain in her case dumb and ineffectual?\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, my son!\" said the aged Zuriel anxiously--\"These stone\nwalls hear thee far too loudly,--who knows but they may echo forth thy\nwords to unsuspected listeners! Peace--peace! ... Lysia is as much\nQueen, as Zephoranim is King of Al-Kyris; and surely thou knowest that\nthe sins of tyrants are accounted virtues, so long as they retain their\nruling powers? The public voice pronounces Lysia chaste, and Zephoranim\nfaithful; who then shall dare to disprove the verdict?--'Tis the same\nin all countries, near and far,--the law serves the strong, while\nprofessing to defend the weak. The rich man gains his cause,--the\nbeggar loses it,--how can it be otherwise, while lust of gold prevails?\nGold is the moving-force of this our era,--without it kings and\nministers are impotent, and armies starve, . . with it, all things can\nbe accomplished even to the concealment of the foulest crimes. Come,\ncome! ...\" and he laid one hand kindly on Theos's arm, \"Thou hast a\ngenerous and fiery spirit, but thou shouldst never have been born into\nthis planet if thou seekest such a thing as Justice! No man will ever\ndeal true justice to his fellow man on earth, unless perhaps in ages to\ncome, when the old creeds are swept away for a new, and a grander,\nwider, purer form of faith is accepted by the people. For religion in\nAl-Kyris to-day is a hollow mockery,--a sham, kept up partly from\nfear,--partly from motives of policy,--but every thinker is an atheist\nat heart, . . our splendid civilization is tottering towards its fall,\n. . and should the fore-doomed destruction of this city come to pass,\nvast ages of progress, discovery, and invention will be swept away as\nthough they had never been!\"\n\nHe paused and sighed,--then continued sorrowfully--\"There is, there\nmust be something wrong in the mechanism of life,--some little hitch\nthat stops the even wheels,--some curious perpetual mischance that\ncrosses us at every turn,--but I doubt not all is for the best, and\nwill prove most truly so hereafter!\"\n\n\"Hereafter!\" echoes Theos bitterly ... \"Thinkest thou that even God,\nrepenting of the evil He hath done, will ever be able to compensate us\nby any future bliss, for all the needless anguish of the Present?\"\n\nZuriel looked at him with a strange, almost spectral expression of\nmingled pity, fear, and misgiving, but he offered no reply to this\nhome-thrust of a question. In grave silence and with slow, majestic\ntread he began to lead the way along through the dismal labyrinth of\nblack, winding arches, holding his blue lamp aloft as he went, the\nbetter to lighten the dense gloom.\n\nTheos followed him, silent also, and wrapped in stern, and mournful\nmusings of his own, . . musings through which faint threads of pale\nrecollection connected with his past glimmered hazily from time to\ntime, perplexing rather than enlightening his bewildered brain.\n\nPresently he found himself in a low, narrow vestibule illumined by the\nbright yet soft radiance of a suspended Star,--and here, coming close\nup with his guide and observing his dress and manner more attentively,\nhe suddenly perceived a shining SOMETHING which the old man wore\nhanging from his neck and which flashed against the sable hue of his\ngarment like a wandering moonbeam.\n\nStopping abruptly, he examined this ornament with straining, wistful\ngaze, . . and slowly, very slowly, recognized its fashion of\nconstruction,--it was a plain silver Cross--nothing more. Yet at sight\nof the sacred, strange, yet familiar Symbol, a chord seemed to snap in\nhis brain,--tears rushed to his tired eyes, and with a sharp cry he\nfell on his knees, grasping his companion's robe wildly, as a drowning\nman grasps at a floating spar,--while the venerable Zuriel, startled at\nhis action, stared down upon him in evident amazement and terror.\n\n\"Rescue! ... rescue!\" he cried, ... \"O thou blessed among men!--thou\ndost wear the Sign of Eternal Safety! ... the Sign of the Way, the\nTruth, and the Life! ... 'without the Way, there is no going, without\nthe Truth there is no knowing, without the Life there is no living'!\nNow do I know thee for a saint in Al-Kyris,--for thou dost openly avow\nthyself a follower of the Divine Faith that fools despise, and selfish\nsouls repudiate, . . ah, I do beseech thee, thou good and holy man,\nabsolve me of my sin of Unbelief! Teach me! ... help me! ... and I will\nhear thy counsels with the meekness of a listening child! ..See you, I\nkneel! ... I pray! ... I, even I, am humiliated to the very dust of\nshame! I have no pride, . . I seek no glory, ... I do entreat, even as\nI once rejected the blessing of the Cross, whereby I shall regain my\nlost love,--my despised pardon,--my vanished peace!\"\n\nAnd, with pathetic earnestness, he raised his hands toward the silver\nemblem, and touched it tenderly, reverently, ... then as though\nunworthy, he bent his head low, and waited eagerly for a Name, . . a\nName that he himself could not remember, . . a Name suggested by the\nCross, but not declared. If that Name were once spoken in the form of a\nbenediction, he felt instinctively that he would straightway be\nreleased from the mysterious spell of misery that bound his\nintelligence in such a grievous thrall. But not a word of consolation\ndid his companion utter, . . on the contrary, he seemed agitated by the\nstrangest surprise and alarm.\n\n\"Now may all the gods in Heaven defend thee, thou unhappy, desperate,\ndistracted soul!\" he said in trembling, affrighted accents. \"Thou dost\nimplore the blessing of a Faith unknown! ... a Mystery predicted but\nnot yet fulfilled...a Creed that shall not be declared to men for full\nFIVE THOUSAND YEARS!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nTHE CRIMSON RIVER.\n\n\nAt these unexpected words Theos sprang wildly to his feet. An awful\ndarkness seemed to close in upon him,--and a chaotic confusion of\nmemories began to whirl and drift through his mind like flotsam and\njetsam tossed upon a storm-swept sea. The aged and shadowy-looking\nZuriel stood motionless, watching him with something of timid pity and\nmild patience.\n\n\"FIVE THOUSAND YEARS!\" he muttered hoarsely, pressing his hands into\nhis aching brows, while his eyes again fixed themselves yearningly on\nthe Cross.. \"Five thousand years before.... before WHAT?\"\n\nHe caught the old man's arm, and in spite of himself, a laugh, wild,\ndiscordant, and out of all keeping with his inward emotions, broke from\nhis parched lips,--\"Thou doting fool!\" he cried almost furiously,--\"Why\ndost thou mock me then with this false image of a hope unrealized? ...\nWho gave thee leave to add more fuel to my flame of torment? ... What\nmeans this symbol to thine eyes? Speak.. speak! What admonition does it\nhold for thee? ... what promise? ... what menace? ... what warning? ...\nwhat love? ... Speak.. speak! O, shall I force confession from thy\nthroat, or must I die unsatisfied and slain by speechless longing! What\ndidst thou say? ... FIVE THOUSAND YEARS? ... Nay, by the gods, thou\nliest!\"--and he pointed excitedly to the sacred Emblem,--\"I tell thee\nthat Holy Sign is as familiar to my suffering soul as the chiming of\nbells at sunset! ... as well known to my sight as the unfolding of\nflowers in the fields of spring! ... What shall be done or said of it,\nin five thousand years, that has not already been said and done?\"\n\nZuriel regarded him more compassionately than ever, with a penetrating,\nmournful expression in his serious dark eyes.\n\n\"Alas, alas, my son! thou art most grievously distraught!\" he said in\ntroubled tones. \"Thy words but prove the dark disorder of thy\nwits,--may Heaven soon heal thee of thy mental wound! Restrain thy wild\nand wandering fancies? ... for surely thou canst not be familiar, as\nthou sayest with this silver Symbol, seeing that it is but the Talisman\n[Footnote: The Cross was held in singular veneration in the Temple of\nSerapis, and by many tribes in the East, ages before the coming of\nChrist] or Badge of the Mystic Brethren of Al-Kyris, and has no\nsignification whatsoever save for the Elect. It was designed some\ntwenty years ago by the inspired Chief of our Order, Khosrul, and such\nas are still his faithful disciples wear it as a record and constant\nreminder of his famous Prophecy.\"\n\nTheos heard, and a dull apathy stole over him,--his recent excitement\ndied out under a chilling weight of vague yet bitter disappointment.\n\n\"And this Prophecy?\" he asked listlessly.. \"What is its nature and whom\ndoth it concern?\"\n\n\"Nay, in very truth it is a strange and marvellous thing!\" replied\nZuriel, his calm voice thrilling with a mellow touch of fervor..\n\"Khosrul, 'tis said, has heard the angels whispering in Heaven, and his\nattentive ears have caught the echo of their distant speech.\n\n\"Thus spiritually instructed, he doth powerfully predict Salvation for\nthe human race,--and doth announce, that in five thousand years or\nmore, a God shall be moved by wondrous mercy to descend from Heaven,\nand take the form of Man, wherein, unknown, despised, rejected, he will\nlive our life from commencement to finish, teaching, praying, and\nsanctifying by His Divine Presence the whole sin-burdened Earth. This\ndone, He will consent to suffer a most cruel death, . . and the manner\nof His death will be that He shall hang, nailed hands and feet to a\nCross, as though He were a common criminal, . . His holy brows shall be\nbound about with thorns,--and after hours of agony He, innocent of\nevery sin, shall perish miserably--friendless, unpitied, and alone. But\nafterward, ... and mark you! this is the chiefest glory of all! ... He\nwill rise again triumphant from the grave to prove his God-head, and to\nconvince Mankind beyond all doubt an question, that there is indeed an\nimmortal Hereafter,--an actual, free Eternity of Life, compared with\nwhich this our transient existence is a mere brief breathing-space of\npause and probation, . . and then for evermore His sacred Name shall\ndominate and civilize the world...\"\n\n\"What Name?\".. interrupted Theos, with eager abruptness ... \"Canst thou\npronounce it?\"\n\nZuriel shook his head.\n\n\"Not I, my son\"--he answered gravely.. \"Not even Khosrul can penetrate\nthus far! The Name of Him who is to come, is hidden deep among God's\nunfathomed silences! It should suffice thee that thou knowest now the\nsum and substance of the Prophecy. Would I might live to see the days\nwhen all shall be fulfilled! ... but alas, my remaining years are few\nupon the earth, and Heaven's time is not ours!\"\n\nHe sighed,--and resumed his slow pacing onwards,--Theos walked beside\nhim as a man may walk in sleep, uncertainly and with unseeing eyes, his\nheart beating loudly, and a sick sense of suffocation in his throat.\nWhat did it all mean? ... Had his life gone back in some strange way?\n... or had he merely DREAMED of a former existence different to this\none? He remembered now what Sah-luma had told him respecting Khosrul's\n\"new\" theory of a future religion,--a theory that to him had seemed so\nold, so old!--so utterly exhausted and worn threadbare! In what a\ncruel problem was he hopelessly involved!--what a useless, perplexed,\nconfused being he had become! ... he who would once to have staked his\nlife on the unflinching strength and capabilities of human reason!\nAfter a pause, . .\n\n\"Forgive me!\" he said in a low tone, and speaking with some effort..\n\"forgive me and have patience with my laggard comprehension, . . I am\nperplexed at heart and slow of thought; wilt thou assure me faithfully,\nthat this God-Man thou speakest of is not yet born on earth?\"\n\nThe faintest shadow of a wondering smile flickered over the old man's\nwrinkled countenance, like the reflection of a passing taper-flame on a\nfaded picture.\n\n\"My son, my son!\" he murmured with compassionate tolerance--\"Have I not\ntold thee that five thousand years and more must pass away ere the\nprediction be accomplished? ... I marvel that so plain a truth should\nthus disquiet thee! Now, by my soul, thou lookest pallid as the dead!\n... Come, let us hasten on more rapidly,--thy fainting spirits will\nrevive in fresher air.\"\n\nHe hurried his pace as he spoke, and glided along with such a curious,\nstealthy noiselessness that by and by Theos began dubiously to wonder\nwhether after all he were a real personage or a phantom? He noticed\nthat his own figure seemed to possess much more substantiality and\ndistinctness of outline than that of this mysterious Zuriel, whose very\ngarments resembled floating cloud rather than actual, woven fabric. Was\nhis companion then a fitting Spectre? ...\n\nHe smiled at the absurdity of the idea, and to change the drift of his\nown foolish fancies he asked suddenly,--\"Concerning this wondrous city\nof Al-Kyris...is it of very ancient days, and long lineage?\"\n\n\"The annals of its recorded history reach over a period of twelve\nthousand years\"--replied Zuriel, . . \"But 'tis the present fashion to\ncount from the Deification of Nagaya or the Snake,--and, according to\nthis, we are now in the nine hundred and eighty-ninth year of so-called\nGrace and Knowledge,--rather say Dishonor and Crime! ... for a crueler,\nmore bloodthirsty creed than the worship of Nagaya never debased a\npeople! Who shall number up the innocent victims that have been\nsacrificed in the great Temple of the Sacred Python!--and even on this\nvery day which has just dawned, another holocaust is to be offered on\nthe Veiled Shrine,--or so it hath been publicly proclaimed throughout\nthe city,--and the crowd will flock to see a virgin's blood spilt on\nthe accursed altars where Lysia, in all the potency of triumphant\nwickedness, presides. But if the auguries of the stars prevail, 'twill\nbe for the last time!\" Here he paused and looked fixedly at Theos.\n\"Thou dost return straightway to Sah-luma ... is it not so?\"\n\nTheos bent his head in assent.\n\n\"Art thou true friend, or mere flatterer to that spoilt child of fair\nfame and fortune?\"\n\n\"Friend!\"--cried Theos with eager enthusiasm, ... \"I would give my life\nto save his!\"\n\n\"Aye, verily? ... is it so?\" ... and Zuriel's melancholy eyes dwelt\nupon him with a strange and sombre wistfulness, ... \"Then, as thou art\na man, persuade him out of evil into good! ... rouse him to noble shame\nand nobler penitence for all those faults which mar his poet-genus and\ndeprive it of immortal worth! ... urge him to depart from Al-Kyris\nwhile there is yet time ere the bolt of destruction falls! ... and, ...\nmark you well this final warning! ... bid him to-day avoid the Temple,\nand beware the King!\"--\n\nAs he said this he stopped and extinguished the lamp he carried. There\nwas no longer any need of it, for a broad patch of gray light fell\nthrough an aperture in the wall, showing a few rough, broken steps that\nled upwards,--and pointing to these he bade the bewildered Theos a\nkindly farewell.\n\n\"Thou wilt find Sah-luma's palace easily,\"--he said--\"Not a child in\nthe streets but knows the way thither. Guard thy friend and be thyself\nalso on guard against coming disaster,--and if thou art not yet\nresolved to die, escape from the city ere to-night's sun-setting.\nSoothe thy distempered fancies with thoughts of God, and cease not to\npray for thy soul's salvation! Peace be with thee!\"--\n\nHe raised his hands with an expressive gesture of benediction, and\nturning round abruptly disappeared. Where had he gone? ... how had he\nvanished? ... It was impossible to tell! ... he seemed to have melted\naway like a mist into utter nothingness! Profoundly perplexed, Theos\nascended the steps before him, his mind anxiously revolving all the\nstrange adventures of the night, while a dim sense of some unspeakable,\ncoming calamity brooded darkly upon him.\n\nThe solemn admonitions he had just heard affected him deeply, for the\nreason that they appeared to apply so specially to Sah-luma,--and the\nidea that any evil fate was in store for the bright, beautiful\ncreature, whom he had, oddly enough, learned to love more than himself,\nmoved him to an almost womanish apprehension. In case of pressing\nnecessity, could he exercise any authority over the capricious\nmovements of the wilful Laureate, whose egotism was so absolute, whose\nimperious ways were so charming, whose commands were never questioned?\n\nHe doubted it! ... for Sah-luma was accustomed to follow the lead of\nhis own immediate pleasure, in reckless scorn of consequences,--and it\nwas not likely he would listen to the persuasions or exhortations,\nhowever friendly, of any one presuming to run counter to his wishes.\n\nAgain and again Theos asked himself--\"If Sah-luma of his own accord,\nand despite all warning, deliberately rushed into deadly peril, could\nI, even loving him as I do, rescue him?\"--And as he pondered on this, a\nstrange answer shaped itself unbidden in his brain--an answer that\nseemed as though it were spoken aloud by some interior voice..\n\"No,--no!--ten thousand times no! You could not save him any more than\nyou could save yourself from the results of your own misdoing! If you\nvoluntarily choose evil, not all the forces in the world can lift you\ninto good,--if you voluntarily choose danger, not all the gods can\nbring you into safety! FREE WILL is the divine condition attached to\nhuman life, and each man by thought, word, and deed, determines his own\nfate, and decides his own future!\"\n\nHe sighed despondingly, ... a curious, vague contrition stirred within\nhim, ... he felt as though HE were in some mysterious way to blame for\nall his poet-friend's short-comings!\n\nIn a few minutes he found himself on the broad marble embankment, close\nto the very spot from whence he had first beheld the beautiful High\nPriestess sailing slowly by in all her golden pomp and splendor, and as\nhe thought of her now, a shudder, half of aversion, half of desire,\nquivered through him, flushing his brows with the warm uprising blood\nthat yet burned rebelliously at the remembrance of her witching,\nperfect loveliness!\n\nHere too he had met Sah-luma, . . ah Heaven!--how many things had\nhappened since then! ... how much he had seen and heard! ... Enough, at\nany rate, to convince him, that the men and women of Al-Kyris were more\nor less the same as those of other great cities he seemed to have known\nin far-off, half-forgotten days,--that they plotted against each other,\ndeceived each other, accused each other falsely, murdered each other,\nand were fools, traitors, and egotists generally, after the customary\nfashion of human pigmies,--that they set up a Sham to serve as\nReligion, Gold being their only god,--that the rich wantoned in\nsplendid luxury, and wilfully neglected the poor,--that the King was a\nshowy profligate, ruled by a treacherous courtesan, just like many\nother famous Kings and Princes, who, because of their stalwart, martial\nbearing, and a certain surface good-nature, manage to conceal their\nvices from the too lenient eyes of the subjects they mislead,--and that\nfinally all things were evidently tending toward some great convulsion\nand upheaval possibly arising from discontent and dissension among the\ncitizens themselves,--or, likelier still, from the sudden invasion of a\nforeign foe,--for any more terrific termination of events did not just\nthen suggest itself to his imagination.\n\nAbsorbed in thought, he walked some paces along the embankment, before\nhe perceived that a number of people were already assembled\nthere,--men, women, and children, who, crowding eagerly together to the\nvery edge of the parapet, appeared to be anxiously watching the waters\nbelow.\n\nWhat unusual sight attracted them? ... and why were they all so silent\nas though struck dumb by some unutterable dismay? One or two, raising\ntheir heads, turned their pale, alarmed faces toward Theos as he\napproached, their eyes seeming to mutely inquire his opinion,\nconcerning the alarming phenomenon which held them thus spellbound and\nfear-stricken.\n\nHe made his way quickly to where they stood, and looking where they\nlooked, uttered a sharp, involuntary exclamation, ... the river, the\nclear, rippling river was RED AS BLOOD. Beneath the slowly breaking\nlight of dawn, that streaked the heavens with delicate lines of\nsilver-gray and daffodil, the whole visible length and breadth of the\nheaving waters shone with a darkly flickering crimson hue, deeper than\nthe lustre of the deepest ruby, flowing sluggishly the while as though\nclogged with some thick and weedy slime.\n\nAs the sky brightened gradually into a pale, ethereal blue, so the tide\nbecame ruddier and more pronounced in color,--and presently, as though\nseized by a resistless panic, the group of staring, terrified\nbystanders broke up suddenly, and rushed away in various directions,\ncovering their faces as they fled and uttering loud cries of\nlamentation and despair.\n\nTheos alone remained behind, . . resting his folded arms on the\nsculptured balustrade, he gazed down, down into those crimson depths\ntill their strange tint dazzled and confused his sight,--looking up for\nrelief to the eastern horizon where the sun was just bursting out in\nfull splendor from a pavilion of violet cloud, the red reflection was\nstill before his eyes, so much so, that the very air seemed flushed\nwith spreading fire.\n\nAnd then like the sound of a tocsin ringing in his ears, the words of\nthe Prophet Khosrul, as pronounced in the presence of the King,\nrecurred to his memory with new and suggestive force. \"BLOOD--BLOOD!\n'TIS A SCARLET SEA WHEREIN LIKE A BROKEN AND EMPTY SHIP AL-KYRIS\nFOUNDERS,--FOUNDERS NEVER TO RISE AGAIN!\"\n\nStill painfully oppressed by an increasing sense of some\nswift-approaching disaster, his thoughts once more reverted anxiously\nto Sah-luma. He must be warned,--yes!--even if he disdained all\nwarning! Yet, . . warn him against what? \"BID HIM AVOID THE TEMPLE AND\nBEWARE THE KING!\"\n\nSo had said Zuriel the Mystic,--but to the laurelled favorite of the\nmonarch, and idol of the people, such an admonition would seem more\nthan absurd! It was useless to talk to him about the prophecies of\nKhosrul,--he had heard them all, and laughed them to scorn.\n\n\"How can I\"--then mused Theos disconsolately,--\"How can I make him\nbelieve that some undeclared evil threatens him, when he is at the very\npinnacle of fame and fortune with all Al-Kyris at his feet? ... He\nwould never listen to me, ... nor would any persuasions of mine induce\nhim to leave the city where his name is so glorious and his renown so\nfirmly established. Of Lysia's treachery I may perhaps convince him,\n... yet even in this attempt I may fail, and incur his hatred for my\npains! If I had only myself to consider! ... \"--And here his\nreflections suddenly took a strange, unbidden turn. If he had only\nhimself to consider! ... well, what then! Was it not just within the\nbounds of probability that, under the same circumstances, he might be\nprecisely as self-willed and as haughtily opinionated as the friend\nwhose arrogance he deplored, yet could not alter?\n\nSo pointed a suggestion was not exactly suited to his immediate humor,\nand he felt curiously vexed with himself for indulging in such a\nfoolish association of ideas! The positions were entirely different, he\nargued, angrily addressing the troublesome inward monitor that every\nnow and then tormented him,--there was no resemblance whatever between\nhimself, the unknown, unfamed wanderer in a strange land, and the\nbrilliant Sah-luma, chosen Poet Laureate of the realm!\n\nNo resemblance, . . none at all! ... he reiterated over and over again\nin his own mind, . . except ... except, ... well! ... except in perhaps\na few trifling touches of character and temper that were scarcely worth\nthe noting! At this juncture, his uncomfortable reverie was interrupted\nby the sound of a harsh, metallic voice close behind him.\n\n\"What fools there are in the world!\" said the voice in emphatic accents\nof supreme contempt--\"What braying asses!--What earth-snouting swine!\nSaw you not yon crowd of whimpering idiots flying helter-skelter like\nchaff before the wind, weeping, wailing, and bemoaning their miserable\nlittle sins, scattering dust on their addled pates, and howling on\ntheir gods for mercy,--all forsooth! because for once in their\nunobserving lives they behold the river red instead of green! Ay me!\n'tis a thing to laugh at, this crass, and brutish ignorance of the\nmultitude,--no teaching will ever cleanse their minds from the cobwebs\nof vulgar superstition,--and I, in common with every wise and worthy\nsage of sound repute and knowledge, must needs waste all my scientific\nlabors on a perpetually ungrateful public!\"\n\nTurning hastily round Theos confronted the speaker,--a tall, spare man\nwith a pale, clean-shaven, intellectual face, small, shrewd,\nspeculative eyes, and very straight, neatly parted locks,--a man on\nwhose every lineament was expressed a profound belief in himself, and\nan equally profound scorn for the opinions of any one who might\npossibly presume to disagree with him. He smiled condescendingly as he\nmet Theos's half-surprised, half-inquiring look, and saluted him with a\ngravely pompous air, which however, was not without a saving touch of\nthat indescribable, easy grace which seemed to distinguish the manners\nof all the inhabitants of Al-Kyris. Theos returned the salutation with\nequal gravity, whereupon the new-comer waving his hand majestically,\ncontinued:\n\n\"You sir, I see, are young, . . and probably you are enrolled among the\nadvanced students of one or other of our great collegiate\ninstitutions,--therefore the peculiar, though not at all unnatural tint\nof the river this morning, is of course no mystery to you, if, as I\npresume, you follow the Scientific Classes of Instruction in the\nPhysiology of Nature, of Manifestation of Simple and Complex Motive\nForce, and the Perpetual Evolution of Atoms?\"\n\nTheos smiled,--the grandiloquent manner of this self-important\nindividual amused him.\n\n\"Most worthy sir,\" he replied, \"you form too favorable an opinion of my\nscholarly attainments! I am a stranger in Al-Kyris,--and know naught of\nits educational system, or the interior mechanism of its wondrous\ncivilization! I come from far-off lands, where, if I remember rightly,\nmuch is taught and but little retained,--where petty pedagogues persist\nin dragging new generations of men through old and worn-out ruts of\nknowledge that future ages shall never have need of, . . and concerning\neven the progress of science, I confess to a certain incredulity,\nseeing that to my mind Science somewhat resembles a straight line drawn\nclear across country but leading, alas! to an ocean wherein all\nlandmarks are lost and swallowed up in blankness. Over and over again\nthe human race has trodden the same pathway of research,--over and over\nagain has it stood bewildered and baffled on the shores of the same\nvast sea,--the most marvellous discoveries are after all mere child's\nplay compared to the tremendous secrets that must remain forever\nunrevealed; and the poor and trifling comprehension of things that we,\nafter a life-time of study, succeed in attaining, is only just\nsufficient to add to our already burdened existence the undesirable\nclogs of discontent and disappointed endeavor. We die,--in almost as\nmuch ignorance as we were born, . . and when we come face to face with\nthe Last Dark Mystery, what shall our little wisdom profit us?\"\n\nWith his arms folded in an attitude of enforced patience and complacent\nsuperiority, the other listened.\n\n\"Curious, . . curious!\" he murmured in a mild sotto-voce,--\"A would-be\npessimist!--aye, aye,--'tis very greatly the fashion for young men in\nthese days to assume the manner of elderly and exhausted cynics who\nhave tried everything and approve of nothing! 'Tis a strange\ncraze!--but, my good sir, let us keep to the subject at present under\ndiscussion. Like all unripe philosophers, you wander from the point. I\ndid not ask you for your opinion concerning the uselessness or the\nefficiency of learning,--I merely sought to discover whether you, like\nthe silly throng that lately scattered right and left of you, had any\nfoolish forebodings respecting the transformed color of this river,--a\ncolor which, however seeming peculiar, arises, as all good scholars\nknow, from causes that are perfectly simple and easily explainable.\"\n\nTheos hesitated,--his eyes wandered involuntarily to the flowing tide,\nwhich now with the fully risen sun seemed more than ever brilliant and\nlurid in its sanguinary hue.\n\n\"Strange things have been said of late concerning Al-Kyris,--\" he\nanswered at last, slowly and after a thoughtful pause,--\"Things that,\nthough wild and vague, are not without certain dark presages and\nominous suggestions. This crimson flood may be, as you say, the natural\neffect of purely natural causes,--yet, notwithstanding this, it seems\nto me a singular phenomenon--nay, even a weird and almost fatal augury?\"\n\nHis companion laughed--a gentle, careless laugh of amused disdain.\n\n\"Phenomenon! ... augury! ...\" he exclaimed shrugging his shoulders\nlightly ... \"These words, my young friend, are terms that nowadays\nbelong exclusively to the vocabulary of the uneducated masses; we,--and\nby WE, I mean scientists, and men of the highest culture,--have long\nago rejected them as unmeaning and therefore unnecessary. Phenomenon is\na particularly vile expression, serving merely to designate anything\nwonderful and uncommon,--whereas to the scientific eye, there is\nnothing left in the world that ought to excite so vulgar and barbarous\nan emotion as wonder, . . nothing so apparently rare that cannot be\nreduced at once from the ignorant exaggerations of enthusiasm to the\nsensible level of the commonplace? The so-called 'marvels' of nature\nhave, thanks to the advancement of practical education, entirely ceased\nto affect by either surprise or admiration the carefully matured,\nmathematically adjusted, and technically balanced brain of the finished\nstudent or professor of Organic Evolution,--and as for the idea of\n'auguries' or portents, nothing could well be more entirely at variance\nwith our present system of progressive learning, whereby Human Reason\nis trained and taught to pulverize into indistinguishable atoms all\nsupernatural propositions, and to gradually eradicate from the mind the\nabsurd notion of a Deity or deities, whom it is necessary to propitiate\nin order to live well. Much time is of course required to elevate the\nmultitude above all desire for a Religion,--but the seed has been sown,\nand the harvest will be reaped, and a glorious Era is fast approaching,\nwhen the free-thinking, free-speaking people of all nations shall\ngovern themselves and rejoice in the grand and God-less Light of\nUniversal Liberty?\"\n\nSomewhat heated by the fervor of his declamatory utterance, he passed\nhis hand among his straight locks, whether to cool his forehead, or to\nshow off the numerous jewelled rings on his fingers, it was difficult\nto say, and continued more calmly:\n\n\"No, young sir!--the color of this river,--a color which, I willingly\nadmit, resembles the tint of flowing human blood,--has naught to do\nwith foolish omens and forecasts of evil,--'tis simply caused by the\ninflux of some foreign alluvial matter, probably washed down by storm\nfrom, the sides of the distant mountains whence these waters have their\nrising,--see you not how the tide is thick and heavy with an\nunfloatable cargo of red sand? Some sudden disturbance of the soil,--or\na volcanic movement underneath the ocean,--or even a distant\nearthquake, . . any of these may be the reason.\"...\n\n\"May be?--why not say MUST be,\" observed Theos half ironically, \"since\nlearning makes you sure!\"\n\nHis companion pressed the tips of his fingers delicately together, as\nthough blandly deprecating this observation.\n\n\"Nay, nay!--none of us, however wise, can say 'MUST BE'\"--he argued\nsuavely--\"It is not,--strictly speaking,--possible in this world to\npronounce an incontestable certainty.\"\n\n\"Not even that two and two are four?\" suggested Theos, smiling.\n\n\"Not even that!\"...replied the other with perfect gravity--\"Inasmuch as\nin the kingdom of Hypharus, whose borders touch ours, the inhabitants,\nalso highly civilized, do count their quantities by a totally different\nmethod; and to them two and two are NOT four, the numbers two and four\nnot being included in their system of figures. Thus,--a Professor from\nthe Colleges of Hypharus could obstinately deny what to us seems the\nplainest fact known to common-sense,--yet, were I to argue against him\nI should never persuade him out of his theory,--nor could he move me\none jot from mine. And viewed from our differing standpoints,\ntherefore, the first simple multiplication of numbers could never be\nproved correct beyond all question!\"\n\nTheos glanced at him in wonder,--the man must be mad, he thought, since\nsurely any one in his senses could see that two objects placed with\nother two must necessarily make four!\n\n\"I confess you surprise me greatly, sir!\"--he said, and, in spite of\nhimself, a little quiver of laughter shook his voice.. \"What I asked\nwas by way of jest,--and I never thought to hear so simple a subject\ntreated with so much profound and almost doubting seriousness!\nSee!\"--and he picked up four small stones from the roadway--\"Count\nthese one by one, . . how many have you? Surely even a professor from\nHypharus could find no more, and no less than four?\"\n\nVery deliberately, and with unruffled equanimity, the other took the\npebbles in his hand, turned them over and over, and finally placed them\nin a row on the edge of the balustrade near which he stood.\n\n\"There SEEM to be four, . .\" he then observed placidly--\"But I would\nnot swear to it,--nor to anything else of which the actuality is only\nsupported by the testimony of my own eyes and sense of touch.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, man!\" cried Theos, in amazement,--\"But a moment since,\nyou were praising the excellence of Reason, and the progressive system\nof learning that was to educate human beings into a contempt for the\nSupernatural and Spiritual, and yet almost in the same breath you tell\nme you cannot rely on the evidence of your own senses! Was there ever\nanything more utterly incoherent and irrational!\"\n\nAnd he flung the pebbles into the redly flowing river with a gesture of\nirritation and impatience. The scientist,--if scientist he could be\ncalled,--gazed at him abstractedly, and stroked his well-shaven chin\nwith a somewhat dejected air. Presently heaving a deep sigh, he said:\n\n\"Alas, I have again betrayed myself! ... 'tis my fatal destiny! Always,\nby some unlooked-for mischance, I am compelled to avow what most I\ndesire to conceal! Can you not understand, sir,\"--and he laid his hand\npersuasively on Theos's arm,--\"that a Theory may be one thing and one's\nown private opinion another? My Theory is my profession,--I live by it!\nSuppose I resigned it,--well, then I should also have to resign my\npresent position in the Royal Institutional College,--my house, my\nservants, and my income. I advance the interests of pure Human Reason,\nbecause the Age has a tendency to place Reason as the first and highest\nattribute of Man,--and it would not pay me to pronounce my personal\npreference for the natural and vastly superior gift of Intellectual\nInstinct. I advise my scholars to become atheists, because I perceive\nthey have a positive passion for Atheism, and it is not my business,\nnor would it be to my advantage to interfere with the declared\npredilections of my wealthiest patrons. Concerning my own ideas on\nthese matters, they are absolutely NIL, ... I have no fixed\nprinciples,--because\"--and his brows contracted in a puzzled line--\"it\nis entirely out of my ability to fix anything! The whole world of\nmanners and morals is in a state of perpetual ferment and consequent\nchange,--equally restless and mutable is the world of Nature, for at\nany moment mountains may become plains, and plains mountains,--the dry\nland may be converted into oceans, and oceans into dry land, and so on\nforever. In this incessant shifting of the various particles that make\nup the Universe, how can you expect a man to hold fast to so unstable a\nthing as an idea! And, respecting the testimony offered by sight and\nsense, can YOU rely upon such slippery evidence?\"\n\nTheos moved uneasily,--a slight shiver ran through his veins, and a\nmomentary dizziness seized him, as of one who gazing down from some\nlofty mountain-peak sees naught below but the white, deceptive\nblankness of a mist that veils the deeper deathful chasms from his\neyes. COULD he rely on sight and sense...DARED he take oath that these\nfrail guides of his intelligence could never be deceived? ...\nDoubtfully he mused on this, while his companion continued:\n\n\"For example, I look an arm's length into space, . . my eyes assure me\nthat I behold nothing save empty air,--my touch corroborates the\nassertion of my eyes,--and yet, . . Science proves to me that every\ninch of that arm's length of supposed blank space is filled with\nthousands of minute living organisms that no human vision shall ever be\nable to note or examine! Wonder not, therefore, that I decline to\nexpress absolute confidence in any fact, however seemingly obvious,\nsuch as that two and two are four, and that I prefer to say the\nblood-red color of this river MAY be caused by an earth-tremor or a\nland-slip, rather than positively assert that it MUST be so; though I\nconfess that, as far as my knowledge guides me, I incline to the belief\nthat 'MUST be' is in this instance the correct term.\"\n\nHe sighed again, and rubbed his nose perplexedly. Theos glanced at him\ncuriously, uncertain whether to laugh at or pity him.\n\n\"Then the upshot of all your learning, sir, . .\" he said, . . \"is that\none can never be quite certain of anything?\"\n\n\"Exactly so!\"--replied the pensive sage with a grave shake of his\nhead,--\"Judged by the very finest lines of metaphysical argument, you\ncannot really be sure whether you behold in me a Person or a Phantasm!\nYou THINK you see me,--I THINK I see you,--but after all it is only an\nIMPRESSION mutually shared,--an impression which like many another,\nless distinct, may be entirely erroneous! Ah, my dear young\nsir!--education is advancing at a very rapid rate, and the art of close\nanalysis is reaching such a pitch of perfection that I believe we shall\nsoon be able logically to prove, not only that we do not actually\nexist, but moreover that we never have existed! ... And herein, as I\nconsider, will be the final triumph of philosophy!\"\n\n\"A poor triumph!\"--murmured Theos wearily. \"What, in such a case, would\nbecome of all the nobler sentiments and passions of man,--love, hope,\ngratitude, duty, ambition?\"\n\n\"They would be precisely the same as before\"--rejoined the other\ncomplacently--\"Only we should have learned to accept them merely as the\nmeans whereby to sustain the IMPRESSION that we live,--an impression\nwhich would always be agreeable, however delusive!\"\n\nTheos shrugged his shoulders. \"You possess a peculiarly constituted\nmind, sir!\"--he said--\"And I congratulate you on the skill you display\nin following out a somewhat puzzling investigation to almost its last\nhand's-breadth of a conclusion,--but.. pardon me,--I should scarcely\nthink the discussion of such debatable theories conducive to happiness!\"\n\n\"Happiness!\".. and the scientist smiled scornfully,--\"'Tis a fool's\nterm, and designates a state of being that can only pertain to\nfoolishness! Show me a perfectly happy man, and I will show you an\nignorant witling, light-headed, hardhearted, and of a most powerfully\ngood digestion! Many such there be now wantoning among us, and the head\nand chief of them all is perhaps the most popular numskull in Al-Kyris,\n. . the Poet,--bah! ... let us say the braying Jack-ass in office,--the\nlaurelled Sah-luma!\"\n\nTheos gave an indignant start,--the hot color flushed his brows, . .\nthen he restrained himself by an effort.\n\n\"Control the fashion of your speech, I pray you, sir!\" he said, with\nexcessive haughtiness--\"The noble Laureate is my friend and host,--I\nsuffer no man to use his name unworthily in my presence!\"\n\nThe sage drew back, and spread out his hands in a pacifying manner.\n\n'Oh, I crave your pardon, good stranger!\"--he murmured, with a kind of\napologetic satire in his acrid voice,--\"I crave it most abjectly! Yet\nto somewhat excuse the hastiness of my words, I would explain that a\ncontempt for poets and poetry is now universal among persons of\nprofound enlightenment and practical knowledge...\"\n\n\"I am aware of it!\" interrupted Theos swiftly and with passion--\"I am\naware that so-called 'wise' men, rooted in narrow prejudice, with a\nsmattering of even narrower logic, presume, out of their immeasurable\nlittleness, to decry and make mock of the truly great, who, thanks to\nGod's unpurchasable gift of inspiration, can do without the study of\nbooks or the teaching of pedants,--who flare through the world\nflame-winged and full of song, like angels passing heavenward,--and\nwhose voices, rich with music, not only sanctify the by-gone ages, but\npenetrate with echoing, undying sweetness the ages still to come!\nContempt for poets!--Aye, 'tis common!--the petty, boastful pedagogues\nof surface learning ever look askance on these kings in exile, these\nemperors masked, these gods disguised! ... but humiliated, condemned,\nor rejected, they are still the supreme rulers of the human heart,--and\na Love-Ode chanted in the Long-Ago by one such fire-lipped minstrel\noutlasts the history of many kingdoms!\"\n\nHe spoke with rapid, almost unconscious fervor, and as he ended raised\none hand with an enthusiastic gesture toward the now brilliant sapphire\nsky and glowing sun. The scientist looked at him furtively and\nsmiled,--a bland, expostulatory smile.\n\n\"Oh, you are young!--you must be very young!\" he said forbearingly..\n\"In a little time you will grow out of all this ill-judged fanaticism\nfor an Art, the pursuance of which is really only wasted labor! Think\nof the absurdity of it!--what can be more foolish than the writing of\nverse to express or to encourage emotion in the human subject, when the\ngreat aim of education at the present day is to carefully eradicate\nemotion by degrees, till we succeed in completely suppressing it! An\noutburst of feeling is always vulgar,--the highest culture consists in\nbeing impassively equable of temperament, and absolutely indifferent to\nthe attacks of either joy or sorrow. I should be inclined to ask you to\nconsider this matter more seriously, and from the strictly common-sense\npoint of view, did I not know that for you to undertake a course of\nuseful meditation while you remain is Sah-luma's companionship would be\nimpossible, . . quite impossible! Nevertheless our discourse has been\nso far interesting, that I shall be happy to meet you again and give\nyou an opportunity for further converse should you desire it, . . ask\nfor the Head Professor of Scientific Positivism, any day in the\nStrangers' Court of the Royal Institutional College, and I will at once\nreceive you! My name is Mira-Khabur,--Professor Mira Khabur...at your\nservice!\"\n\nAnd laying one hand on his breast he bowed profoundly.\n\n\"A Professor of Positivism who is himself never positive!\"--observed\nTheos with a slight smile.\n\n\"Ah pardon!\" returned the other gravely--\"On the contrary, I am always\npositive! ... of the UNpositiveness of Positivism!\"\n\nAnd with this final vindication of his theories he made another stately\nobeisance and went his way. Theos looked after his tall, retreating\nfigure half in sadness, half in scorn. This proudly incompetent,\nlearned-ignorant Mira-Khabur was no uncommon character--surely there\nwere many like him!\n\nSomewhere in the world,--somewhere in far lands of which the memory was\nnow as indistinct as the outline of receding shores blurred by a\nfalling mist, Theos seemed painfully to call to mind certain\ncold-blooded casuists he had known, who had attempted to explain away\nthe mysteries of life and death by rule and line calculations, and who\nfor no other reason than their mathematically argued denial of God's\nexistence had gained for themselves a temporary, spurious celebrity.\nYes! ... surely he had met such men, . . but WHERE? Realizing, with a\nsort of shock, that he was quite as much in the dark as ever with\nregard to any real cognizance of his former place of abode and the\nmanner of life he must have led before he entered this bewildering city\nof Al-Kyris, he roused himself abruptly, and resolutely banishing the\nheavy thoughts that threatened to oppress his soul, he began without\nfurther delay to direct his steps towards Sah-luma's palace.\n\nHe glanced once more at the river before leaving the embankment,--it\nwas still blood red, and every now and then, between the sluggish\nripples, multitudes of dead fish could be seen drifting along in\nshoals, and tangled in nets of slimy weed that at a little distance\nlooked like the floating tresses of drowned women.\n\nIt was an uncanny sight, and though it might certainly be as the wise\nMira Khabur had stated, the purely natural effect of purely natural\ncauses, still those natural causes were not as yet explained\nsatisfactorily. An earthquake or land-slip would perhaps account\nsufficiently for everything,--but then an inquiring mind would desire\nto know WHERE the earthquake or land-slip occurred,--and also WHY these\nsupposed far-off disturbances should thus curiously affect the river\nsurrounding Al-Kyris? Answers to such questions as these were not\nforthcoming either from Professor Mira-Khabur or any other sagacious\npundit,--and Theos was therefore still most illogically and\nunscientifically puzzled as well as superstitiously uneasy.\n\nTurning up a side street, he quickened his pace, in order to overtake a\nyoung vendor of wines whom he perceived sauntering along in front of\nhim, balancing a flat tray, loaded with thin crystal flasks, on his\nhead. How gloriously the sunshine quivered through those delicately\ntinted glass bottles, lighting up the glittering liquid contained\nwithin them!--why, they look more like soap-bubbles than anything else!\n... and the boy who carried them moved with such a lazy, noiseless\ngrace that he might have been taken for a dream-sylph rather than a\nhuman being!\n\n\"Hola, my lad!\" called Theos, running after him.. \"Tell me,--is this\nthe way to the palace of the King's Laureate?\"\n\nThe youth looked up,--what a beautiful creature he was, with his\nbrilliant, dark eyes and dusky, warm complexion!\n\n\"Why ask for the King's Laureate?\" he demanded with a pretty\nscorn,--\"The PEOPLE'S Sah-luma lives yonder!\"--and he pointed to a mass\nof towering palms from whose close and graceful frondage a white dome\nrose glistening in the clear air,--\"Our Poet's fame is not the\noutgrowth of a mere king's favor, 'tis the glad and willing tribute of\nthe Nation's love and praise! A truce to monarchs!--they will soon be\nat a discount in Al-Kyris!\"\n\nAnd with a flashing glance of defiance, and a saucy smile, he passed\non, easily sauntering as before.\n\n\"A budding republican!\" though Theos amusedly, as he pursued his course\nin the direction indicated. \"That is how the 'liberty, equality,\nfraternity' system always begins--first among street-boys who think\nthey ought to be gentlemen,--then among shopkeepers who persuade\nthemselves that they deserve to be peers,--then comes a time of\ntopsey-turveydom and fierce contention and by and by everything gets\nshaken together again in the form of a Republic, wherein the\nstreet-boys and shopkeepers are not a whit better off than they were\nunder a monarchy--they become neither peers nor gentlemen, but stay\nexactly in their original places, with the disadvantage of finding\ntheir trade decidedly damaged by the change that has occurred in the\nnational economy! Strange that the inhabitants of this world should\nmake such a fuss about resisting tyranny and oppression, when each\nparticular individual man, by custom and usage, tyrannizes over and\noppresses his fellow-man to an extent that would be simply impossible\nto the fiercest kings!\"\n\nThus meditating a few steps more brought him to the entrance of\nSah-luma's princely abode,--the gates stood wide open, and a pleasant\nmurmur of laughter and soft singing floated toward him across the\nsplendid court where the great fountains were tossing up to the bright\nsky their straight, glistening columns of snowy spray. He\nlistened,--and his heart leaped with an intense relief and\njoy,--Sah-luma, the beloved Sah-luma, was evidently at home and as yet\nunharmed,--these mirthful sounds betokened that all was well. The vague\ntrouble and depression that had weighed upon his soul for hours now\nvanished completely, and hastening along, he sprang lightly up the\nmarble stairs, and into the rainbow-colored, spacious hall, where the\nfirst person he saw was Zabastes the Critic.\n\n\"Ah, good Zabastes!\" he cried gayly,--\"Where is thy master Sah-luma?\nHas he returned in safety?\"\n\n\"In safety?\" croaked Zabastes with an accent of ironic surprise.. \"To\nbe sure! ... Is he a baby in swaddling-clothes that he cannot be\ntrusted out alone to take care of himself? In safety?--aye! I warrant\nyou he is safe enough, and silly enough, and lazy enough to please any\none of his idiot flatterers, . . moreover my 'master!\"--and he\nemphasized this word with indescribable bitterness--\"hath slept as\nsoundly as a swine, and hath duly bathed with the punctiliousness of a\nconceited swan, and being suitably combed, perfumed, attired, and\nthroned as becomes his dainty puppetship, is now condescending to\npartake of vulgar food in the seclusion of his own apartment. Go\nthither and you shall find his verse-stringing Mightiness nobly\nenshrined as a god among a worshipping crowd of witless maidens,--he\nhath inquired for you many times, which is somewhat of a wonder, seeing\nthat as a rule he concerns his mind with naught save himself!\nFurthermore, he is graciously pleased to be in a manner solicitous on\nbehalf of the maiden Niphrata, who hath suddenly disappeared from the\nhousehold, leaving no message to explain the cause of her evanishment.\nHath seen her? ... No?\"--and the old man thumped his stick petulantly\non the floor as Theos shook his head in the negative--\"'Tis the only\nfeminine creature I ever had patience to speak with,--a modest wench\nand a gentle one, and were it not for her idolatrous adoration of\nSah-luma, she would be fairly sensible withal. No matter!--she has\ngone; everything goes, even good women, and nothing lasts save folly,\nof which there shall surely never be an end!\"\n\nHere apparently conscious that he had shown more feeling in speaking of\nNiphrata than was usual with him, he looked up impatiently and waved\nhis staff toward Sah-luma's study; \"In, in, boy! In, to, the Chief of\npoets and prince of egotists! He waits your service,--he is all agape\nand thirsty for more flattery and delicate cajolement, ... stuff him\nwith praise, good youth! ... and who knows but a portion of his mantle\nmay descend on YOU hereafter and make of YOU as conceited and pretty a\nbantling bard for the glory of proud posterity!\"\n\nAnd chuckling audibly, he hobbled down a side passage, while Theos,\nhalf angry, half amused, crossed the hall quickly, and arrived at the\ndoor of the Laureate's private sanctum, where, gently drawing aside the\nsilken draperies, he looked in for a moment without being himself\nperceived. What a picture he beheld! ... How perfection every shade of\ncolor in every line of detail! Sah-luma, reclining in a quaintly carved\nebony chair, was toying with the fruit and wine set out before him on\nan ivory and gold stand,--his dress, simpler than it had been on the\nprevious evening, was of fine white linen gathered loosely about his\nclassic figure,--he wore neither myrtle-wreath nor jewels,--the\nexpression of his face was serious, even noble, and his attitude was\none of languid grace and unstudied ease that became him infinitely\nwell. The maidens of his household waited near him,--some of them held\nflowers,--one, kneeling at a small lyre, seemed just about to strike a\nfew chords, when Sah-luma silenced her by a light gesture:\n\n\"Peace, Zoralin!\" he said softly.. \"I cannot listen: thou hast not my\nNiphrata's tenderness!\"\n\nZoralin, a beautiful, dark girl, with hair as black as night, and eyes\nthat looked as though they held suppressed yet ever burning fire, let\nher hands instantly drop from the instrument, and sighing, shrank back\na little in abashed silence. At that moment Theos advanced,--and the\nLaureate sprang up delightedly:\n\n\"Ah, at last, my friend!\" he cried, enthusiastically clasping him by\nboth hands,--\"Where, in the name of all the gods, hast thou been\nroaming? How did we part?--by my soul I forget!--but no matter!--thou\nart here once more, and as I live, we will not separate again so\neasily! My noble Theos!\" and he threw one arm affectionately around his\nneck--\"I have missed thee more than I can tell these past few\nhours,--thou dost seem so sympathetically conjoined with me, that\nverily I think I am but half myself in thine absence! Come,--sit thee\ndown and break thy fast! ... I almost feared thou hadst met with some\nmischance on thy way hither, and that I should have had to sally forth\nand rescue thee again even as I did yesternoon! Say, hast thou occupied\nthyself with so much friendly consideration on my behalf, as I have on\nthine?\"\n\nHe laughed gayly as he spoke,--and Theos, looking into his bright,\nbeautiful face, was for a moment too deeply moved by his own strange\ninward emotions, to utter a word in reply. WHY did he love Sah-luma so\nardently, he wondered? WHY was it that every smile on that proud mouth,\nevery glance of those flashing eyes, possessed such singular,\noverwhelming fascination for him? He could not tell,--but he readily\nyielded to the magic influence of his friend's extraordinary\nattractiveness, and sitting down beside him in the azure light and soft\nfragrance of his regal apartment, he experienced a sudden sense of\nrest, satisfaction, and completeness, such as may be felt by a man AT\nONE WITH HIMSELF, and with all the world!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nWASTED PASSION.\n\n\nThe assembled maidens had retired modestly into the background, while\nthe Laureate had thus joyously greeted his returned guest; but now, at\na signal from their lord, they again advanced, and taking up the\nglittering dishes of fruit and the flasks of wine, proffered them in\nturn to Theos with much deferential grace and courtesy. He was by no\nmeans slow in responding to the humble attentions of these fair ones, .\n. there was a sort of deliciously dreamy enchantment in being waited\nupon by such exquisitely lovely creatures! The passing touch of their\nlittle white hands that supported the heavy golden salvers seemed to\nadd new savor to the luscious fare,--the timorous fire of their\ndowncast eyes, softly sparkling through the veil of their long lashes,\ngave extra warmth to the ambrosial wine,--and he could not refrain from\noccasionally whispering a tender flattery or delicate compliment in the\near of one or other of his sylph-like servitors, though they all\nappeared curiously unmoved by his choicely worded adulation. Now and\nthen a pale, flickering blush or sudden smile brightened their faces,\nbut for the most part they maintained a demure and serious demeanor, as\nthough possessed by the very spirit of invincible reserve. With\nSah-luma it was otherwise,--they hovered about him like butterflies\nround a rose,--a thousand wistful, passionate glances darted upon him,\nwhen he, unconscious or indifferent, apparently saw nothing,--many a\ndeep, involuntary sigh was stifled quickly ere it could escape between\nthe rosy lips whose duty it was to wreathe themselves with smiles, and\nTheos noticing these things thought:\n\n\"Heavens! how this man is loved!--and yet ... he, out of all men, is\nperhaps the most ignorant of Love's true meaning!\"\n\nScarcely had this reflection entered his mind than he became bitterly\nangry with himself for having indulged in it. How recreant, how base an\nidea! ... how incompatible with the adoring homage he felt for his\nfriend! What!--Sah-luma,--a Poet, whose songs of Love were so perfect,\nso wildly sweet and soul-entrancing--HE, to be ignorant of Love's true\nmeaning? ... Oh, impossible!--and a burning flush of shame rose to\nTheos's brow,--shame that he could have entertained such a blasphemy\nagainst his Idol for a moment! Then that curious, vague, soft\ncontrition he had before experienced stole over him once again--a\nsudden moisture filled his eyes,--and turning abruptly toward his host\nhe held out his own just filled goblet:\n\n\"Drink we the loving-cup together, Sah-luma!\" he said, and his voice\ntrembled a little with its own deep tenderness, . . \"Pledge me thy\nfaith as I do pledge thee mine! And for to-day at least let me enjoy\nthy boon companionship, . . who knows how soon we may be forced to part\n... forever!\" And he breathed the last word softly with a faint sigh.\n\nSah-luma looked at him with an expressive glance of bright surprise.\n\n\"Part?\" he exclaimed joyously--\"Nay, not we, my friend! ... Not till we\nfind each other tiresome, . . not till we prove that our spirits, like\nover-mettlesome steeds, do chafe and fret one another too rudely in the\nharness of custom, . . wherefore then, and then only, 'twill be time to\nbreak loose at a gallop, and seek each one a wider pasture-land!\nMeanwhile, here's to thee!\"--and bending his handsome head he readily\ndrank a deep draught of the proffered wine.. \"May all the gods hold\nfast our bond of friendship!\"\n\nAnd with a graceful salute he returned the jewelled cup half-empty.\nTheos at once drained off what yet remained within it, and then,\nleaning more confidentially over the Laureate's chair, he whispered:\n\n\"Hast thou in very truth forgotten thy rashness of last night,\nSah-luma? Surely thou must guess how unquiet I have been concerning\nthee! Tell me, . . was thy hot pursuit in vain? ... or.. didst thou\ndiscover the King?\"\n\n\"Peace!\" and a quick frown darkened the smooth beauty of Sah-luma's\nface as he grasped Theos's arm hard to warn him into silence,--then\nforcing a smile he answered in the same low tone.. \"'Twas not the King,\n. . it could not be! Thou wert mistaken ...\"\n\n\"Nay but,\" persisted Theos gently--\"convince me of mine error! Didst\nthou overtake and steadily confront yon armed and muffled stranger?\"\n\n\"Not I!\"--and Sah-luma shrugged his shoulders petulantly--\"Sleep fell\nupon me suddenly when I left thee,--and methinks I must have wandered\nhome like a shadow in a dream! Was I not drunk last night?--Aye!--and\nso in all likelihood wert thou! ... little could we be trusted to\nrecognize either King or clown!\"--He laughed,--then\nadded--\"Nevertheless I tell thee once again 'twas not the King, . . His\nMajesty hath too much at stake, to risk so dangerous a pleasantry!\"\n\nTheos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at ease, . . Sah-luma's\ncareless contentment increased his own disquietude. Just then a\ncurious-looking personage entered the apartment,--a gray-haired,\ndwarfish negro, who carried slung across his back a large bundle,\nconsisting of several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of which he\npresently detached from the rest and set down before the Laureate, who\nin return gave him a silver coin, at the same time asking jestingly:\n\n\"Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya?--or is it the same\nill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, common-place events?\"\n\nZibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide leathern pouch\nwhich hung from his girdle, appeared to meditate a moment,--then he\nreplied:\n\n\"If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is nothing whatever\nto interest the minds of the cultured. The cheap scribes of the Daily\nCircular cater chiefly for the mob, and do all in their power to foster\nmorbid qualities of disposition and murderous tendencies among the\nlower orders; hence though there is nothing in the news-sheet\npertaining to Literature or the Fine Arts, there is much concerning the\nsudden death of the young sculptor Nir-jalis, whose body was found\nflung on the banks of the river this morning.\"\n\nTheos started, . . Sah-luma listened with placid indifference. \"'Tis a\ncase of self-slaughter\"--pursued Zibya chattily.. \"or so say the wise\nwriters who are supposed to know everything, . . self-slaughter\ncommitted during a state of temporary insanity! Well, well! I myself\nwould have had a different opinion.\"\n\n\"And a sagacious one no doubt!\" interrupted Sah-luma coldly, and with a\ndangerous flash as of steel in his eyes.. \"But.. be advised, good\nZibya! ... give thine opinion no utterance!\"\n\nThe old negro shrank back nervously, making numerous apologetic\ngestures, and waited in abashed silence till the Laureate's features\nregained their wonted soft serenity. Then he ventured to speak\nagain,--though not without a little hesitation.\n\n\"Concerning the topics of the hour...\" he murmured timorously.. \"My\nlord is perhaps not aware that the river itself is a subject of much\nexcited discussion,--the water having changed to a marvellous\nblood-color during the night, which singular circumstance hath caused a\ngreat panic among the populace. Even now, as I passed by the\nembankment, the crowd there was thick as a hive of swarming bees!\"\n\nHe paused, but Sah-luma made no remark, and he continued more glibly,\n\"Also, to-day's 'Circular' contains the full statement of the King's\nreward for the capture of the Prophet Khosrul, and the formal Programme\nof the Sacrificial Ceremonial announced to take place this evening in\nthe Temple of Nagaya. All is set forth in the fine words of the petty\npublic scribes, who needs must make as much as possible out of\nlittle,--and there is likewise a so-called facsimile of the King's\nsignature, which will naturally be of supreme interest to the vulgar.\nFurthermore it is proclaimed that a grand Combat of wild beasts in the\nRoyal Arena will follow immediately after the Service in the Temple is\nconcluded,--methinks none will go to bed early, seeing there is so full\na list of amusements!\"\n\nHe paused again, somewhat out of breath,--and Sah-luma meanwhile\nunrolled the linen scroll he had purchased, which measured about\ntwenty-four inches in length and twenty in width. Carefully ruled black\nand red lines divided it into nearly the same number of columns as\nthose on the page of an ordinary newspaper, and it was covered with\nclose writing, here and there embellished by bold, profusely ornamented\nheadings. One of these, \"Death of the Sculptor, Nir-jalis,\" seemed to\nburn into Theos's brain like letters of fire,--how was it, he wondered,\nthat the body of that unfortunate victim had been found on the shore of\nthe river, when he himself had seen it loaded with iron weights, and\ncast into the lake that formed part of Lysia's fatal garden? Presently\nSah-luma passed the scroll to him with a smile, saying lightly:\n\n\"There, my friend, is a specimen of the true mob-literature! ...\nwritten to-day, forgotten to-morrow! 'Tis a droll thing to meditate\nupon, the ephemeral nature of all this pouring-out of unnecessary words\nand stale stock-phrases!--and, wouldst thou believe it, Theos! each\nlittle paid scribe that adds his poor quota to this ill-assorted trash\ndeems himself wiser and greater far than any poet or philosopher dead\nor living! Why, in this very news-sheet I have seen the immortal works\nof the divine Hyspiros so hacked by the blunt knives of ignorant and\nvulgar criticism that, by my faith! ... were it not for contempt, one\nwould be disposed to nail the hands of such trumpery scribblers to a\npost, and scourge their bare backs with thorny rods to cure them of\ntheir insolence! Nay, even my fool Zabastes hath found place in these\nnarrow columns, to write his carping diatribes against me,--me, the\nKing's Laureate! ... As I live, his cumbersome diction hath caused me\ninfinite mirth, and I have laughed at his crabbed and feeble wit till\nmy sides have ached most potently! Now get thee gone, fellow!--thou and\nthy news!\"--and he nodded a good-humored dismissal to the deferential\nZibya, who with his woolly gray head very much on one side stood\nlistening gravely and approvingly to all that was said,--\"Yet stay!\n... has gossip whispered thee the name of the poor virgin self-destined\nfor this evening's sacrifice?\"\n\n\"No, my lord\"--responded Zibya promptly--\"'Tis veiled in deeper mystery\nthan usual. I have inquired of many, but in vain,--and even the Chief\nFlamen of the Outside Court of the Temple, always drunk and garrulous\nas he is, can tell me naught of the holy victim's title or parentage.\n'Tis a passing fair wench!' said he, with a chuckle.. 'That is all I\nknow concerning her ... a passing fair wench!' Ah!\" and Zibya rolled up\nthe whites of his eyes and sighed in a comically contemplative manner..\n\"If ever a Flamen deserved expulsion from his office, it is surely yon\nancient, crafty, carnal-minded soul! ... so keen a glance for a woman's\nbeauty is not a needful qualification for a servant of the Snake\nDivine! Methinks we have fallen upon evil days! ... maybe the crazed\nProphet is right after all, and things are coming to an end!\"\n\n\"Like thy discourse, I hope, Zibya!\" observed Sah-luma, yawning and\nflinging himself lazily back on his velvet couch,--\"Get hence, and\nserve thy customers with their cheap news, . . depend upon it, some of\nthem are cursing thee mightily for thy delay! And if thou shouldst\nchance to meet the singing-maiden of my household, Niphrata, bid her\nmake haste homeward,--she hath been absent since the break of\nmorn,--too long for my contentment. Maybe I did unwisely to give the\nchild her freedom,--as slave she would not have presumed to gad abroad\nthus wantonly, without her lord's permission. Say, if thou seest her,\nthat I am wrathful,--the thought of mine anger will be as a swift wing\nto waft her hither like a trembling dove,--afraid, all penitent, and\neager for my pardon! Remember! ... be sure thou tell her of my deep\ndispleasure!\"\n\nZibya bowed profoundly, his outspread hands almost touching the floor\nin the servility of his obeisance, and backed out of the room as humbly\nas though he were leaving the presence of royalty. When he had gone,\nTheos looked up from the news-scroll he was perusing:\n\n\"Is it not strange Niphrata should have left thee thus, Sah-luma?\".. he\nsaid with a touch of anxiety in his tone ... \"Maybe\".. and he\nhesitated, conscious of a strange, unbidden remorse that suddenly and\nwithout any apparent reason overwhelmed his conscience.. \"Maybe she was\nnot happy?\"...\n\n\"Not happy!\" ejaculated Sah-luma amazedly, \"Not happy with ME? ... not\nhappy in MY house,--protected by MY patronage? Where then, if not here,\ncould she find happiness?\"\n\nAnd his beautiful flashing eyes betokened his entire and naive\nastonishment at the mere supposition. Theos smiled involuntarily.. how,\ncharming, after all was Sah-luma's sublime egotism!--how almost\nchild-like was his confidence in himself and his own ability to\nengender joy! All at once the young girl Zoralin spoke,--her accents\nwere low and timorous:\n\n\"May it please my lord Sah-luma to hear me...\" she said and paused.\n\n\"Thy lord Sah-luma hears thee with pleasure, Zoralin,\" replied the\nLaureate gently. \"Thou dost speak more sweetly than many a bird doth\nsing!\"\n\nA rich, warm blush crimsoned the maiden's cheeks at these dulcet\nwords,--she drew a quick, uneasy breath, and then went on,--\n\n\"I love Niphrata!\" she murmured in a soft tone of touching tenderness,\n. . \"And I have watched her often when she deemed herself unseen, . .\nshe has, methinks, shed many tears for sake of some deep, heart-buried\nsorrow! We have lived as sisters, sharing the same room, and the same\ncouch of sleep, but alas! in spite of all my lord's most constant\nkindly favor, Niphrata is not happy, ..and.. and I have sometimes\nthought--\" here her mellow voice sank into a nervous\nindistinctness--\"that it may be because she loves my lord Sah-luma far\ntoo well!\"\n\nAnd as she said this she looked up with a sudden affright in her dark,\nlovely eyes, as though she were alarmed at her own presumption.\nSah-luma met her troubled gaze calmly and with a bright smile of\ncomplacent vanity.\n\n\"And dost thou plead for thine absent friend, Zoralin?\" ... he asked\nwith just sufficient satire in his utterance to render it almost\ncruel.. \"Am I to blame for the foolish fancies of all the amorous\nmaidens in Al-Kyris? ... Many there be who love me, . . well,--what\nthen?--Must I love many in return? Nay! Not so! the Poet is the\nworshiper of Ideal Beauty, and for him the brief passions of mortal men\nand women serve as mere pastime to while away an hour! But.. by my\nfaith, thou hast gained wondrous boldness in thy speech to prate so\nglibly of the heart's emotion,--what knowest THOU concerning such\nthings.. thou, who hast counted scarcely fifteen summers! ... hast thou\ncaught contagion from Niphrata, and art thou too, sick of love?\"\n\nOh, the dazzling smile with which he accompanied this poignant\nquestion! ... the pitiless, burning ardor he managed to convey into the\nsleeping brilliancy of his soft, poetic eyes! ... the beautiful languor\nof his attitude, as leaning his head back easily on one arm, he turned\nupon the shrinking girl a look that seemed intended to pierce into the\nvery inmost recesses of her soul! The roseate color faded from her\ncheeks, . . white as a marble image she stood, her breath coming\nbetween her lips in quick, frightened gasps...\n\n\"My lord! ...\" she stammered ... \"I ...\" Here her voice failed her, and\nsuddenly covering her face with her hands, she broke into a passion of\nweeping. Sah-luma's delicate brows darkened into a close frown,--and he\nwaved his hand with a petulant gesture of impatience.\n\n\"Ye gods! what fools are women!\" he said wearily. \"Ever hovering\nuncertainly on a narrow verge between silly smiles and sillier tears!\nAs I live, they are most uncomfortable play-fellows!--and dwelling with\nthem long would drive all the inspiration out of man, no matter how\nnobly he were gifted! Ye butterflies--ye little fluttering souls!\" and\nbeginning to laugh as readily as he had frowned, he addressed the other\nmaidens, who, though they did not dare to move or speak, were evidently\naffected by the grief of their companion--\"Go hence all!-and take this\nsensitive baby, Zoralin, into your charge, and console her for her\nfancied troubles--'tis a mere frenzy of feminine weakness, and will\npass like an April shower. But, ... by the Sacred Veil!--if I saw much\nof woman's weeping, I would discard forever woman's company, and dwell\nin peaceful hermit fashion alone among the treetops! ... so heed the\nwarning, pretty ones! ... Let me witness none of your tears if ye are\nwise,--or else say farewell to Sah-luma, and seek some less easy and\nless pleasing service!\"\n\nWith this injunction he signed to them all to depart,--whereupon the\nawed and trembling girls noiselessly surrounded the still convulsively\nsobbing Zoralin, and gently leading her away, they quickly withdrew,\neach one making a profound obeisance to their imperious master ere\nleaving his presence. When they had finally disappeared Sah-luma heaved\na sigh of relief.\n\n\"Can anything equal the perverseness of these frivolous feminine toys!\"\nhe murmured pettishly, turning his head round toward Theos as he\nspoke--\"Was ever a more foolish child than Zoralin? ... Just as I would\nfain have consoled her for her pricking heartache, she must needs pour\nout a torrent of tear-drops to change my humor and quench her own\ndelight! 'Tis the most irksome inconsistency!\"\n\nTheos glanced at him with a vague emotion of wonder and\nself-reproachful sadness.\n\n\"Nay, wouldst thou indeed have consoled her, Sah-luma?\" he inquired\ngravely, \"How?\"\n\n\"How?\" and Sah-luma laughed musically.. \"My simple friend, dost thou\nask me such a babe's question?\"... He sprang from his couch, and\nstanding erect, pushed his clustering dark hair off his wide, bold\nbrows. . \"Am I disfigured, aged, lame, or crooked-limbed? ... Cannot\nthese arms embrace?--these lips engender kisses?--these eyes wax\namorous? ... and shall not one brief hour of love with me console the\nweariest maid that ever pined for passion? ... Now, by my faith, how\nsolemn is thy countenance! ... Art thou an anchorite, good Theos, and\nwouldst thou have me scourge my flesh and groan, because the gods have\ngiven me youth and vigorous manhood?\"\n\nHe drew himself up with an inimitable gesture of pride,--his attitude\nwas statuesque and noble,--and Theos looked at him as he would have\nlooked at a fine picture, with a sense of critically satisfied\nadmiration.\n\n\"Most assuredly I am no anchorite, Sah-luma!\" he said smiling slightly,\nyet with a touch of sorrow in his voice. \"But methinks the consolement\nthou wouldst offer to enamoured maids is far more dangerous than\nlasting! Thy love to them means ruin,--thy embraces shame,--thy\nunthinking passion death! What!--wilt thou be a spendthrift of\ndesire?--wilt thou drain the fond souls of women as a bee drains the\nsweetness of flowers?--wilt thou, being honey-cloyed, behold them droop\nand wither around thee, and wilt thou leave them utterly destroyed and\ndesolate? Hast thou no vestige of a heart, my friend? a poet-heart, to\nfeel the misery of the world? ..the patient grief of all-appealing\nNature, commingled with the dreadful, yet majestic silence of an\nunknown God? ... Oh, surely, thou hast this supremest gift of genius, .\n. this loving, enduring, faithful, sympathetic HEART! ... for without\nit, how shall thy fame be held long in remembrance? ... how shall thy\nmuse-grown laurels escape decay? Tell me! ...\" and leaning forward he\ncaught his friend's hand in his eagerness.. \"Thou art not made of\nstone, . . thou art human, . . thou art not exempt from mortal\nsuffering ...\"\n\n\"Not exempt--no!\" interposed Sah-luma thoughtfully ... \"But, as yet,--I\nhave never really suffered!\"\n\n\"Never really suffered!\".. Theos dropped the hand he held, and an\ninvisible barrier seemed to rise slowly up between him and his\nbeautiful companion. Never really suffered! ... then he was no true\npoet after all, if he was ignorant of sorrow! If he could not\nspiritually enter into the pathos of speechless griefs and unshed\ntears,--if he could not absorb into his own being the prayers and\nplaints of all Creation, and utter them aloud in burning and immortal\nlanguage, his calling was in vain, his election futile! This thought\nsmote Theos with the strength of a sudden blow,--he sat silent, and\nweighed with a dreary feeling of disappointment to which he was unable\nto give any fitting expression.\n\n\"I have never really suffered ...\" repeated Sah-luma slowly: . .\n\"But--I have IMAGINED suffering! That is enough for me! The passions,\nthe tortures, the despairs of imagination are greater far than the\nseeming REAL, petty afflictions with which human beings daily perplex\nthemselves; indeed, I have often wondered.. \"here his eyes grew more\nearnest and reflective ...\" whether this busy working of the brain\ncalled 'Imagination' may not perhaps be a special phase or supreme\neffort of MEMORY, and that therefore we do not IMAGINE so much as we\nremember. For instance,--if we have ever lived before, our present\nrecollection may, in certain exalted states of the mind, serve to bring\nback the shadow-pictures of things long gone by, . . good or evil\ndeeds, . . scenes of love and strife, . . ethereal and divine events,\nin which we have possibly enacted each our different parts as\nunwittingly as we enact them here!\".. He sighed and seemed somewhat\ntroubled, but presently continued in a lighter tone.. \"Yet, after all,\nit is not necessary for the poet to personally experience the emotions\nwhereof he writes. The divine Hyspiros depicts murderers, cowards, and\nslaves in his sublime Tragedies,--but thinkest thou it was essential\nfor him to become a murderer, coward, and slave himself in order to\ndelineate these characters? And I ... I write of Love,--love spiritual,\nlove eternal,--love fitted for the angels I have dreamt of--but not for\nsuch animals as men,--and what matters it that I know naught of such\nlove, . . unless perchance I knew it years ago in some far-off fairer\nsphere! ... For me the only charm of worth in woman is beauty! ...\nBeauty! ... to its entrancing sway my senses all make swift surrender\n...\"\n\n\"Oh, too swift and too degrading a surrender!\" interrupted Theos\nsuddenly with reproachful vehemence ... \"Thy words do madden\npatience!--Better a thousand times that thou shouldst perish, Sah-lama,\nnow in the full plenitude of thy poet-glory, than thus confess thyself\na prey to thine own passions,--a credulous victim of Lysia's treachery!\"\n\nFor one second the Laureate stood amazed, . . the next, he sprang upon\nhis guest and grasping him fiercely by the throat.\n\n\"Treachery?\" he muttered with white lips.. \"Treachery? ... Darest thou\nspeak of treachery and Lysia in the same breath? ... O thou rash fool!\ndost thou blaspheme my lady's name and yet not fear to die?\"\n\nAnd his lithe brown fingers tightened their clutch. But Theos cared\nnothing for his own life,--some inward excitation of feeling kept him\nresolute and perfectly controlled.\n\n\"Kill me, Sah-luma!\" he gasped--\"Kill me, friend whom I love! ... death\nwill be easy at thy hands! Deprive me of my sad existence, . . 'tis\nbetter so, than that _I_ should have slain THEE last night at Lysia's\nbidding!\"\n\nAt this, Sah-luma suddenly released his hold and started backward with\na sharp cry of anguish, . . his face was pale, and his beautiful eyes\ngrew strained and piteous.\n\n\"Slain ME! ... Me! ... at Lysia's bidding!\" he murmured wildly.. \"O ye\ngods, the world grows dark! is the sun quenched in heaven? ... At\nLysia's bidding! ..Nay, . . by my soul, my sight is dimmed! ... I see\nnaught but flaring red in the air, . . Why! ...\" and he laughed\ndiscordantly.. \"thou poor Theos, thou shalt use no dagger's point,--for\nlo! ... I am dead already! ... Thy words have killed me! Go, . . tell\nher how well her cruel mission hath sped,--my very soul is slain...at\nher bidding! Hasten to her, wilt thou!\".. and his accents trembled with\npathetic plaintiveness! ... \"Say I am gone! ... lost! drawn into a\nnight of everlasting blackness like a taper blown swiftly out by the\nwind, . . tell her that Sah-luma,--the poet Sah-luma, the\nfoolish-credulous Sah-luma who loved her so madly is no more!\"\n\nHis voice broke, . . his head drooped, . . while Theos, whose every\nnerve throbbed in responsive sympathy with the passion of his despair,\nstrove to think of some word of comfort, that like soothing balm might\ntemper the bitterness of his chafed and wounded spirit, but could find\nnone. For it was a case in which the truth must be told, . . and truth\nis always hard to bear if it destroys, or attempts to destroy, any one\nof our cherished self-delusions!\n\n\"My friend, my friend!\" he said presently with gentle\nearnestness,--\"Control this fury of thy heart! ... Why such unmanly\nsorrow for one who is not worthy of thee?\"\n\nSah-luma looked up,--his black, silky lashes were wet with tears.\n\n\"Not worthy! ... Oh, the old poor consolation!\" he exclaimed, quickly\ndashing the drops from his eyes, . . \"Not worthy?--No! ... what mortal\nwoman IS ever worthy of a poet's love?--Not one in all the world!\nNevertheless, worthy or unworthy, true or treacherous, naught can make\nLysia otherwise than fair! Fair beyond all fairness! ... and I--I was\nsole possessor of her beauty!--for me her eyes warmed into stars of\nfire,--for me her kisses ripened in their pearl and ruby nest, . .\nall--all for me!--and now! ...\" He flung himself desolately on his\ncouch, and fixed his wistful gaze on his companion's grave, pained\ncountenance,--till all at once a hopeful light flashed across his\nfeatures, . . a light that seemed to shine through him like an inwardly\nkindled flame.\n\n\"Ah! what a querulous fool am I!\" he cried, joyously,--so joyously that\nTheos knew not whether to be glad or sorry at his sudden and capricious\nchange of mood.. \"why should I thus bemoan myself for fancied\nwrong?--Good, noble Theos, thou hast been misled!--My Lysia's words\nwere but to try thy mettle! ... to test thee to the core, and prove\nthee truly faithful as Sah-luma's friend! She bade thee slay me! ...\nEven so!--but hadst thou rashly undertaken such a deed, thine own life\nwould have paid the forfeit! Now I begin to understand it all--'tis\nplain!\"--and his face grew brighter and brighter, as he cheated himself\ninto the pleasing idea his own fancy had suggested.. \"She tried\nthee,--she tempted thee, . . she found thee true and incorruptible..\nAh! 'twas a jest, my friend!\"--and entirely recovering from his\ndepression, he clapped his hand heartily on Theos's shoulder--\"'Twas\nall a jest!--and she the fair inquisitor will herself prove it so ere\nlong, and make merry with our ill-omened fears! Why, I can laugh now at\nmine own despondency!--come, look thou also more cheerily, gentle\nTheos,--and pardon these uncivil fingers that so nearly gripped thee\ninto silence!\"--and he laughed--\"Thou art the best and kindest of loyal\ncomrades, and I will so assure Lysia of thy merit, that she shall\ninstitute no more torture-trials upon thy frank and trusting nature.\nHeigho!\"--and stretching out his arms lazily, he heaved a sigh of\ntranquil satisfaction--\"Methought I was wounded into death! but 'twas\nthe mere fancied prick of an arrow after all, and I am well again!\nWhat, art thou still melancholy! ... still sombre! ... Nay, surely thou\nwilt not be a veritable kill-joy!\"\n\nTheos stood mute and sorely perplexed. He saw at once how useless it\nwas now to try and convince Sah luma of any danger threatening him\nthrough the instigation of the woman he loved,--he would never believe\nit! And yet ... something must be done to put him on his guard. Taking\nup the scroll of the public news, where the account of the finding of\nthe body of Nir-jalis was written with all that exaggerated attention\nto repulsive details which seems to be a special gift of the cheap\nre-porters, Theos pointed to it.\n\n\"His was a cruel end!\"--he said in a low, uncertain voice,--\"Sah-luma,\ncanst thou expect mercy from a woman who has once been so merciless?\"\n\n\"Bah!\" returned the Laureate lightly. \"Who and what was Nir-jalis? A\nhewer of stone images--a no-body!--he will not be missed! Besides, he\nis only one of many who have perished thus.\"\n\n\"Only one of many!\" ejaculated Theos with a shudder of aversion.. \"And\nyet, . . O thou most reckless and misguided soul! ... thou dost love\nthis wanton murderess!\"\n\nA warm flush tinted Sah-luma's olive skin,--his hands clenched and\nunclenched slowly as though he held some struggling, prisoned thing,\nand raising his head he looked at his companion full and steady with a\nsingularly solemn and reproving expression in his luminous eyes.\n\n\"Hast THOU not loved her also?\" he demanded, a faint, serious smile\ncurving his lips as he spoke, . . \"If only for the space of some few\npassing moments, was not thy soul ravished, thy heart enslaved, thy\nmanhood conquered by her spell? ... Aye! ... Thou dost shrink at that!\"\nAnd his smile deepened as Theos, suddenly conscience-stricken, avoided\nhis friend's too-scrutinizing gaze.. \"Blame ME not, therefore, for\nTHINE OWN weakness!\"\n\nHe paused.. then went on slowly with a meditative air.. \"I love her,\n... yes!--as a man must always love the woman that baffles him, ... the\nwoman whose moods are complex and fluctuating as the winds on the\nsea,--and whose humor sways between the softness of the dove and the\nfierceness of the tiger. Nothing is more fatally fascinating to the\nmasculine sense than such a creature,--more especially if to this\ntemperament is united rare physical grace, combined with keen\nintellectual power. 'Tis vain to struggle against the irresistible\nwitchery exercised over us by the commingling of beauty and\nferocity,--we see it in the wild animals of the forest and the\nhigh-soaring birds of the air,--and we like nothing better than to hunt\nit, capture it, tame it.. or.. kill it--as suits our pleasure!\"\n\nHe paused again,--and again smiled, . . a grave, reluctant, doubting\nsmile such as seemed to Theos oddly familiar, suggesting to his\nbewildered fancy that he must have seen it before, ON HIS OWN FACE,\nreflected in a mirror!\n\n\"Even thus do I love Lysia!\" continued Sah-luma--\"She perplexes me, . .\nshe opposes her will to mine, ... the very irritation and ferment into\nwhich I am thrown by her presence adds fire to my genius, . . and but\nfor the spur of this never-satiated passion, who knows whether I should\nsing so well!\"\n\nHe was silent for a little space--then he resumed in a more ordinary\ntone:\n\n\"The wretched Nir-jalis, whose fate thou dost so persistently deplore,\ndeserved his end for his presumption, ... didst thou not hear his\ninsolent insinuation concerning the King?\"\n\n\"I heard it--yes!\" replied Theos--\"And I saw no harm in the manner of\nhis utterance.\"\n\n\"No harm!\" exclaimed Sah-luma excitedly--\"No harm! Nay, but I forget!\n... thou art a stranger in Al-Kyris, and therefore thou art ignorant of\nthe last words spoken by the Sacred Oracle some hundred years or more\nago. They are these:\n\n     \"'When the High Priestess\n      Is the King's mistress\n      Then fall Al-Kyris!'\n\n'Tis absolute doggerel, and senseless withal,--nevertheless, it has\ncaused the enactment of a Law, which is to the effect that the reigning\nmonarch of Al-Kyris shall never, under any sort of pretext, confer with\nthe High Priestess of the Temple on any business whatsoever,--and that,\nfurthermore, he shall never be permitted to look upon her face except\nat times of public service and state ceremonials. Now dost thou not at\nonce perceive how vile were the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also\nhow foolish was thy fancy last night with regard to the armed\nmasquerader thou didst see in Lysia's garden?\"\n\nTheos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflections. He began\nnow to understand much that had before seemed doubtful and\nmysterious,--no wonder, he thought, that Zephoranim's fury against the\naudacious Khosrul had been so excessive! For had not the crazed Prophet\ncalled Lysia an \"unvirgined virgin and Queen-Courtesan\"? ... and,\naccording to Sah-luma's present explanation, nothing more dire and\noffensive in the way of open blasphemy could be uttered! Yet the\nquestion still remained--, was Khosrul right or wrong? This was a\nproblem which Theos longed to investigate and yet recoiled\nfrom,--instinctively he felt that upon its answer hung the fate of\nAl-Kyris,--and also, what just then seemed more precious than anything\nelse,--the life of Sah-luma. He could not decide with himself WHY this\nwas so,--he simply accepted his own inward assurance that so it was.\nPresently he inquired:\n\n\"How comes it, Sah-luma, that the corpse of Nir-jalis was found on the\nshores of the river? Did we not see it weighted with iron and laid\nelsewhere...?\"\n\n\"O simpleton!\" laughed Sah-luma--\"Thinkest thou Lysia's lake of lilies\nis a common grave for criminals? The body of Nir-jalis sank therein,\n'tis true, . . but was there no after-means of lifting it from thence,\nand placing it where best such carrion should be found? Hath not the\nHigh Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work her will? ... Verily\nthou dost trouble thyself overmuch concerning these trivial every-day\noccurences,--I marvel at thee!--Hundreds have drained the Silver Nectar\ngladly for so fair a woman's sake,--hundreds will drain it gladly\nstill for the mere privilege of living some brief days in the presence\nof such peerless beauty! ... But,--speaking of the river--didst thou\nremark it on thy way hither?\"\n\n\"Aye!\" responded Theos dreamily--\"'Twas red as blood\"!\"\n\n\"Strange!\" and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then rousing\nhimself, said lightly, \"'Tis from some simple cause, no doubt--yet\n'twill create a silly panic in the city--and all the fanatics for\nKhosrul's new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh their\nprognostications of death and doom. By my faith, 'twill be a most\ndesperate howling! ... and I'll not walk abroad till the terror hath\nabated. Moreover, I have work to do,--some lately budded thoughts of\nmine have ripened into glorious conclusion,--and Zabastes hath orders\npresently to attend me that he may take my lines down from mine own\ndictation. Thou shalt hear a most choice legend of love an thou wilt\nlisten--\" here he laid his hand affectionately on Theos's shoulder--\"a\nlegend set about, methinks, with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor!\n... 'tis a rare privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule\nZabastes is my only auditor,--but I would swear thou art no plagiarist,\nand wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch\npearls of fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my\nthoughts!--for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet's\nsoul,--and the common thief of things petty and material is no whit\nmore contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein to deck\nthe bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at ease upon this\ncushioned couch, and give me thy attention, ... I feel the fervor\nrising within me, ... I will summon Zabastes, ...\" Here he pulled a\nsmall silken cord which at once set a clanging bell echoing loudly\nthrough the palace, ... \"And thou shalt freely hear, and freely judge,\nthe last offspring of my fertile genius,--my lyrical romance\n'Nourhalma!'\" Theos started violently, ... he had the greatest\ndifficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips.\n\"Nourhalma!\" O memory! ... slow-filtering, reluctant memory! ... why,\nwhy was his brain thus tortured with these conflicting pang, of piteous\nrecollection! Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous\nsuffering, there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary suggestions\nwhich gradually formed themselves into a distinct and comprehensive\ncertainty, . . \"Nourhalma\" was the title of HIS OWN POEM,--the poem HE\nhad written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the\nPass of Dariel!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\"NOURHALMA.\"\n\n\nHis first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery was, as it had\nbeen before in the King's audience-hall, one of absolute TERROR, ...\nfeverish, mad terror which for a few moments possessed him so utterly\nthat, turning away, he buried his aching head among the cushion where\nhe reclined, in order to hide from his companion's eyes any outward\nsign that might betray his desperate misery. Clenching his hands\nconvulsively, he silently, and with all his strength, combated the\nawful horror of himself that grew up spectrally within him,--the\ndreadful, distracting uncertainty of his own identity that again\nconfused his brain and paralyzed his reason.\n\nAt last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning of Hell! ...\nthe frightful spiritual torment of a baffled intelligence set adrift\namong the wrecks and shadows of things that had formerly been its pride\nand glory! What was any physical suffering compared to such a frenzy of\nmind-agony? Nothing! ... less than nothing! This was the everlasting\nthirst and fire spoken of so vaguely by prophets and preachers,--the\nthirst and fire of the Soul's unquenchable longing to unravel the\ndismal tangle of its own bygone deeds, . . the striving forever in vain\nto steadfastly establish the wavering mystery of its own existence!\n\n\"O God! ... God!--what hast Thou made of me!\" he groaned inwardly, as\nhe endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,--\"Who am\nI? ... Who WAS I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of a\nmurdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so threateningly! Surely\nthe gift of Poesy was mine! ... surely I too could weave the harmony of\nwords and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it\nthen that all Sah-luma's work is but the reflex of my own? O woeful,\nstrange, and bitter enigma! ... when shall it be unraveled?\n'Nourhalma!' 'Twas the name of what I deemed my masterpiece! ... O\nsilly masterpiece, if it prove thus easy of imitation! ... Yet stay..\nlet me be patient! ... titles are often copied unconsciously by\ndifferent authors in different lands, . . and it may chance that\nSah-luma's poem is after all his own,--not mine. Not mine, as were the\nballads and the love-ode he chanted to the King last night! ... O\nDestiny! ... inscrutable, pitiless Destiny! ... rescue my tortured soul\nfrom chaos! ... declare unto me who,--WHO is the plagiarist and thief\nof Song.. MYSELF or SAH-LUMA?\"\n\nThe more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper grew the\ndarkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh obscurity was\nnow added in his suddenly distinct and distressful remembrance of the\n\"Pass of Dariel.\" Where was this place, he wondered wearily?--When had\nhe seen it? whom had he met there?--and how had he come to Al-Kyris\nfrom thence? No answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, .\n. he recollected the \"Pass of Dariel\" just as he recollected the \"Field\nof Ardath\"--without the least idea as to what connection existed\nbetween them and his own personal adventures. Presently controlling\nhimself, he raised his head and ventured to look up,--Sah-luma stood\nbeside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude.\n\n\"Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury\nthine eyes in thy pillow?\" he inquired ... \"Pardon my discourteous lack\nof consideration for thy comfort! ... I love the sun myself so well\nthat methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-day and yet\ntake pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile! But thou perchance\nart unaccustomed to the light of Eastern lands,--wherefore thy brows\nmust not be permitted to ache on, uncared for. See!--I have lowered the\nawnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,--and in very truth, the heat\nto-day is greater far than ordinary; one would think the gods had\nkindled some new fire in heaven!\"\n\nAnd as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to and fro\nwith an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm, while Theos\ngazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in\nthe subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon him by his\nhost's irresistible influence. Just then, too, Sah-luma appeared\nhandsomer than ever in the half-subdued tints of radiance that\nflickered through the lowered pale-blue silken awnings: the effect of\nthe room thus shadowed was as of a soft azure mountain mist lit\nsideways by the sun,--a mist through which the white-garmented,\nsymmetrical figure of the Laureate stood forth in curiously brilliant\noutlines, as though every curve of supple shoulder and proud throat was\ntraced with a pencil of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its\nway through the wide-open casements--the gentle dashing noise of the\nfountains in the court alone disturbed the deep, warm stillness of the\nmorning, or the occasional sweeping rustle of peacocks' plumes as these\nstately birds strutted majestically up and down, up and down, on the\nmarble terrace outside.\n\nSoothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium of\nTheos's bewildering affliction gradually abated,--his tempest-tossed\nmind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium,--and falling into\neasy converse with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself\nagain,--that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition permitted\nhim to be. Yet he was not altogether free from a certain eager and\ndecidedly painful suspense with regard to the \"Nourhalma\" problem,--and\nhe was conscious of what he in his own opinion considered an absurd and\nunnecessary degree of excitement, when the door of the apartment\npresently opened to admit Zabastes, who entered, carrying several\nsheets of papyrus and other material for writing.\n\nThe old Critic's countenance was expressively glum and ironical,--he,\nhowever, was compelled, like all the other paid servants of the\nhousehold, to make a low and respectful obeisance as soon as he found\nhimself in Sah-luma's presence,--an act of homage which, he performed\nawkwardly, and with evident ill-will. His master nodded condescendingly\nin response to his reluctant salute, and signed to him to take his\nplace at a richly carved writing-table adorned with the climbing\nfigures of winged cupids exquisitely wrought in ivory. He obeyed,\nshuffling thither uneasily, and sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he\nwent like an ill-conditioned cur scenting a foe,--and seating himself\nin a high-backed chair, he arranged his garments fussily about him,\nrolled up his long embroidered sleeves to the elbow, and spread his\nwriting implements all over the desk in front of him with much\nmock-solemn ostentation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave\na stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sah-luma and Theos,--a\nglance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sah-luma,\nabsorbed in his own reflections, apparently failed to notice.\n\n\"All is in readiness, my lord!\" he announced in his disagreeable\ncroaking tones,--\"Here are the clean and harmless slips of river-reed\nwaiting to be soiled and spotted with my lord's indelible\nthoughts,--here also are the innocent quills of the white heron, as yet\nunstained by colored writing-fluid whether black, red, gold, silver, or\npurple! Mark you, most illustrious bard, the touching helplessness and\npurity of these meek servants of a scribbler's fancy! ... Blank papyrus\nand empty quills! Bethink you seriously whether it were not better to\nleave them thus unblemished, the simple products of unfaulty Nature,\nthan use them to indite the wondrous things of my lord's imagination,\nwhereof, all wondrous though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser!\"\n\nAnd he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the while with a\nblandly suggestive, yet malign look directed at Sah-luma, who met it\nwith a slight, cold smile of faintly amused contempt.\n\n\"Peace, fool!\" he said,--\"That barbarous tongue of thine is like the\nimperfect clapper of a broken bell that strikes forth harsh and\nundesired sounds suggesting nothing! Thy present duty is to hear, and\nnot to speak,--therefore listen discerningly and write with exactitude,\nso shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich with gems, . . gems\nof high poesy that the whole world shall hoard and cherish miser-like\nwhen the poet who created their bright splendor is no more!\"\n\nHe sighed--a short, troubled sigh,--and stood for a moment silent in an\nattitude of pensive thought. Theos watched him yearningly,--waiting in\nalmost breathless suspense till he should dictate aloud the first line\nof his poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself more comfortably in his\nchair, and taking up one of the long quills with which he was provided,\ndipped it in a reddish-purple liquid which at once stained its point to\na deep roseate hue, so that when the light flickered upon it from time\nto time, it appeared as though it were tipped with fire. How intense\nthe heat was, thought Theos!--as with one hand he pushed his clustering\nhair from his brow, not without noticing that his action was imitated\nalmost at once by Sah-luma, who also seemed to feel the oppressiveness\nof the atmosphere. And what a blaze of blue pervaded the room! ...\ndelicate ethereal blue as of shimmering lakes and summer skies melted\ntogether into one luminous radiance, ... radiance that, while filmy,\nwas yet perfectly transparent, and in which the Laureate's classic form\nappeared to be gloriously enveloped like that of some new descended god!\n\nTheos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled ache, . . what a\nmarvellous scene it was to look upon, he mused! ... would he,--could he\never forget it? Ah no!--never, never! not till his dying day would he\nbe able to obliterate it from his memory,--and who could tell whether\neven after death he might not still recall it! Just then Sah-luma\nraised his hand by way of signal to Zabastes, . . his face became\nearnest, pathetic, even grand in the fervent concentration of his\nthoughts, ... he was about to begin his dictation, ... now ... now! ...\nand Theos leaned forward nervously, his heart beating with apprehensive\nexpectation ... Hush! ... the delicious, suave melody of his friend's\nvoice penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp-string..\n\n\"Write--\" said he slowly.. \"write first the title of my poem thus:\n'Nourhalma: A Love-Legend of the Past.'\"\n\nThere was a pause, during which the pen of Zabastes traveled quickly\nover the papyrus for a moment, then stopped. Theos, almost suffocated\nwith anxiety, could hardly maintain even the appearance of\ncalmness,--the title proclaimed, with its second appendage, was\nprecisely the same as that of his own work--but this did not now affect\nhim so much. What he waited for with such painfully strained attention\nwas the first line of the poem. If it was his line he knew it\nalready!--it ran thus:\n\n \"A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!--\"\n\nScarcely had he repeated this to himself inwardly, than Sah-luma, with\nmajestic grace and sweetness of utterance, dictated aloud:\n\n \"A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!\"\n\n\"Ah GOD!\"\n\nThe sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from Theos's\nquivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made to control his\nagitation, and the Laureate turned toward him with a surprised and\nsomewhat irritated movement that plainly evinced annoyance at the\ninterruption.\n\n\"Pardon, Sah-luma!\" he murmured hastily. \"'Twas a slight pang at the\nheart troubled me,--a mere nothing!--I take shame to myself to have\ncried out for such a pin's prick! Speak on!--thy first line is as soft\nas honey dew,--as suggestive as the light of dawn on sleeping flowers!\"\n\nAnd, leaning dizzily back on his couch, he closed his eyes to shut in\nthe hot and bitter tears that welled up rebelliously and threatened to\nfall, notwithstanding his endeavor to restrain them. His head throbbed\nand burned as though a chaplet of fiery thorns encircled it, instead of\nthe once desired crown of Fame he had so fondly dreamed of winning!\n\nFame? ... Alas! that bright, delusive vision had fled forever,--there\nwere no glory-laurels left growing for him in the fields of poetic art\nand aspiration,--Sah-luma, the fortunate Sah-luma, had gathered and\npossessed them all! Taking everything into serious consideration, he\ncame at last to the deeply mortifying conclusion that it must be\nhimself who was the plagiarist,--the unconscious imitator of Sah-luma's\nideas and methods, . . and the worst of it was that his imitation was\nso terribly EXACT!\n\nOh, how heartily he despised himself for his poor and pitiful lack of\noriginality! Down to the very depths of humiliation he sternly abased\nhis complaining, struggling, wounded, and sorely resentful spirit, . .\nhe then and there became the merciless executioner of his own claims to\nliterary honor,--and deliberately crushing all his past ambition,\nmutinous discontent and uncompliant desires with a strong master-hand\nhe lay quiet...as patiently unmoved as is a dead man to the wrongs\ninflicted on his memory...and forced himself to listen resignedly to\nevery glowing line of his, . . no, not his, but Sah-luma's poem, . .\nthe lovely, gracious, delicate, entrancing poem he remembered so well!\nAnd by and by, as each mellifluous stanza sounded softly on his ears, a\nstrangely solemn tranquillity swept over him,--a most soothing halcyon\ncalm, as though some passing angel's hand had touched his brow in\nbenediction.\n\nHe looked at Sah-luma, not enviously now but all admiringly,--it seemed\nto him that he had never heard a sweeter, tenderer music than the story\nof \"Nourhalma\" as recited by his friend. And so to that friend he\nsilently awarded his own wished-for glory, praise, and everlasting\nfame!--that glory, praise, and fame which had formerly allured his\nfancy as being the best of all the world could offer, but which he now\nentirely and willingly relinquished in favor of this more deserving and\ndear comrade, whose superior genius he submissively acknowledged!\n\nThere was a great quietness everywhere,--the rising and falling\ninflections of Sah-luma's soft, rich voice rather, deepened than\ndisturbed the stillness,--the pen of Zabastes glided noiselessly over\nthe slips of papyrus,--and the small sounds of the outer air, such as\nthe monotonous hum of bees among the masses of lily-bloom that towered\nin white clusters between the festooned awnings, the thirsty twitterimg\nof birds hiding under the long palm leaves to shelter themselves from\nthe heat, and the incessant splash of the fountains, ... all seemed to\nbe, as it were, mere appendages to enhance the breathless hush of\nnature. Presently Sah-luma paused,--and Zabastes, heaving a sigh of\nrelief, looked up from his writing, and laid down his pen.\n\n'The work is finished, most illustrious?\" he demanded, a curious smile\nplaying on his thin, satirical lips.\n\n\"Finished?\" echoed Sah-luma disdainfully--\"Nay,--'tis but the end of\nthe First Canto\"\n\nThe scribe gave vent to a dismal groan.\n\n\"Ye gods!\" he exclaimed--\"Is there more to come of this bombastic\nranting and vile torturing of phrases unheard of and altogether\nunnatural! O Sah-luma!--marvellous Sah-luma! twaddler Sah-luma! what a\nbrain box is thine! ... How full of dislocated word-puzzles and similes\ngone mad! Now, as I live, expect no mercy from me this time!\".. and he\nshook his head threateningly,--\"For if the public news sheet will serve\nme as mine anvil, I will so pound thee in pieces with the sledge-hammer\nof my criticism, that, by the Ship of the Sun! ... for once Al-Kyns\nshall be moved to laughter at thee! Mark me, good tuner-up of tinkling\nfoolishness! ... I will so choose out and handle thy feeblest lines\nthat they shall seem but the doggerel of a street ballad monger! I will\ngive so bald an epitome of this sickly love-tale that it shall appeal\nto all who read my commentary the veriest trash that ever poet penned!\n... Moreover, I can most admirably misquote thee, and distort thy\nmeanings with such excellent bitter jesting, that thou thyself shall\nscarcely recognize thine own production! By Nagaya's Shrine! what a\nfeast 'twill be for my delectation!\"--and he rubbed his hands\ngleefully--\"With what a weight of withering analysis I can pulverize\nthis idol of 'Nourhalma' into the dust and ashes of a common sense\ncontempt!\"\n\nWhile Zabastes thus spoke, Sah-luma had helped himself, by way of\nrefreshment, to two ripe figs, in whose luscious crimson pulp his white\nteeth met, with all the enjoying zest of a child's healthy appetite. He\nnow held up the rind and stalks of these devoured delicacies, and\nsmiled.\n\n'Thus wilt thou swallow up my poem in thy glib clumsiness, Zabastes!\"\nhe said lightly--\"And thus wilt them hold up the most tasteless\nportions of the whole for the judgment of the public! 'Tis the manner\nof thy craft,--yet see!\"--and with a dexterous movement of his arm he\nthrew the fruit-peel through the window far out into the garden\nbeyond--\"There goes thy famous criticism!\" and he laughed.. \"And those\nthat taste the fruit itself at first hand will not soon forget its\nflavor! Nevertheless I hope indeed that thou wilt strive to slaughter\nme with thy blunt paper sword! I do most mirthfully relish the\none-sided combat, in which I stand in silence to receive thy blows,\nmyself unhurt and tranquil as a marble god whom ruffians rail upon! Do\nI not pay thee to abuse me? ... here, thou crusty soul!--drink and be\ncontent!\"--And with a charming condescension he handed a full goblet of\nwine to his cantankerous Critic, who accepted it ungraciously,\nmuttering in his beard the necessary words of thanks for his master's\nconsideration,--then, turning to Theos, the Laureate continued:\n\n\"And thou, my friend, what dost thou think of 'Nourhalma' so far? Hath\nit not a certain exquisite smoothness of rhythm like the ripple of a\nwoodland stream clear-winding through the reeds? ... and is there not a\ntender witchery in the delineation of my maiden-heroine, so warmly\nfair, so wildly passionate? Methinks she doth resemble some rich flower\nof our tropic fields, blooming at sunset and dead at moonrise!\"\n\nTheos waited a moment before replying. Truth to tell, he was inwardly\novercome with shame to remember how wantonly he had copied the\ndescription of this same Nourhalma! ... and plaintively he wondered how\nhe could have unconsciously committed so flagrant a theft! Summoning up\nall his self-possession, however, he answered bravely.\n\n\"Thy work, Sah-luma, is worthy of thyself! ... need I say more? ...\nThou hast most aptly proved thy claim upon, the whole world's\ngratitude, ... such lofty thoughts, . . such noble discourse upon\nlove,--such high philosophy, wherein the deepest, dearest dreams of\nlife are grandly pictured in enduring colors,--these things are gifts\nto poor humanity whereby it MUST become enriched and proud! Thy name,\nbright soul, shall be as a quenchless star on the dark brows of\nmelancholy Time, . . men gazing thereat shall wonder and adore,--and\neven _I_, the least among thy friends, may also win from thee a share\nof glory! For, simply to know thee,--to listen to thy heaven-inspired\nutterance, might bring the most renownless student some reflex of thine\nhonor! Yes, thou art great, Sah-luma! ... great as the greatest of\nearth's gifted sons of song!--and with all my heart I offer thee my\nhomage, and pride myself upon the splendor of thy fame!\"\n\nAnd as the eager, enthusiastic words came from his lips, he beheld\nSah-luma's beautiful countenance brighten more and more, till it\nappeared mysteriously transfigured into a majestic Angel-face that for\none brief moment startled him by the divine tenderness of its\ncompassionate smile! This expression, however, was transitory,--it\npassed, and the dark eyes of the Laureate gleamed with a merely serene\nand affectionate complacency as he said:\n\n\"I thank thee for thy praise, good Theos!--thou art indeed the\nfriendliest of critics! Hadst thou THYSELF been the author of\n'Nourhalma' thou couldst not have spoken with more ardent feeling! Were\nZabastes like thee, discerningly just and reasonable, he would be all\nunfit for his vocation,--for 'tis an odd circumstance that praise in\nthe public news-sheet does a writer more harm than good, while\nill-conditioned and malicious abuse doth very materially increase and\nstrengthen his reputation. Yet, after all, there is a certain sense in\nthe argument,--for if much eulogy be penned by the cheap scribes, the\nreading populace at once imagine these fellows have been bribed to give\ntheir over-zealous approval, or that they are close friends and\nbanquet-comrades of the author whom they arduously uphold, . . whereas,\non the contrary, if they indulge in bitter invective, flippant gibing,\nor clumsy satire, like my amiable Zabsastes here...\" and he made an\nairy gesture toward the silent yet evidently chafing Critic, ..\"(and,\nmark you!-HE is not bribed, but merely paid fair wages to fulfil his\nchosen and professed calling)--why, thereupon the multitude\nexclaim--'What! this poet hath such enemies?--nay, then, how great a\ngenius he must be!\"--and forthwith they clamor for his work, which, if\nit speak not for itself, is then and only then to be deemed faulty, and\nmeriting oblivion. 'Tis the People's verdict which alone gives fame.\"\n\n\"And yet the people are often ignorant of what is noblest and best in\nliterature!\" observed Theos musingly.\n\n\"Ignorant in some ways, yes!\" agreed Sah-luma--\"But in many others, no!\nThey may be ignorant as to WHY they admire a certain thing, yet they\nadmire it all the same, because their natural instinct leads them so to\ndo. And this is the special gift which endows the uncultured masses\nwith an occasional sweeping advantage over the cultured few,--the\nsuperiority of their INSTINCT. As in cases of political revolution for\nexample,--while the finely educated orator is endeavoring by all the\nforce of artful rhetoric to prove that all is in order and as it should\nbe, the mob, moved by one tremendous impulse, discover for themselves\nthat everything is wrong, and moreover that nothing will come right,\nunless they rise up and take authority, . . accordingly, down go the\nthrones and the colleges, the palaces, the temples, and the\nlaw-assemblies, all like so many toys before the resistless instinct of\nthe people, who revolt at injustice, and who feel and know when they\nare injured, though they are not clever enough to explain WHERE their\ninjury lies. And so, as they cannot talk about it coherently, any more\nthan a lion struck by an arrow can give a learned dissertation on his\nwound, they act, . . and the heat and fury of their action upheaves\ndynasties! Again,--reverting to the question of taste and\nliterature,--the mob, untaught and untrained in the subtilties of art,\nwill applaud to the echo certain grand and convincing home-truths set\nforth in the plays of the divine Hyspiros,--simply because they\ninstinctively FEEL them to be truths, no matter how far they themselves\nmay be from acting up to the standard of morality therein contained.\nThe more highly cultured will hear the same passages unmoved, because\nthey, in the excess of artificially gained wisdom, have deadened their\ninstincts so far, that while they listen to a truth pronounced, they\nalready consider how best they can confute it, and prove the same a\nlie! Honest enthusiasm is impossible to the over-punctilious and\npedantic scholar,--but on the other hand, I would have it plainly\nunderstood that a mere brief local popularity is not Fame, . . No! for\nthe author who wins the first never secures the last. What I mean is,\nthat a book or poem to be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must\nbe judged worthy by the natural instinct of PEOPLES. Their decision, I\nown, may be tardy,--their hesitation may be prolonged through a hundred\nor more years,--but their acceptance, whether it be declared in the\nauthor's life-time or ages after his death, must be considered final. I\nwould add, moreover, that this world-wide decision has never yet been,\nand never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,--it is\nthe responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through\nall mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,--its great throbs are\nslow and solemnly measured,--yet if once it answers to a Poet's touch,\nthat Poet's name is made glorious forever!\"\n\nHe spoke with a rush of earnestness and eloquence that was both\npersuasive and powerful, and he now stood silent and absorbed, his\ndreamy eyes resting meditatively on the massive bust of the immortal\npersonage he called Hyspiros, which smiled out in serene, cold\nwhiteness from the velvet-shadowed shrine it occupied. Theos watched\nhim with fascinated and fraternal fondness, . . did ever man possess so\ndulcet a voice, he thought? ... so grave and rich and marvellously\nmusical, yet thrilling with such heart-moving suggestions of mingled\npride and plaintiveness?\n\n\"Thou art a most alluring orator, Sah-luma!\" he said\nsuddenly--\"Methinks I could listen to thee all day and never tire!\"\n\n\"I' faith, so could not I!\" interposed Zabastes grimly. \"For when a\nbard begins to gabble goose-like platitudes which merely concern his\nown vocation, the gods only know when he can be persuaded to stop! Nay,\n'tis more irksome far than the recitation of his professional\njingle--for to that there must in time come a merciful fitting end,\nbut, as I live, if 'twas my custom to say prayers, I would pray to be\ndelivered from the accursed volubility of a versifier's tongue! And\nperchance it will not be considered out of my line of duty if I venture\nto remind my most illustrious and renowned MASTER--\" this with a\nwithering sneer,--\"that if he has any more remarkable nothings to\ndictate concerning this particularly inane creation of his fancy\n'Nourhalma,' 'twill be well that we should proceed therewith, for the\nhours wax late and the sun veereth toward his House of Noon.\"\n\nAnd he spread out fresh slips of papyrus and again prepared his long\nquill.\n\nSah-luma smiled, as one who is tolerant of the whims of a hired\nbuffoon,--and, this time seating himself in his ebony chair, was about\nto commence dictating his Second Canto when Theos, yielding to his\ndesire to speak aloud the idea that had just flashed across his brain\nsaid abruptly:\n\n\"Has it ever seemed to thee, Sah-luma, as it now does to me, that there\nis a strange resemblance between thy imaginative description of the\nideal 'Nourhalma,' and the actual charms and virtues of thy strayed\nsinging-maid Niphrata?\"\n\nSah-luma looked up, thoroughly astonished, and laughed.\n\n\"No!--Verily I have not traced, nor can I trace the smallest vestige of\na similarity! Why, good Theos, there is none!--not the least in the\nworld,--for this heroine of mine, Nourhalma, loves in vain, and\nsacrifices all, even her innocent and radiant life, for love, as thou\nwilt hear in the second half of the poem,--moreover she loves one who\nis utterly unworthy of her faithful tenderness. Now Niphrata is a child\nof delicate caprice ... she loves ME,--me, her lord,--and methinks I am\nnot negligent or undeserving of her devotion! ... again, she has no\nstrength of spirit,--her timorous blood would freeze at the mere\nthought of death,--she is more prone to play with flowers and sing for\npure delight of heart than perish for the sake of love! 'Tis an unequal\nsimile, my friend!--as well compare a fiery planet with a twinkling\ndewdrop, as draw a parallel between the heroic ideal maid\n'Nourhalma'--and my fluttering singing-bird, Niphrata!\"\n\nTheos sighed involuntarily,--but forcing a smile, let the subject drop\nand held his peace, while Sah-luma, taking up the thread of his\npoetical narrative, went on reciting. When the story began to ripen\ntoward its conclusion he grew more animated, ... rising, he paced the\nroom as he declaimed the splendid lines that now rolled gloriously one\nupon another like deep-mouthed billows thundering on the shore,--his\ngestures were all indicative of the fervor of his inward ecstasy,--his\neyes flashed,--his features glowed with that serene, proud light of\nconscious power and triumph that rests on the calm, wide brows of the\nsculptured Apollo,--and Theos, leaning one arm in a half-sitting\nposture, contemplated him with a curious sensation of wistful eagerness\nand passionate pain, such as might be felt by some forgotten artist\nmysteriously permitted to come out of his grave and wander back to\nearth, there to see his once-rejected pictures hung in places of honor\namong the world's chief treasures.\n\nA strange throb of melancholy satisfaction stirred his pulses as he\nreflected that he might now, without any self-conceit, at least ADMIRE\nthe poem!--since he had decided that was no longer his, but another's,\nhe was free to bestow on it as much as he would of unstinting praise!\nFor it was very fine,--there could be no doubt of that, whatever\nZabastes might say to the contrary,--and it was not only fine, but\nintensely, humanly pathetic, seeming to strike a chord of passion such\nas had never before been sounded,--a chord to which the world would be\nCOMPELLED to listen,--yes,--COMPELLED! thought Theos exultingly,--as\nSah-luma drew nearer and nearer the close of his dictation ... The deep\nquiet all around was so heavy as to be almost uncomfortable in its\noppressiveness,--it exercised a sort of strain upon the nerves ...\n\nHark! what was that? Through the hot and silent air swept a sullen\nsurging noise as of the angry shouting of a vast multitude,--then came\nthe fast and furious gallop of many horses,--and again that fierce,\nresentful roar of indignation, swelling up as it seemed from thousands\nof throats. Moved, all three at once, by the same instinctive desire to\nknow what was going on, Theos, Sah-luma, and Zabastes sprang from their\ndifferent places in the room, and hurried out on the marble terrace,\ndashing aside the silken awnings as they went in order the better to\nsee the open glimpses of the city thoroughfares that lay below. Theos,\nleaning far out over the western half of the balustrade, was able to\ncommand a distant view of the great Square in which the huge white\ngranite Obelisk occupied so prominent a position, and, fixing his eyes\nattentively on this spot, saw that it was filled to overflowing with a\ndense mass of people, whose white-raimented forms, pressed together in\ncountless numbers, swayed restlessly to and fro like the rising waves\nof a stormy sea.\n\nLifted above this troubled throng, one tall, dark figure was distinctly\noutlined against the dazzling face of the Obelisk--a figure that\nappeared to be standing on the back of the colossal Lion that lay\ncouchant beneath. And as Theos strained his sight to distinguish the\ndetails of the scene more accurately, he suddenly beheld a glittering\nregiment of mounted men in armor, charging straightly and with cruelly\ndetermined speed, right into the centre of the crowd, apparently\nregardless of all havoc to life and limb that might ensue.\nInvoluntarily he uttered an exclamation of horror at what seemed to him\nso wanton and brutal an act, when just then Sah-luma caught him eagerly\nby the arm,--Sah-luma, whose soft, oval countenance was brilliant with\nexcitement, and in whose eyes gleamed a mingled expression of mirth and\nferocity.\n\n\"Come, come, my friend!\" he said hastily--\"Yonder is a sight worth\nseeing! 'Tis the mad Khosrul who is thus entrenched and fortified by\nthe mob,--as I live, that sweeping gallop of His Majesty's Royal Guards\nis magnificent! They will seize the Prophet this time without fail!\nAye, if they slay a thousand of the populace in the performance of\ntheir duty! Come!--let us hasten to the scene of action--'twill be a\nstruggle I would not miss for all the world!\"\n\nHe sprang down the steps of the loggia, accompanied by Theos, who was\nequally excited,--when all at once Zabastes, thrusting out his head\nthrough a screen of vine-leaves, cried after them:\n\n\"Sah-luma!--Most illustrious! What of the poem? It is not finished!\"\n\n\"No matter!\" returned Sah-luma--\"'Twill be finished hereafter!\"\n\nAnd he hastened on, Theos treading close in his footsteps and thinking\nas he went of the new enigma thus proposed to puzzle afresh the weary\nworkings of his mind. HIS poem of Nourhalma--or rather the poem he had\nfancied was his--had been entirely completed down to the last line; now\nSah-luma's was left \"TO BE FINISHED HEREAFTER.\"\n\nStrange that he should find a pale glimmering of consolation in\nthis!--a feeble hope that perhaps after all, at some future time, he\nmight be able to produce a few, a very few lines of noble verse that\nshould be deemed purely original! ... enough perchance, to endow him\nwith a faint, far halo of diminished glory such as plodding students\noccasionally win, by following humbly yet ardently ... even as he now\nfollowed Sah-luma ... in the paths of excellence marked out by greater\nmen!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nTHE FALL OF THE OBELISK.\n\n\nIn less time than he could have imagined possible, he found himself in\nthe densely crowded Square, buffeting and struggling against an angry\nand rebellious mob, who half resentful and half terrified, had\nevidently set themselves to resist the determined charge made by the\nmounted soldiery into their midst. For once Sah-luma's appearance\ncreated no diversion,--he was pushed and knocked about as\nunceremoniously as if he were the commonest citizen of them all, He\nseemed carelessly surprised at this, but nevertheless took his hustling\nvery good humoredly, and, keeping his shoulders well squared forced his\nway with Theos by slow degrees through the serried ranks of people,\nmany of whom, roused to a sort of frenzy threw themselves in front of\nthe advancing horses of the guard, and seizing the reins held on to\nthese like grim death, reckless of all danger.\n\nAs yet no weapons were used either by the soldiers or the\npopulace,--the former seemed for the present contented to simply ride\ndown those who impeded their progress,--and that they had done so in\nterrible earnest was plainly evident from the numbers of wounded\ncreatures that lay scattered about on every side in an apparently half\ndying condition. Yet there was surely a strange insensibility to\nsuffering among them all, inasmuch as in spite of the contention and\nconfusion there were no violent shrieks of either pain or fury,--no\nexclamations of rage or despair,--no sound whatever indeed, save a\nsteady, sullen, monotonous snarl of opposition, above which the\nresonant voice of the Prophet Khosrul rang out like a silver clarion.\n\n\"O people doomed and made desolate!\" he cried.. \"O nation once mighty,\nbrought low to the dust of destruction! Hear me, ye strong men and fair\nwomen!--and you, ye poor little children who never again shall see the\nsun rise on the thousand domes of Al-Kyris! Lift up the burden of\nbitter lamentation!--lift it up to the Heaven of Heavens, the Throne of\nthe All-Seeing Glory, the Giver of Law, the Destroyer of Evil! Weep!\n... weep for your sins and the sins of your sons and your\ndaughters--cast off the jewels of pride,--rend the fine raiment, ...\nlet your tears be abundant as the rain and dew! Kneel down and cry\naloud on the great and terrible Unknown God--the God ye have denied and\nwronged,--the Founder of worlds, who doth hold in His Hand the Sun as a\ntorch, and scattereth stars with the fire of His breath! Mourn and bend\nye all beneath the iron stroke of Destiny!--for know ye not how fierce\na thing has come upon Al-Kyris? ... a thing that lips cannot utter nor\nwords define,--a thing more horrible than strange sounds in thick\ndarkness,--more deadly than the lightning when it leaps from Heaven\nwith intent to slay! O City stately beyond all cities! Thy marble\npalaces are already ringed round with a river of blood!--the temples of\nthy knowledge wherein thy wise men have studied to exceed all wisdom,\nbegin to totter to their fall,--thou shalt be swept away even as a\nlight heap of ashes, and what shall all thy learning avail thee in that\nbrief and fearful end! Hear me, O people of Al-Kyris!--Hear me and\ncease to strive among yourselves, ... resist not thus desperately the\nKing's armed minions, for to them I also speak and say,--Lo! the time\napproaches when a stronger hand than that of the mighty Zephoranim\nshall take me prisoner and bear me hence where most I long to go!\nPeace, I command you! ... in the Name of that God whose truth I do\nproclaim ... Peace!\"\n\nAs he uttered the last word an instantaneous hush fell upon the\ncrowd,--every head was turned toward his grand, gaunt, almost spectral\nfigure; and even the mounted soldiery reined up their plunging, chafing\nsteeds and remained motionless as though suddenly fixed to the ground\nby some powerful magnetic spell. Theos and Sah-luma took immediate\nadvantage of this lull in the conflict, to try and secure for\nthemselves a better point of vantage, though there was much difficulty\nin pressing through the closely packed throng, inasmuch as not a man\nmoved to give them passage-room.\n\nPresently, however, Sah-luma managed to reach the nearest one of the\ntwo great fountains, which adorned either side of the Obelisk, and,\nspringing as lightly as a bird on its marble edge, he stood erect\nthere, his picturesque form presenting itself to the view like a fine\nstatue set against the background of sun-tinted foaming water that\ndashed high above him and sprinkled his garments with drops of\nsparkling spray. Theos at once joined him, and the two friends, holding\neach other fast by the arm, gazed down on the silent, mighty multitude\naround them,--a huge concourse of the citizens of Al-Kyris, who,\nstrange as this part of their behavior seemed, still paid no heed to\nthe presence of their Laureate, but with pale, rapt faces and anxious,\nfrightened eyes, riveted their attention entirely on the sombre,\nblack-garmented Prophet whose thin ghostly arms, outstretched above\nthem, appeared to mutely invoke in their behalf some special miracle of\nmercy.\n\n\"See you not\".. whispered Sah-luma to his companion,--\"how yon aged\nfool wears upon his breast the Symbol of his own Prophecy? 'Tis the\nmaddest freak to thus display his death-warrant!--Only a month ago the\nKing issued a decree, warning all those whom it might concern, that any\none of his born subjects presuming to carry the sign of Khosrul's newly\ninvented Faith should surely die! And that the crazed reprobate carries\nit himself makes no exemption from the rule!\"\n\nTheos shuddered. His eyes were misty, but he could very well see the\nEmblem to which Sah-luma alluded,--it was the Cross again! ... the same\nsacred Prefigurement of things \"to come,\" according to the perplexing\nexplanation given by the Mystic Zuriel whom he had met in the Passage\nof the Tombs, though to his own mind it conveyed no such meaning. What\nwas it then? ... if not a Prototype of the future, was it a Record of\nthe Past? He dared not pursue this question,--it seemed to send his\nbrain reeling on the verge of madness! He made no answer to Sah-luma's\nremark,--but fixed his gaze wistfully on the tall, melancholy Shape\nthat like a black shadow darkened the whiteness of the Obelisk,--and\nhis sense of hearing became acute almost to painfulness when once more\nKhosrul's deep vibrating tones peeled solemnly through the heavy air.\n\n\"God speaks to Al-Kyris!\" and as the Prophet enunciated these words\nwith majestic emphasis a visible thrill ran through the hushed\nassemblage.. \"God saith: Get thee up, O thou City of Pleasure, from thy\ncouch of sweet wantonness,--get thee up, gird thee with fire, and flee\ninto the desert of forgotten things! For thou art become a blot on the\nfairness of My world, and a shame to the brightness of My Heaven!--thy\nrulers are corrupt,--thy teachers are proud of heart and narrow in\njudgment,--thy young men and maidens go astray and follow each after\ntheir own vain opinions,--in thy great temples and holy places\nFalsehood abides, and Vice holds court in thy glorious palaces.\nWherefore because thou hast neither sought nor served Me, and because\nthou hast set up gold as thy god, and a multitude of riches as thy\nchief good, lo! now mine eyes have grown weary of beholding thee, and I\nwill descend upon thee suddenly and destroy thee, even as a hill of\nsand is destroyed by the whirlwind,--and thou shalt be known in the\nland of My creatures no more! Woe to thee that thou hast taken pride in\nthy wisdom and learning, for therein lies thy much wickedness! If thou\nwert truly wise thou wouldst have found Me,--if thou wert nobly learned\nthou wouldst have understood My laws,--but thou art proved altogether\ngross, foolish, and incapable,--and the studies whereof thou hast\nboasted, the writings of thy wise men, the charts of sea and land, the\nmaps of thy chief astronomers, the engraved tablets of learning, in\ngold, in silver, in ivory, in stone, thy chronicles of battle and\nconquest, the documents of thine explorers in far countries, the\nengines of thine invention whereby thou dost press the lightning into\nthy service, and make the air respond to the messages of thy kings and\ncouncillors,--all these shall be thrust away into an everlasting\nsilence, and no man hereafter shall be able to declare that such things\nhave ever been!\"\n\nHere the speaker paused,--and Theos, surveying the vast listening\ncrowds, fancied they looked like an audience of moveless ghosts rather\nthan human beings,--so still, so pallid, so grave were they, one and\nall. Khosrul continued in softer, more melancholy accents, that, while\nplaintive, were still singularly impressive.\n\n\"O my ill-fated, my beloved fellow-countrymen!\" he exclaimed, extending\nhis arms with a vehemently pleading gesture as though in the excess of\nemotion he would have drawn all the people to his heart.--\"Ye unhappy\nones? ... have I not given ye warning? Have I not bidden ye beware of\nthis great evil which should come to pass?--Evil for which there is no\nremedy,--none,--neither in the earth, nor the sea, nor the invisible\ncomforts of the air! ... for God hath spoken, and who shall contradict\nthe thunder of His voice! Behold the end is at hand of all the pleasant\nthings of Al-Kyris,--the feasting and the musical assemblies, the\ncymbal-symphonies and the choir-dances, the labors of students and the\ntriumphs of sages,--all these shall seem but the mockery of madness in\nthe swift-descending night of overwhelming destruction! Woe is me that\nye would not listen when I called, but turned every man to his own\ndevices and the following after idols? Nay now, what will ye do in\nextremity?--Will ye chant hymns to the Sun? Lo, he is deaf and blind\nfor all his golden glory, and is but a taper set in the window of the\nsky, to be extinguished at God's good pleasure! Will ye supplicate\nNagaya? O fools and desperate!--how shall a brute beast answer\nprayer!--Vain, vain is all beseeching,--shut forever are the doors of\nescape,--therefore cover yourselves with the garments of\nburial,--prepare each one his grave and rich funeral things,--gather\ntogether the rosemary and myrrh, the precious ointments and essences,\nthe strings of gold and the jewelled talismans whereby ye think to\nfight against corruption,--and fall down, every man in his own wrought\nhollow in the ground, face turned to earth and die--for Death hath\nbroken through the strong gates of Al-Kyris, and hath taken the City\nMagnificent captive unknowingly! Alas, alas! that ye would not follow\nwhither I led,--that ye would not hearken to the Vision of the Future,\ndimly yet gloriously revealed! ... the Future! ... the Future!\" ...\n\nHe broke off suddenly, and raising his eyes to the deep blue sky above\nhim, seemed for a moment as though he were caught up in the cloud of\nsome wondrous dream. Still the enormous throng of people stood hushed\nand motionless,--not a word, not a sound escaped them,--there was\nsomething positively appalling in such absolute immobility,--at least\nit appeared so to Theos, who could not understand this dispassionate\nbehavior on the part of so large and lately excited a multitude. All at\nonce a voice marvellously tender, clear, and pathetic trembled on the\nsilence,--was it, could it be the voice of Khosrul? Yes! but so\nchanged, so solemn, so infinitely sweet, that it might have been some\ngentle angel speaking:\n\n\"Like a fountain of sweet water in the desert, or the rising of the\nmoon in a gloomy midnight,\" he said slowly,--\"Even so is the hope and\npromise of the Supremely Beloved! Through the veiling darkness of the\ncoming ages His Light already shines upon my soul! O blessed Advent!\n... O happy Future! ... O days when privileged Humanity shall bridge by\nLove the gulf between this world and Heaven! What shall be said of Him\nwho cometh to redeem us, O my foreseeing spirit! What shall be told\nconcerning His most marvellous Beauty? Even as a dove that for pity of\nits helpless younglings doth battle soft-breasted with a storm, even so\nshall He descend from out His glory sempiternal, and teach us how to\nconquer Sin and Death,--aye, even with the meekness of a little child\nHe shall approach, and choose His dwelling here among us. O heavenly\nChild! O wisdom of God contained in innocence! ... happy the learning\nthat shall learn from Thee!--noble the pride that shall humble itself\nbefore Thy gentleness! [Footnote: The idea of a Saviour who should be\nborn as Man to redeem the world was prevalent among all nations and\ndates from the remotest ages. Coming down to what must be termed quite\na modern period compared to that in which the city of Al-Kyris had its\nexistence, we find that the Romans under Octavius Caesar were wont to\nexclaim at their sacred meetings, \"The times FORETOLD BY THE SYBIL are\narrived; may a new age soon restore that Saturn? SOON MAY THE CHILD BE\nBORN WHO SHALL BANISH THE AGE OF IRON?\" Tacitus and Suetonius both\nmention the prophecies \"in the sacred books of the priests\" which\ndeclare that the \"East shall be in commotion,\" and that \"MEN FROM\nJUDEA\" shall subject \"everything to their dominion.\"] O Prince of\nManhood and Divinity entwined! Thou shalt acquaint Thyself with human\ngriefs, and patiently unravel the perplexities of human longings!--to\nprove Thy sacred sympathy with suffering, Thou shalt be content to\nsuffer,--to explain the mystery of Death, Thou shalt even be content to\ndie. O people of Al-Kyris, hear ye all the words that tell of this\nWonderful, Inestimable King of Peace,--mine aged eyes do see Him now,\nfar, far off in the rising mist of unformed future things!--the\nCross--the Cross, on which His Man's pure Life dissolves itself in\nglory, stretches above me in spreading beams of light! ... Ah! 'tis a\nglittering pathway in the skies whereon men and the angels meet and\nknow each other! He is the strong and perfect Spirit, that shall break\nloose from Death and declare the insignificance of the Grave,--He is\nthe lingering Star in the East that shall rise and lighten all\nspiritual darkness--the unknown, unnamed Redeemer of the World, ... the\nMan-God Saviour that SHALL COME?\"\n\n\"SHALL come?\" cried Theos, suddenly roused to the utmost pitch of\nfrenzied excitement, and pronouncing each word with loud and\ninvoluntary vehemence ... \"Nay! ... for He HAS come! HE DIED FOR US,\nAND ROSE AGAIN FROM THE DEAD MORE THAN EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS AGO!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA frightful silence followed,--a breathless cessation of even the\nfaintest quiver of sound. The mighty mass of people, apparently moved\nby one accord, turned with swift, stealthy noiselessness toward the\naudacious speaker, ... thousands of glittering eyes were fixed upon him\nin solemnly inquiring wonderment, while he himself, now altogether\ndismayed at the effect of his own rash utterance, thought he had never\nexperienced a more awful moment! For it was as though all the skeletons\nhe had lately seen in the Passage of the Tombs had suddenly clothed\nthemselves with spectral flesh and hair and the shadowy garments of\nmen, and had advanced into broad daylight to surround him in their\nterrible lifeless ranks, and wrench from him the secret of an\nafter-existence concerning which THEY were ignorant!\n\nHow ghostly and drear seemed that dense crowd in this new light of his\ndelirious fancy! A clammy dew broke out on his forehead,--he saw the\nblue skies, the huge buildings in the Square, the Obelisk, the\nfountains, the trees, all whirling round him in a wild dance of the\ndizziest distraction, ... when Sah-luma's rich voice close to his ear\nrecalled his wandering senses:\n\n\"Why, man, art thou drunk or mad?\" and the Laureate's face expressed a\nkind of sarcastic astonishment,--\"What a fool thou hast made of\nthyself, good comrade! ... By my soul, how shall thy condition be\nexplained to these open-mouthed starers below! See how they gape upon\nthee! ... thou art most assuredly a noticeable spectacle! ... and yon\nmaniac Prophet doth evidently judge thee as one of his craft, a fellow\nprofessional howler of marvels, else he would scarcely deign to fix his\neyes so obstinately on thy countenance! Nay, verily thou dost outrival\nhim in the strangeness of thy language! ... What moved thee to such\nfrenzied utterance? Surely thou hast a stroke of the sun!--thy words\nwere most absolutely devoid of reason! ... as senseless as the jabber\nof an idiot to his own shadow on the wall!\"\n\nTheos was mute,--he had no defense to offer. The crowd still stared\nupon him,--and his heart beat fast with a mingled sense of fear and\npride--fear of his present surroundings,--pride that he had spoken out\nhis conviction boldly, reckless of all consequences. And this pride was\na most curious thing to analyze, because it did not so much consist in\nthe fact of his having openly confessed his inward thought, as that he\nfelt he had gained some special victory in thus ACKNOWLEDGING HIS\nBELIEF IN THE POSITIVE EXISTENCE OF THE \"Saviour\" who formed the\nsubject of Khosrul's prophecy. Full of a singular sort of\nself-congratulation which yet had nothing to do with selfishness, he\nbecame so absorbed in his own reflections that he started like a man\nbrusquely aroused from sleep when the Prophet's strong grave voice\napostrophized him personally over the heads of the throng:\n\n\"Who and what art thou, that dost speak of the FUTURE as though it were\nthe PAST? Hast thou held converse with the Angels, and is Past and\nFuture ONE with thee in the dream of the departing Present? Answer me,\nthou stranger to the city of Al-Kyris! ... Has God taught THEE the way\nto Everlasting Life?\"\n\nAgain that awful silence made itself felt like a deadly chill on the\nsunlit air,--the quiet, patient crowds seemed waiting in hushed\nsuspense for some reply which should be as a flash of spiritual\nenlightenment to leap from one to the other with kindling heat and\nradiance, and vivify them all into a new and happier existence. But\nnow, when Theos most strongly desired to speak, he remained dumb as\nstone! ... vainly he struggled against and contended with the\ninvisible, mysterious, and relentless despotism that smote him on the\nmouth as it were, and deprived him of all power of utterance, ... his\ntongue was stiff and frozen, ... his very lips were sealed! Trembling\nviolently, he gazed beseechingly at Sah-luma, who held his arm in a\nfirm and friendly grasp, and who, apparently quickly perceiving that he\nwas distressed and embarrassed, undertook himself to furnish forth what\nhe evidently considered a fitting response to Khosrul's adjuration.\n\n\"Most venerable Seer!\" he cried mockingly, his bright face radiant with\nmirth and his dark eyes flashing a careless contempt as he spoke--\"Thou\nart as short-sighted as thine own auguries if thou canst not at once\ncomprehend the drift of my friend's humor! He hath caught the infection\nof thy fanatic eloquence, and, like thee, knows naught of what he says:\nmoreover he hath good wine and sunlight mingled in his blood, whereby\nhe hath been doubtless moved to play a jest upon thee. I pray thee heed\nhim not! He is as free to declare thy Prophecy is of the PAST, as thou\nart to insist on its being of the FUTURE,--in both ways 'tis a most\nfoolish fallacy! Nevertheless, continue thy entertaining discourse, Sir\nGraybeard! . . . and if thou must needs address thyself to any one soul\nin particular, why let it be me,--for though, thanks to mine own\nexcellent good sense, I have no faith in angels nor crosses, nor\neverlasting life, nor any of the strange riddles wherewith thou seekest\nto perplex and bewilder the brains of the ignorant, still am I Laureate\nof the realm, and ready to hold argument with thee,--yea!--until such\ntime as these dumfounded soldiers and citizens of Al-Kyris shall\nremember their duty sufficiently to seize and take thee captive in the\nKing's great name!\"\n\nAs he ceased a deep sigh ran, like the first sound of a rising wind\namong trees, through the heretofore motionless multitude,--a faint,\ndawning, yet doubtful smile reflected itself on their faces,--and the\nold familiar shout broke feebly from their lips:\n\n\"Hail, Sah-luma! Let us hear Sah-luma!\"\n\nSah-luma looked down upon them all in airy derision.\n\n\"O fickle, terror-stricken fools!\" he exclaimed--\"O thankless and\ndisloyal people! What!--ye WILL see me now? ... ye WILL hear me? ...\nAye! but who shall answer for your obedience to my words! Nay, is it\npossible that I, your country's chosen Chief Minstrel, should have\nstood so long among ye disregarded! How comes it your dull eyes and\nears were fixed so fast upon yon dotard miscreant whose days are\nnumbered? Methought t'was but Sah-luma's voice that could persuade ye\nto assemble thus in such locust-like swarms.. since when have the Poet\nand the People of Al-Kyris ceased to be as one?\"\n\nA vague, muttering sound answered him, whether of shame or\ndissatisfaction it was difficult to tell. Khosrul's vibrating accent\nstruck sharply across that muffled murmur.\n\n\"The Poet and the People of Al-Kyris are further asunder than light and\ndarkness!\" he cried vehemently--\"For the Poet has been false to his\nhigh vocation, and the People trust in him no more!\"\n\nThere was an instant's hush, ... a hush as it seemed of grieved\nacquiescence on the part of the populace,--and during that brief pause\nTheos's heart gave a fierce bound against his ribs as though some one\nhad suddenly shot at him with a poisoned arrow. He glanced quickly at\nSah-luma,--but Sah-luma stood calmly unmoved, his handsome head thrown\nback, a cynical smile on his lips and his eyes darker than ever with an\nintensity of unutterable scorn.\n\n\"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!\" and the piercing, reproachful voice of the\nProphet penetrated every part of the spacious square like a sonorous\nbell ringing over a still landscape: \"O divine Spirit of Song pent up\nin gross clay, was ever mortal more gifted than thou! In thee was\nkindled the white fire of Heaven,--to thee were confided the memories\nof vanished worlds, . . for thee God bade His Nature wear a thousand\nshapes of varied meaning,--the sun, the moon, the stars were appointed\nas thy servants,--for thou wert born POET, the mystically chosen\nTeacher and Consoler of Mankind! What hast thou done, Sah-luma, . .\nwhat hast thou done with the treasures bestowed upon thee by the\nall-endowing Angels? ... How hast thou used the talisman of thy genius?\nTo comfort the afflicted? ... to dethrone and destroy the oppressor?\n... to uphold the cause of Justice? ... to rouse the noblest instincts\nof thy race? ... to elevate and purify the world? ... Alas, alas!--thou\nhast made Thyself the idol of thy muse, and thou being but perishable,\nthy fame shall perish with thee! Thou hast drowsed away thy manhood in\nthe lap of vice, . . thou hast slept and dreamed when thou should have\nbeen awake and vigilant! Not I, but THOU shouldst have warned the\npeople of their coming doom! ... not I, but THOU shouldst have marked\nthe threatening signs of the pregnant hour,--not I, but THOU shouldst\nhave perceived the first faint glimmer of God's future scheme of glad\nsalvation,--not I, but THOU shouldst have taught and pleaded, and\nswayed by thy matchless sceptre of sweet song, the passions of thy\ncountrymen! Hadst thou been true to that first flame of Thought within\nthee, O Sah-luma, how thy glory would have dwarfed the power of kings!\nEmpires might have fallen, cities decayed, and nations been absorbed in\nruin,--and yet thy clear-convincing voice, rendered imperishable by its\nfaithfulness should have sounded forth in triumph above the foundering\nwrecks of Time! O Poet unworthy of thy calling! ... How thou hast\nwantoned with the sacred Muse! ... how thou hast led her stainless feet\ninto the mire of sensual hypocrisies, and decked her with the trumpery\ngew-gaws of a meaningless fair speech!--How thou hast caught her by the\nvirginal hair and made her chastity the screen for all thine own\nlicentiousness! ... Thou shouldst have humbly sought her\nbenediction,--thou shouldst have handled her with gentle reverence and\npatient ardor,--from her wise lips thou shouldst have learned how best\nto PRACTICE those virtues whose praise thou didst evasively proclaim,\n... thou shouldst have shrined her, throned her, worshiped her, and\nserved her, . . yea! ... even as a sinful man may serve an Angel who\nloves him!\"\n\nAh, what a strange, cold thrill ran through Theos as he heard these\nlast words! 'As a sinful man may serve an Angel who loves him!' How\nhappy the man thus loved! ... how fortunate the sinner thus permitted\nto serve! ... WHO WAS HE? ... Could there be any one so marvellously\nprivileged? He wondered dimly,--and a dull, aching pain throbbed\nheavily in his brows. It was a very singular thing too, that he should\nfind himself strongly and personally affected by Khosrul's address to\nSah-luma, yet such was the case, ... so much so, indeed, that he\naccepted all the Prophet's reproaches as though they applied solely TO\nHIS OWN PAST LIFE! He could not understand his emotion, ...\nnevertheless he kept on dreamily regretting that things WERE as Khosrul\nhad said, ... that he had NOT fulfilled his vocation,--and that he had\nneither been humble enough nor devout enough nor unselfish enough to\ndeserve the high and imperial name of POET.\n\nRound and round like a flying mote this troublesome idea circled in his\nbrain, ... he must do better in future, he resolved, supposing that any\nfuture remained to Him in which to work, . . HE MUST REDEEM THE PAST!\n... Here he roused his mental faculties with a start and forced himself\nto realize that it was SAH-LUMA to whom the Prophet spoke, . .\nSah-luma, ONLY Sah-luma,--not himself!\n\nThen straightway he became indignant on his friend's behalf,--why\nshould Sah-luma be blamed? ... Sah-luma was a glorious poet!--a\nmaster-singer of singers! ... his fume must and should endure forever!\n... Thus thinking, he regained his composure by degrees, and strove to\nassume the same air of easy indifference as that exhibited by his\ncompanion, when again Khosrul's declamatory tones thundered forth with\nan absoluteness of emphasis that was both startling and convincing:\n\n\"Hear me, Sah-luma, Chief Minstrel of Al-Kyris!--hear me, thou who hast\nwillfully wasted the golden moments of never-returning time! THOU ART\nMARKED OUT FOR DEATH!--death sudden and fierce as the leap of the\ndesert panther on its prey! ... death that shall come to thee through\nthe traitorous speech of the evil woman whose beauty has sapped thy\nstrength and rendered thy glory inglorious!... death that for thee,\nalas! shall be mournful and utter oblivion! Naught shall it avail to\nthee that thy musical weaving of words hath been graven seven times\nover, on tablets of stone and agate and ivory, of gold and white silex\nand porphyry, and the unbreakable rose-adamant,--none of these shall\nsuffice to keep thy name in remembrance,--for what cannot be broken\nshall be melted with flame, and what cannot be erased shall be buried\nmiles deep in the bosom of earth, whence it never again shall be lifted\ninto the light of day! Aye! thou shalt be FORGOTTEN!--forgotten as\nthough thou hadst never sung,--other poets shall chant in the world,\nyet maybe none so well as thou!--other laurel and myrtle wreaths shall\nbe given by countries and kings to bards unworthy, of whom none\nperchance shall have thy sweetness! ... but thou,--thou the most\ngrandly gifted, gift-squandering Poet the world has ever known, shalt\nbe cast among the dust of unremembered nothings, and the name of\nSah-luma shall carry no meaning to any man born in the coming\nhere-after! For thou hast cherished within Thyself the poison that\nwithers thee, ... the deadly poison of Doubt, the Denial of God's\nexistence, ... the accursed blankness of Disbelief in the things of the\nLife Eternal! ... wherefore, thy spirit is that of one lost and\nrebellious,--whose best works are futile,--whose days are void of\nexample,--and whose carelessly grasped torch of song shall be suddenly\nsnatched from thy hand and extinguished in darkness! God pardon thee,\ndying Poet! ... God give thy parting soul a chance of penance and of\nsweet redemption! ... God comfort thee in that drear Land of Shadow\nwhither thou art bound! ... God bring thee forth again from Chaos to a\nnobler Future! ... Sin-burdened as thou art, my blessing follows thee\nin thy last agony! Sah-luma! ... FALLEN ANGEL, SELF-EXILED FROM THY\nPEERS! ... FAREWELL!\"\n\nThe effect of these strange words was so extraordinarily impressive,\nthat for one instant the astonished and evidently affrighted crowds\npressed round Sah-luma eagerly, staring at him in morbid fear and\nwonder, as though they expected him to drop dead before them in\nimmediate fulfillment of the Prophet's solemn valediction. Theos,\noppressed by an inward sickening sense of terror, also regarded him\nwith close and anxious solicitude, but was almost reassured at the\nfirst glance.\n\nNever was a greater opposition offered to Khosrul's gloomy\nprognostications, than that contained in the handsome Laureate's aspect\nat that moment,--his supple, graceful figure alert with life, . . his\nglowing face flushed by the sun, and touched with that faintly amused\nlook of serene scorn, . . his glorious eyes, brilliant as jewels under\ntheir drooping amorous lids, and the regal poise of his splendid\nshoulders and throat, as he lifted his head a little more haughtily\nthan usual, and glanced indifferently down from his foothold on the\nedge of the fountain at the upturned, questioning faces of the throng,\n... all even to the careless balance and ease of his attitude,\nbetokened his perfect condition of health, and the entire satisfaction\nhe had in the consciousness of his own strength and beauty.\n\nHe seemed about to speak, and raised his hand with the graceful yet\ncommanding gesture of one accustomed to the art of elegant rhetoric,\n... when suddenly his expression changed, . . shrugging his shoulders\nlightly as who should say.. \"Here comes the conclusion of the\nmatter,--no time for further argument\"--he silently pointed across the\nSquare, while a smile dazzling yet cruel played on his delicately\nparted lips, . . a smile, the covert meaning of which was soon\nexplained. For all at once a brazen roar of trumpets split the silence\ninto torn and discordant echoes,--the crowd turned swiftly, and seeing\nwho it was that approached, rushed hither and thither in the wildest\nconfusion, making as though they would have fled, . . and in less than\na minute, a gleaming cohort of mounted and armed spearmen galloped\nfuriously into the thick of the melee.\n\nFollowing these came a superb car drawn by six jet-black horses that\nplunged and pranced through the multitude with no more heed than if\nthese groups of living beings had been mere sheafs of corn, . . a car\nflashing from end to end with gold and precious stones, in which\ntowered the erect, massive form of Zephoranim, the King. His dark face\nwas ablaze with wrath, ... tightly grasping the reins of his reckless\nsteeds, he drew himself haughtily upright and turned his rolling,\nfierce black eyes indignantly from side to side on the scared people,\nas he drove through their retreating ranks, smiting down and mangling\nwith the sharp spikes of his tall chariot-wheels men, women, and\nchildren without care or remorse, till he forced his terrible passage\nstraight to the foot of the Obelisk. There he came to an abrupt\nstandstill, and, lifting high his strong hand and brawny arm glittering\nwith jewels, he cried:\n\n\"Soldiers! Seize yon traitorous rebel! Ten thousand pieces of gold for\nthe capture of Khosrul!\"\n\nThere was an instant of hesitation, ... not one of the populace stirred\nto obey the order. Then suddenly, as though released by their monarch's\ncommand from some mesmeric spell, the before inactive mounted guards\nstarted into action, cantered sharply forward and surrounded the\nObelisk, while the armed spearsmen closed together and made a swift\nadvance upon the venerable figure that stood alone and defenseless,\ntranquilly awaiting their approach. But there was evidently some\nunknown and mysterious force pent up within the Prophet's feeble frame,\nfor when the soldiers were just about an arm's length from him, they\nseemed all at once troubled and irresolute, and turned their looks\naway, as though fearing to gaze too steadfastly upon that grand,\nthought-furrowed countenance in which the eyes, made young by inward\nfervor, blazed forth with unearthly lustre beneath a silvery halo of\ntossed white hair. Zephoranim perceived this touch of indecision on the\npart of his men, and his black brows contracted in an ominous frown.\n\n\"Halt!\" he shouted fiercely, apparently to make it seem to the mob that\nthe pause in the action of the soldiery was in compliance with his own\nbehest, . . \"Halt! ... Bind him, and bring him hither, . . I myself\nwill slay him!\"\n\n\"Halt!\" echoed a voice, discordantly sharp and wild.. \"Halt thou also,\ngreat Zephoranim! for Death bars thy further progress!\"\n\nAnd Khosrul, manifestly possessed by some superhuman access of frenzy,\nleaped from his position on the back of the stone Lion, and slipping\nagilely through the ranks of the startled spearmen and guards, who were\nall unprepared for the suddenness and rapidity of his movements, he\nsprang boldly on the edge of the Royal chariot, and there clung to the\njewelled wheel, looking like a gaunt aerial spectre, an ambassador of\ncoming ruin. The King, speechless with amazement and fury, dragged at\nhis huge sword till he wrenched it out of its sheath, . . raising it,\nhe whirled it round his head so that it gave a murderous hiss in the\nair, ... and yet.. was his strong arm paralyzed that he forbore to\nstrike!\n\n\"Zephoranim!\" Khosrul, in terms that were piercing and dolorous as the\nwhistling of the wind among hollow reeds,--\"Zephoranim, THOU SHALT DIE\nTO-NIGHT! ART THOU READY? Art thou ready, proud King? ... ready to be\nmade less than the lowest of the low? Hush! ... Hush!\" and his aged\nface took upon itself a ghastly greenish pallor--\"Hear you not the\nmuttering of the thunder underground? There are strange powers at work!\n... powers of the undug earth and unfathomed sea! ... hark how they\ntear at the stately foundations of Al-Kyris! ... Flame! flame! it is\nalready kindled!--it shall enwrap thee with more closeness than thy\ncoronation robe, O mighty Sovereign! ... with more gloating fondness\nthan the serpent-twining arms of thy beloved! Listen, Zephoranim,\nlisten!\"\n\nHere he stretched out his skinny hand and pointed upwards,--his eyes\ngrew fixed and glassy,--his throat rattled convulsively. At that moment\nthe monarch, recovering his self-possession, once more lifted his sword\nwith direct and deadly aim, but the Prophet, uttering a wild shriek,\ncaught at his descending wrist and gripped it fast.\n\n\"See.. See!\" he exclaimed.. \"Put up thy weapon! ... Thou shalt never\nneed it where thou art summoned! ... Lo! how yon blood-red letters\nblaze against the blue of heaven! ... There! ... there it\ncomes!--Read.. read! 'tis written plain.. 'AL-KYRIS SHALL FALL, AND THE\nKING SHALL DIE!'.. Hist ... hist! ... Dumb oracles speak and dead\nvoices find tongue! ... hark how they chant together the old forgotten\nwarning:\n\n     'When the High Priestess\n      Is the King's mistress\n      Then fall Al-Kyris!'\n\nFall Al-Kyris! ... Aye! ... the City of a thousand palaces shall fall\nto-night! ... TO-NIGHT! ... O night of desperate horror! ... and thou,\nO King, SHALT DIE!\"\n\nAnd as he shrilled the last word on the air with terrific emphasis, he\nthrew up his arms like a man suddenly shot, and reeling backward fell\nheavily on the ground,--a corpse.\n\nA great cry went up from the crowd, . . the King leaned eagerly out of\nhis car.\n\n\"Is the fool dead, or feigning death?\" he demanded, addressing one of a\ngroup of soldiers standing near.\n\nThe officer stooped and felt the motionless body.\n\n\"O great King, live forever! He is dead!\"\n\nZephoranim hesitated. Cruelty and clemency struggled for the mastery in\nthe varying expression of his frowning face, but cruelty conquered.\nGrasping his sword firmly, he bent still further forward out of his\nchariot, and with one swift, keen stroke, severed the lifeless\nProphet's head from its trunk, and taking it up on, the point of his\nweapon, showed it to the multitude. A smothered, shuddering sigh that\nwas half a groan rippled through the dense throng--a sound that\nevidently added fresh irritation to the already heated temper of the\nhaughty sovereign. With a savage laugh, he tossed his piteous trophy on\nthe pavement, where it lay in a pool of its own blood, the white hair\nabout it stained ruddily, and the still open eyes upturned as though in\ndumb appeal to heaven. Then, without deigning to utter another word, or\nto bestow another look upon the surrounding crowd of his disconcerted\nsubjects, he gathered up his coursers' reins and prepared to depart.\n\nJust then the sun went behind a cloud, and only a side-beam of radiance\nshot forth, pouring itself straight down on the royally attired figure\nof the monarch and the headless body of Khosrul, and at the same time\nbringing into sudden and prominent relief the silver Cross that\nglittered on the breast of the bleeding corpse, and that seemed to\nmysteriously offer itself as the Key to some unsolved Enigma. As if\ndrawn by one strangely mutual attraction, all eyes, even those of\nZephoranim himself, turned instinctively toward the flashing Emblem,\nwhich appeared to burn like living fire on that perished mass of\nstiffening clay, . . and there was a brief silence,--a pause, during\nwhich Theos, who had watched everything with curiously calm interest,\nsuch as may be felt by a spectator watching the progress of a finely\nacted tragedy, became conscious of the same singular sensation he had\nalready several times experienced,--namely, THAT HE HAD WITNESSED THE\nWHOLE OF THIS SCENE BEFORE!\n\nhe remembered it quite well,--particularly that apparently trifling\nincident of the sunlight happening to shine so brilliantly on the dead\nman and his cross while the rest of the vast assemblage were in\ncomparative shadow. It was very odd! ... his memory was like a\nwonderful art-gallery in which some pictures were fresh of tint, while\nothers were dim and faded, . . but this special \"tableau\" in the Square\nof Al-Kyris was very distinctly painted in brilliant and vivid colors\non the sombre background of his past recollections, and he found the\ncircumstance so remarkable that he was on the point of saying something\nto Sah-luma about it,--when the sun came out again in full splendor,\nand Zephoranim's spirited steeds started forward at a canter.\n\nThe King, controlling them easily with one hand, extended the other\nmajestically by way of formal salutation to his people, . . his tall,\nmuscular form was displayed to the best advantage,--the narrow jewelled\nfillet that bound his rough dark locks emitted a myriad scintillations\nof light, . . his close-fitting coat-of-mail, woven from thousands of\nsmall links of gold, set off his massive chest and shoulders to\nperfection,--and as he moved along royally in his sumptuous car, the\neffect of his striking presence was such, that a complete change took\nplace in the before sullen humor of the populace. For seeing him thus\nalive and well in direct opposition to Khosrul's ominous\nprediction,--even as Sah-luma also stood unharmed in spite of his\nhaving been apostrophized as a \"dying\" Poet,--the mob, always fickle\nand always dazzled by outward show, suddenly set up a deafening roar of\ncheering. The pallid hue of terror vanished from faces that had but\nlately looked spectrally thin with speechless dread, and crowds of\nservile petitioners and place-hunters began to press eagerly round\ntheir monarch's chariot, ... when all at once a woman in the throng\ngave a wild scream and rushed away shrieking \"THE OBELISK! ... THE\nOBELISK!\"\n\nEvery eye was instantly turned toward the stately pillar of white\ngranite that sparkled in the sunlight like an immense carven jewel, ...\ngreat Heaven! ... It was tottering to and fro like the unsteadied mast\nof a ship at sea! ... One look sufficed,--and a frightful panic\nensued--a horrible, brutish stampede of creatures without faith in\nanything human or divine save their own wretched personalities,--the\nKing, infected by the general scare, urged his horses into furious\ngallop, and dashed through the cursing, swearing, howling throng like\nan embodied whirlwind,--and for a few seconds nothing seemed distinctly\nvisible But a surging mass of infuriated humanity, fighting with itself\nfor life.\n\nTheos alone remained singularly calm,--his sole consideration was for\nhis friend Sah-luma, whom he entwined with one arm as he sprang down\nfrom the position they had hitherto occupied on the brink of the\nfountain, and made straight for the nearest of the six broad avenues\nthat opened directly into the Square. Sah-luma looked pale, but was\napparently unafraid,--he said nothing, and passively allowed himself to\nbe piloted by Theos through the madly raging multitude, which, oddly\nenough, parted before them like mist before the wind, so that in a\nmagically short interval they successfully reached a place of safety.\n\nAnd they reached it not a moment too soon. For the Obelisk was now\nplainly to be seen lurching forward at an angle of several degrees, . .\nstrange muffled, roaring sounds were heard at its base, as though\ndemons were digging up its foundations, . . then, seemingly shaken by\nunderground tremors, it began to oscillate violently,--a terrific\nexplosion was heard as of the bursting of a giant bomb,--and\nimmediately afterward the majestic monolith toppled over and\nfell!--with the crash of a colossal cannonade that sent its thunderous\nreverberations through and through the length and breadth of the city!\nHundreds of persons were killed and wounded,--many of the mounted\nguards and spearmen, who were striving to force a way of escape through\nthe crowd, were struck down and crushed pell-mell with their horses as\nthey rode,--the desperate people trampled each other to death in their\nfrenzied efforts to reach the nearest outlet to the river embankment, .\n. but when once the Obelisk had actually fallen, all this turmoil was\nfor an instant checked, and the gasping, torn, and bleeding survivors\nof the struggle stopped, as it were to take breath, and stared in blank\ndismay upon the strange ruin before them.\n\nTheos, still holding Sah-luma by the arm, with the protecting fondness\nof an elder brother guarding a younger, gazed also at the scene with\nquiet, sorrowfully wondering eyes. For it meant something to him he was\nsure, because it was so familiar,--yet he found it impossible to grasp\nthe comprehension of that meaning! It was a singular spectacle enough;\nthe lofty four-sided white pillar, that had so lately been a monumental\nglory of Al-Kyris, had split itself with the violence of its fall into\ntwo huge desolate-looking fragments, which now lay one on each side of\nthe square, as though flung thither by a Titan's hand,--the great lion\nhad been hurled from its position and overturned like a toy, while the\nshield it had supported between its paws had entirely disappeared in\nminutely scattered atoms, . . the fountains had altogether ceased\nplaying. Now and then a thin, vaporous stream of smoke appeared to\nissue between the crannies of the pavement,--otherwise there was no\nvisible sign of the mysterious force that had wrought so swift and\nsudden a work of destruction,--the sun shone brilliantly, and over all\nthe havoc beamed the placid brightness of a cloudless summer sky!\n\nThe most prominent object of all amid the general devastation, and the\none that fascinated Theos more than the view of the destroyed monolith\nand the debased Lion, was the uninjured head of the Prophet Khosrul.\nThere it lay, exactly between the sundered halves of the Obelisk, . .\npale rays of light glimmered on its bloodstained silvery hair and open\nglazed eyes,--a solemn smile seemed graven on its waxen-pallid\nfeatures. And at a little distance off, on the breast of the\nblack-robed headless corpse that remained totally uncrushed in an open\nspace by itself, among the surrounding heaps of slain and wounded,\nglistened the CROSS like a fiery gem, . . an all-significant talisman\nthat, as he beheld it, filled Theos's heart with a feverish\ncraving,--an inexplicable desire mingled with remorse far greater than\nany fear!\n\nInstinctively he drew Sah-luma away.... away! ... still keeping his\nwistful gaze fixed on that uncomprehended, yet soul-recognized Symbol,\ntill gradually the drooping branches of trees interrupted and shadowed\nthe vista, and, as he moved further and further backward, closed their\nsoft network of green foliage like the closing curtain on the strange\nbut awfully remembered scene, shutting it out from his bewildered\nsight.. forever!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nA GOLDEN TRESS.\n\n\nOnce clear of the Square the two friends apparently became mutually\nconscious of the peril they had just escaped, . . and coming to a\nsudden standstill they looked at each other in blank, stupefied\nsilence. Crowds of people streamed past them, wandering hither and\nthither in confused, cloudy masses,--some with groans and dire\nlamentations bearing away their dead and wounded,--others rushing\nfrantically about, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, calling\non the gods and lamenting Khosrul, while not a few muttered curses on\nthe King. And ever and anon the name of \"Lysia,\" coupled with heavy\nexecrations, was hissed from mouth to mouth, which Theos, overhearing,\nbegan to foresee might serve as a likely cause for Sah-luma's taking\noffence and possibly resenting in his own person this public\ndisparagement of the woman he loved,--therefore, without more ado he\nroused himself from his momentarily dazed condition, and urged his\ncomrade on at a quick pace toward the safe shelter of his own palace,\nwhere at any rate he could be kept out of the reach of immediate harm.\n\nThe twain walked side by side, exchanging scarcely a word,--Sah-luma\nseemed in a manner stunned by the violence of the late catastrophe, and\nTheos was too busy with his own thoughts to speak. On their way they\nwere overtaken by the King's chariot,--it flew by with a glittering\nwhirl and clatter, amid sweeping clouds of dust, through which the dark\nface of Zephoranim loomed out upon them like an almost palpable shadow.\nAs it vanished Sah-luma stopped short, and stared at his companion in\nutter amazement.\n\n\"By my soul!\" he exclaimed indignantly.. \"The whole world must be going\nmad! 'Tis the first time in all my days of Laureateship that Zephoranim\nhath failed to reverently salute me as he passed!\"\n\n And he looked far more perturbed than when the falling Obelisk\nhad threatened him with imminent destruction.\n\nTheos caught his arm with a quick movement of vexed impatience.\n\n\"Tush, man, no matter!\" he said hastily--\"What are Kings to thee? ...\nthou who art an Emperor of Song? These little potentates that wield\nearth's sceptres are as fickle in their moods as the very mob they are\nsupposed to govern, . . moreover, thou knowest Zephoranim hath had\nenough to-day to startle him out of all accustomed rules of courtesy.\nBe assured of it, his mind is like a ship at sea, storm-tossed and at\nthe mercy of the winds,--thou canst not surely blame him, that for once\nafter so strange a turbulence, and unwonted a disaster, he hath no eyes\nfor thee whose sole sweet mission, is to minister to pleasure.\"\n\n\"To minister to pleasure!\".. echoed Sah-luma petulantly.. \"Nay, have I\ndone nothing more than this? Art thou already grown so disloyal a\nfriend that thou wilt half repeat the jargon of yon dead fanatic\nKhosrul who dared to tell me I had served my Art unfittingly? Have I\nnot ministered to grief as well as joy? To hours of pain and\nbitterness, as well as to long days of ease and amorous dreaming? ...\nHave I not...\" here he paused and a warm flush crept through the olive\npallor of his skin,--his eyes grew plaintive and wistful and he threw\none arm round Theos's neck as he continued: \"No I.. after all 'tis vain\nto deny it...I have hated grief,--I have loathed the very suggestion of\ncare,--I have thrust sorrow out of my sight as a thing vile and\nunwelcome,--and I have chosen to sing to the world of rapture more than\npain,--inasmuch as methinks Humanity suffers enough, without having its\ncureless anguish set to the music of a poet's rhythm to incessantly\nhaunt and torture its already breaking heart.\"\n\n\"Say rather to soothe and tranquillize\"--murmured Theos, more to\nhimself than to his friend--\"For suppressed sorrow is hardest to\nendure, and when grief once finds apt utterance 'tis already half\nconsoled! So should the world's great singers tenderly proclaim the\nworld's most speechless miseries, and who knows but vexed Creation\nbeing thus relieved of pent-up woe may not take new heart of grace and\ncomfort?\"\n\nThe words were spoken in a soft SOTTO-VOCE, and Sah-luma seemed not to\nhear. He leaned, however, very confidingly and affectionately against\nTheos's shoulder as he walked along, and appeared to have speedily\nforgotten his annoyance at the recent slighting conduct of the King.\n\n\"I marvel at the downfall of the Obelisk!\" he said presently ... \"'Twas\nrooted full ten feet deep in solid earth, . . maybe the foundations\nwere ill-fitted,--nevertheless, if history speaks truly, it hath stood\nunshaken for two thousand years! Strange that it should be now hurled\nforth thus desperately! ... I would I knew the hidden cause! Many,\nalas! have met their death to-day, . . pushed out of life in haste, . .\nall unprepared.. One wonders where such souls have fled! Something\nthere is that troubles me, . . methinks I am more than half disposed to\nleave Al-Kyris for a time, and wander forth into a world of unknown\nthings--\"\n\n\"With me!\" cried Theos impetuously--\"Come with me, Sah-luma! ... Come\nnow, this very day! I too have been warned of evil.. evil undeclared,\nyet close at hand, ..let us escape from danger while time remains! ...\nLet us depart!\"\n\n\"Whither should we go?\"...and Sah-luma, pausing in his walk, fixed his\nlarge, soft eyes full on his companion as he put the question.\n\nTheos was mute. Covered with confusion, he asked himself the same\nthing. \"Whither should we go?\" He had no knowledge of the country that\nlay outside Al-Kyris, . . he had no distinct remembrance of any other\nplace than this in which he was. All his past existence was as blotted\nand blurred as a child's spoiled and discarded copybook, . . true, he\nretained two names in his thoughts,--namely \"ARDATH\" and \"THE PASS OF\nDARIEL\" but he was hopelessly ignorant as to what these meant or how he\nhad become connected with them! He was roused from his distressful\ncogitation by Sah-luma's voice speaking again half gayly, half sadly:\n\n\"Nay, nay, my friend! ... we cannot leave the City, we two alone and\nunguided, for beyond the gates is the desert wide and bare, with scarce\na spring of cool water in many weary miles,--and beyond the desert is a\nforest, gloomy and tiger haunted, wherein the footsteps of man have\nseldom penetrated. To travel thus far we should need much preparation,\n. . many servants, many beasts of burden, and many months' provision..\nmoreover, 'tis a foolish, fancy crossed my mind at best,--for what\nshould I, the Laureate of Al-Kyris, do in other lands? Besides, my\ndeparture would indeed be the desolation of the city,--well may\nAl-Kyris fall when Sah-luma no longer abides within it! Seawards the\nway lies open,--maybe, in days to come, we twain may take ship and sail\nhence for a brief sojourn to those distant western shores, whence thou,\nthough thou sayest naught of them, must assuredly have come; I have\noften dreamed idly of a gray coast washed with dull rain and swathed in\nsweeping mists, where ever and anon the sun shines through,--a country\ncheerless, where a poet's fame like mine might ring the darkness of the\nskies with light, and stir the sleepy silence into song!\"\n\nStill Theos said nothing,--there were hot tears in his throat that\nchoked his utterance. He gazed up at the glowing sky above him,--it was\na burning vault of cloudless blue in which the sun glared forth\nwitheringly like a scorching mass of flame, . . Oh for the freshness of\na \"gray coast washed with dull rain and swathed in sweeping mists\" ...\nsuch as Sah-luma spoke of! ... and what a strange sickening yearning\nsuddenly filled his soul for the unforgotten sonorous dash of the sea!\nHe drew a quick breath and pressed his friend's arm with unconscious\nfervor, . . why, why could he not take this dear companion away out of\npossible peril? ... away to those far lands dimly remembered, yet now\nso completely lost sight of, that they seemed to him but as a delusive\nmirage faintly discerned above the rising waters of Lethe! Sighing\ndeeply, he controlled his emotion and forced himself to speak calmly\nthough his voice trembled..\n\n\"Not now then, but hereafter, thou'lt be my fellow-traveller, Sah-luma?\n... 'twill be a joyous time when we, set free of present hindrance, may\njourney through a myriad glorious scenes together, sharing such new and\nmutual gladness that perchance we scarce shall miss the splendor of\nAl-Kyris left behind! Meanwhile I would that thou couldst promise me\none thing,\".. here he paused, but, seeing Sah-luma's inquiring look,\nwent on in a low, eager tone! \"Go not to the Temple to-night!--absent\nthyself from this Sacrifice, which, though it be the law of the realm,\nis nevertheless mere murderous barbarity,--and--inasmuch as the King is\nwrathful--I pray thee avoid his presence!\"\n\nSah-luma broke into a laugh.. \"Now by my faith, good comrade, as well\nask me for my head as demand such impossibilities! Absent myself from\nthe temple to-night of all nights in the world, when owing to these\nlate phenomenal occurrences in the city, every one who is of repute and\npersonal distinction will be present to assist at the Service and offer\npetitions to the fabulous gods that haply their supposititious\nindignation may be averted? My friend, if only for the sake of custom I\nmust be there, . . moreover, I should be liable to banishment from the\nrealm for so specially marked a breach of religious discipline! And as\nfor the King, he is my puppet; were he savage as a starving bear my\nvoice could tame him,--and concerning his late churlishness 'twas no\ndoubt mere heat of humor, and thou shalt see him sue to me for pardon\nas only monarchs can sue to the bards who keep them in their thrones!\nKnowest thou not that were I to string three stanzas of a fiery\nrepublican ditty, and set it floating on the lips of the people, that\nsong would sing down Zephoranim from his royal estate more surely than\nthe fury of an armed conqueror! Believe it!--WE, the poets, rule the\nnation, . . A rhyme has oft had power to kill a king!\"\n\nTheos smiled at the proud boast, but made no reply, as by this time\nthey had reached the Laureate's palace, and were ascending the steps\nthat led into the entrance-hall. A young page advanced to meet them,\nand, dropping on one knee before his master, held out a small scroll\ntied across and across with what appeared to be a thick strand of\namber-colored floss silk.\n\n\"For the most illustrious Chief of Poets, Sah-luma\" ... said the little\nlad, keeping his head bent humbly as he spoke ... \"It was brought\nlately by one masked, who rode in haste and fear, and, ere he could be\nquestioned, swift departed.\"\n\nSah-luma took the missive carelessly, scarcely glancing at it, and\ncrossed the hall toward his own apartment, Theos following him. On his\nway, however, he paused and turned round:\n\n\"Has Niphrata yet come home?\" he demanded of the page who still\nlingered.\n\n\"No, my lord! ... naught hath been seen or heard concerning her.\"\n\nSah-luma gave a petulant gesture of annoyance and passed on. Arrived in\nhis study he seated himself, and allowed his eyes to rest more\nattentively on the packet just given him. As he looked he uttered a\nslight exclamation, . . Theos hastened to his side. \"What has happened,\nSah-luma? ... hast thou ill news?\"\n\n\"Ill news?--nay, of a truth I know not\".. and the Laureate gazed up\nblankly into his friend's face.. \"But this\" ... and he touched the fair\nsilken substance that tied the scroll he held, \"this is Niphrata's\nhair!\"\n\n\"Niphrata's hair!\".. Theos was too much surprised to do more than\nrepeat the words mechanically, while a strange pang shot through his\nheart as of inward shame or sorrow.\n\n\"Naught can deceive me in the color of that gold!\" went on Sah-luma\ndreamily, as with careful, somewhat tremulous fingers, he gently\nloosened the twisted shining threads that were so delicately knotted\ntogether, and smoothing them out to their full length, displayed what\nwas indeed a lovely tress of hair bright as woven sunlight with a\nrippling wave in it that, like the tendril of a vine caught and wound\nabout his hand as though it were a fond and feeling thing.\n\n\"See you not, Theos, how warm and soft and shuddering a curl it is? ...\nIt clings to me as if it knew my touch!--as if it half remembered how\nmany and many a time it had been drawn with its companions to my lips\nand kissed full tenderly! ... How sad and desolate it seems thus\nsevered and alone!\"\n\nHe spoke gently, yet not without a touch of passion, and twined the\nfair tresses lingeringly round his fingers, ..then, with the air of one\nwho is instinctively prepared for some unpleasing tidings, he opened\nthe scroll and perused its contents in silence. As he read on, his face\ngrew very grave, and full of pained and wondering regret.. quietly he\npassed the missive to Theos, who took it from his hand with a tremor of\nsomething like fear. The delicately traced characters with which it was\ncovered floated for a moment in a faint blur before his eyes,--then\nthey resolved themselves into legible shape and meaning, as follows:\n\n     \"To the ever-worshiped and immortally renowned\n                      \"Sah-luma.\n     \"Poet-Laureate of the Kingdom of Al-Kyris.\n     \"Blame me not, O my beloved Lord, that I have left thy\ndearest presence thus unwarnedly forever, staying no time to weary thee\nwith my too fond and foolish tears and kisses of farewell! I owe to\nthee the gift of freedom, and while I thank thee for that gift, I do\nemploy it now to serve me as a sacrifice to Love,--an immolation of\nmyself upon the altars of my own desire! For thou knowest I have loved\nthee, O Sah-luma--not too well but most unwisely,--for what am I that\nthou shouldst stoop to cover my unworthiness with the royal purple of\nthy poet-passion? ... what could I ever be save the poor trembling\nslave-idolater, of whose endearments thou must needs most speedily\ntire! Nevertheless I cannot still this hunger of my heart,--this love\nthat stings me more than it consoles,--and out of the very transport of\nmy burning thoughts I have learned many and strange things,--things\nwhereby I, a woman feebled and unlessoned, have grasped the glimmering\nforeknowledge of events to come,--events wherein I do perceive for\nthee, thou Chiefest among men, some dark and threatening disaster. When\nfore I have prayed unto the most high gods, that they will deign to\naccept me as thy hostage to misfortune, and set me as a bar between thy\nlife and dawning peril, so that I, long valueless, may serve at least\nawhile to avert doom from thee who art unparagoned throughout the world!\n\n\"Thus I go forth alone to brave and pacify the wrath of the\nImmortals,--call me not back nor weep for my departure, . . thou wilt\nnot miss me long! To die for thee, Sah-luma, is better than to live for\nthee, . . for living I must needs be conquered by my sin of love and\nlose myself and thee,--but in the quiet Afterwards of Death, no passion\nshall have strength to mar the peaceful, patient waiting of my soul on\nthine! Farewell thou utmost heart of my weak heart! ..thou only life of\nmy frail life! ... think of me sometimes if thou will, but only as of a\nflower thou didst gather once in some past half-forgotten spring-time..\na flower that, as it slowly withered, blessed the dear hand in whose\nwarm clasp it died!                  \"NIPHRATA.\"\n\nTears rose to Theos's eyes as he finished reading these evidently\nunpremeditated pathetic words that suggested so much more than they\nactually declared. He silently returned the scroll to Sah-luma, who sat\nvery still, thoughtfully stroking the long, bright curl that was\ntwisted round his fingers like a glittering strand of spun glass,--and\nhe felt all at once so unreasonably irritated with his friend, that he\nwas even inclined to find fault with the very grace and beauty of his\nperson, . . the mere indolence of his attitude was, for the moment,\nprovoking.\n\n\"Why art thou so unmoved?\" he demanded almost sternly.\n\n\"What hast thou done to Niphrata, to thus grieve her gentle spirit\nbeyond remedy?\"\n\nSah-luma looked up, like a surprised child.\n\n\"Done? ... Nay, what should I do? ... I have let her love me!\"\n\nO sublime permission! ... he had \"LET HER LOVE\" him! ... He had\ncondescendingly allowed her, as it were, to waste all the treasures of\nher soul upon him! Theos stared at him in vague amazement,--while he,\napparently tired of his own reflections, continued with some impatience:\n\n\"What more could she desire? ... I never barred her from my presence,\n... nor checked the fervor of her greetings! I wore the flowers she\nchose,--I listened to the songs she sang, and when she looked more fair\nthan ordinary I stinted not the warmth of my caresses. She was too meek\nand loving for my fancy ... no will save mine--no happiness save in my\ncompany,--no thought beyond my pleasure--one wearies of such a fond\nexcess of sweetness! Nevertheless her sole delight was still to serve\nme,--could I debar her from that joy because I saw therein some danger\nfor her peace? Slave as she was, I made her free--and lo! how\ncapriciously she plays with her late-given liberty! 'Tis always the way\nwith women,--no man shall ever learn how best to please them! She knew\nI loved her not as lovers love,--she knew my heart was elsewhere fixed\nand fated ... and if, notwithstanding this knowledge, she still chose\nto love me, then assuredly her grief is of her own creating! Methinks\n'tis I who am most injured in this matter! ... all the day long I have\ntormented myself concerning the silly maiden's absence, while she,\nseized by some crazed idea of new adventure, has gone forth heedlessly,\nscarce knowing whither. Her letter is the exalted utterance of an\noverwrought, excited brain,--she has in all likelihood caught the\ncontagion of superstitious alarm that seems just now to possess the\nwhole city, and she knows naught of what she writes or what she means\nto do. To leave me forever, as she says, is out of her power,--for I\nwill demand her back at the hands of Lysia or the King,--and no demand\nof mine has ever been refused. Moreover, with Lysia's aid, her\nhiding-place is soon and easily discovered!\"\n\n\"How?\" asked Theos mechanically, still surveying the beautiful, calm\nfeatures of the charming egotist whose nature seemed such a curious\nmixture of loftiness and littleness.. \"She may have left the city!\"\n\n\"No one can leave the city without express permission,\"--rejoined\nSah-luma tranquilly--\"Besides, . . didst thou not see the Black Disc\nlast night in Lysia's palace?\"\n\nTheos nodded assent. He at once remembered the strange revolving thing\nthat had covered itself with brilliant letters at the approach of the\nHigh Priestess, and he waited somewhat eagerly to hear the meaning of\nso singular an object explained.\n\n\"The Priest of the Temple of Nagaya,\"--went on Sah-luma--\"are the\ngreatest scientists in the world, with the exception of the lately\nformed Circle of Mystics, who it must be confessed exceed them in\ncertain new lines of discovery. But setting aside the Mystic School,\nwhich it behoves us not to speak of, seeing it is condemned by\nlaw,--there are no men living more subtly wise in matters pertaining to\naerial force and light-phenomena, than the Servants of the Secret\nDoctrine of the Temple. All seeming-marvellous things are to them mere\nchild's play,--and the miracles by which they keep the multitude in awe\nare not by any means vulgar, but most exquisitely scientific. As, for\ninstance, at the great New Year Festival, called by us 'The\nSailing-Forth of the Ship of the Sun,'--which takes place at the\ncommencement of the Spring solstice, a fire is kindled on the summit of\nthe highest tower, and a Ship of gold rises from the centre of the\nflames, carrying the body of a slain virgin eastwards, . . 'tis\nwondrously performed! ... and I, like others, have gaped upon the\nsplendor of the scene half-credulous, and wholly dazzled! For the Ship\ndoth rise aloft with excellent stateliness, plowing the air with as\nmuch celerity as sailing-vessels plow the seas; departing straightway\nfrom the watching eyes of thousands of spectators, it plunges deep, or\nso it seems, into the very heart of the rising Sun, which doth\napparently absorb it in devouring flames of glory, for never again doth\nit return to earth, . . and none can solve the mystery of its\nvanishing! 'Tis a graceful piece of jugglery and perfectly\naccomplished, . . while as for Oracles [Footnote: The Phonograph was\nknown and used for the utterance of Oracles by one Savan the Asmounian,\na Priest-King of ancient Egypt.] that command and repeat their commands\nin every shade of tone, from mild to wrathful, there are only too many\nof these, . . moreover the secret of their manufacture is well known to\nall students of acoustic science. But concerning the Black Disc in\nLysia's hall, it is a curiously elaborate piece of workmanship. It\ncorresponds with an electric wheel in the Interior Chamber of the\nTemple, where all the priests and flamens meet and sum up the entire\nevents of the day, both public and private, condensing the same into\nbrief hieroglyphs. Setting their wheel in motion, they start a similar\nmotion in the Disc, and the bright characters that flash upon it and\ndisappear like quicksilver, are the reflection of the working electric\nwires which write what only Lysia is skilled to read. From sunset to\nmidnight these messages keep coming without intermission,--and all the\nmost carefully concealed affairs of Al-Kyris are discovered by the\nTemple Spies and conveyed to Lysia by this means. Whatever the news, it\nis repeated again and again on the Disc, till she, by rapidly turning\nit with a peculiar movement of her own, causes a small bell to ring in\nthe Temple, which signifies to her informers that she has understood\nall their communications, and knows everything. Her inquisitorial\nsystem is searching and elaborate, . . there is no secret so carefully\nguarded that the Black Disc will not in time reveal!\"\n\nTheos listened wonderingly and with a sense of repugnance and fear, ...\nhe felt as though the beautiful Priestess, with her glittering robes\nand the dreadful jewelled Eye upon her breast, were just then entering\nthe room stealthily and rustling hither and thither like a snake\nbeneath covering leaves. She was an ever-present Temptation,--a\nbewildering snare and distracting evil,--was it not possible to shake\nher trail off the life of his friend-and also to pluck from out his own\nheart the poison-sting of her fatal, terrible fascination? A red mist\nswam before his eyes--his lips were dry and feverish,--his voice\nsounded hoarse and faint in his own ears when he forced himself to\nspeak again.\n\n\"So thou dost think that, wheresoever Niphrata hath strayed, Lysia can\nfind her?\" he said.\n\n\"Assuredly!\" returned Sah-luma with easy complacency--\"I would swear\nthat, even at this very moment, Lysia could restore her to my arms in\nsafety.\"\n\n\"Then why\" ... suggested Theos anxiously--\"why not go forth and seek\nher now?\"\n\n\"Nay, there is time!\" ... and Sah-luma half closed his languid lids and\nstretched himself lazily. \"I would not have the child imagine I vexed\nmyself too greatly for her unkind departure, . . she must have space\nwherein to weep and repent her of her folly. She is the strangest\nmaiden!\" ... and he brushed his lips lightly against the golden curl he\nheld,--She loves me, . . and yet repulses all attempted passion,--I\nremember\" ... here his face grew more serious--\"I remember one night in\nthe beginning of summer,--the moon was round and high in heaven,--we\nwere alone together in this room,--the lamps burned low,--and she..\nNiphrata, . . sang to me. Her voice was full, and withal\ntremulous,--her form, bent to her ebony harp was soft and yielding as\nan iris stem, her eyes turned upon mine seemed wonderingly to question\nme as to the worth of love! ... or so I fancied. The worth of love! ...\nI would have taught it to her then in the rapture of an hour!--but\nseized with sudden foolish fear she fled, leaving me dissatisfied,\nindifferent, and weary! No matter! when she returns again her mood will\nalter, . . and though I love her not as she would fain be loved, I\nshall find means to make her happy.\"\n\n\"Nay, but she speaks of dying\".. said Theos quickly ... \"Wilt thou\nconstrain her back from death?\"\n\n\"My friend, all women speak of dying when they are love-wearied\" ...\nreplied Sah-luma with a slight smile ... \"Niphrata will not die, ...\nshe is too young and fond of life, ... the world is as a garden wherein\nshe has but lately entered, all ignorant of the pleasures that await\nher there. 'Tis an odd notion that she has of danger threatening\nme,--thou also, good Theos, art become full of omens,--and yet, . .\nthere is naught of visible ill to trouble the fairness of the day.\"\n\nHe stepped out as he spoke on the terrace and looked up at the intense\ncalm of the lovely sky. Theos followed him, and stood leaning on the\nbalustrade among the clambering vines, watching him with earnest,\nhalf-regretful half-adoring eyes. He, meanwhile, gathered a scarcely\nopened white rosebud and loosening the tress of Niphrata's hair from\nhis fingers, allowed it to hang to its full rippling length,--then\nlaying the flower against it, he appeared dreamily to admire the\ncontrast between the snowy blossom and shining curl.\n\n\"Many strange men there are in the world,\" he said softly--\"lovers and\nfools who set priceless store on a rose and a lock of woman's hair! I\nhave heard of some who, dying, have held such trifles as chiefest of\nall their worldly goods, and have implored that whereas their gold and\nhousehold stuff can be bestowed freely on him who first comes to claim\nit, the faded flower and senseless tress may be laid on their hearts to\ncomfort them in the cold and dreamless sleep from which they shall not\nwake again!\" He sighed and his eyes darkened into deep and musing\ntenderness. \"Poets there have been too and are, who would string many a\ncanticle on this soft severed lock and gathered blossom,--and many a\nquaint conceit could I myself contrive concerning it, did I not feel\nmore prone to tears to-day than minstrelsy. Canst thou believe it,\nTheos\"--and he forced a laugh, though his lashes were wet, . . \"I, the\njoyous Sah-luma, am for once most truly sad! ... this tress of hair\ndoth seem to catch my spirit in a chain that binds me fast and draws me\nonward.. onward.. to some mournful end I may not dare to see!\"\n\nAnd as he spoke he mechanically wound the golden curl round and about\nthe stem of the rosebud in the fashion of a ribbon, and placed the two\nentwined together in his breast. Theos looked at him wistfully, but was\nsilent, . . he himself was too full of dull and melancholy misgivings\nto be otherwise than sad also. Instinctively he drew closer to his\nfriend's side, and thus they remained for some minutes, exchanging no\nwords, and gazing dreamily out on the luxurious foliage of the trees\nand the wealth of bright blossoms that adorned the landscape before\nthem.\n\n\"Thou art confident Niphrata will return?\" questioned Theos presently\nin a low tone.\n\n\"She will return,\".. rejoined Sah-luma quietly--\"because she will do\nanything for love of me.\"\n\n\"For love's sake she may die!\" said Theos. Sah-luma smiled.\n\n\"Not so, my friend! ... for love's sake she will live!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nTHE PRIEST ZEL.\n\n\nAs he uttered the last word the sound of an approaching light step\ndisturbed the silence. It was one of the young girls of the household,\n. . a dark, haughty-looking beauty whom Theos remembered to have seen\nin the palace-hall when he first arrived, lying indolently among\ncushions, and playing with a tame bird which flew to and fro at her\nbeckoning. She advanced now with an almost imperial stateliness,--her\nsalute to Sah-luma was grateful, yet scarcely submissive,--while he,\nturning eagerly toward her, seemed gladdened and relieved at her\nappearance, his face assuming a gratified expression like that of a\nchild who, having broken one toy, is easily consoled with another.\n\n\"Welcome, Irenya!\" he exclaimed gayly--\"Thou art the very\nbitter-sweetness I desire. Thy naughty pout and coldly mutinous eyes\nare pleasing contrasts to the overlanguid heat and brightness of the\nday! What news hast thou, my sweet? ... Is there fresh havoc in the\ncity? ... more deaths? ... more troublous tidings? ... nay, then hold\nthy peace, for thou art not a fit messenger of woe--thou'rt much too\nfair!\"\n\nIrenya's red lips curled disdainfully, . . the \"naughty pout\" was\nplainly visible.\n\n\"My lord is pleased to flatter his slave!\" she said with a touch of\nscorn in her musical accents, . . \"Certes, of ill news there is more\nthan enough,--and evil rumors have never been lacking these many\nmonths, as my lord would have known, had he deigned to listen to the\ncommon talk of those who are not poets but merely sad and suffering\nmen. Nevertheless, though I may think, I speak not at all of matters\nsuch as these,--and for my present errand 'tis but to say that a Priest\nof the Inner Temple waits without, desirous of instant speech with the\nmost illustrious Sah-luma.\"\n\n\"A Priest of the Inner Temple!\" echoed the Laureate wonderingly, . .\n\"By my faith, a most unwelcome visitor! ... What business can he have\nwith me?\"\n\n\"Nay, that I know not\"--responded Irenya calmly--\"He hath come hither,\nso he bade me say, by command of The Absolute Authority.\"\n\nSah-luma's face flushed and he looked annoyed. Then taking Theos by the\narm he turned away from the terrace, and re-entered his apartment,\nwhere he flung himself full length on his couch, pillowing his handsome\nhead against a fold of glossy leopard skin which formed a most becoming\nbackground for the soft, dark oval beauty of his features.\n\n\"Sit thee down, my friend!\" he said glancing smilingly at Theos, and\nsigning to him to take possession of a luxurious lounge-chair near\nhim.. \"If we must needs receive this sanctified professor of many\nhypocrisies, we will do it with suitable indifference and ease. Wilt\nthou stay here with us, Irenya,\" he added, stretching out one arm and\ncatching the maiden round the waist in spite of her attempted\nresistance.. \"Or art thou in a froward mood, and wilt thou go thine own\nproud way without so much as a consoling kiss from Sah-luma?\"\n\nIrenya looked full at him, a repressed anger blazing in her large black\neyes.\n\n\"Let my lord save his kisses for those who value them!\" she said\ncontemptuously, \"'Twere pity he should waste them upon me, to whom they\nare unmeaning and therefore all unwelcome!\"\n\nHe laughed heartily, and instantly loosened her from his embrace.\n\n\"Off, off with thee, sweet virtue! ... fairest prude!\" he cried, still\nlaughing.. \"Live out thy life an thou wilt, empty of love or\npassion--count the years as they slip by, leaving thee each day less\nlovely and less fit for pleasure, ... grow old,--and on the brink of\ndeath, look back, poor child, and see the glory thou hast missed and\nleft behind thee! ... the light of love and youth that, once departed,\ncan dawn again no more!\"\n\nAnd lifting himself slightly from his cushions he kissed his hand\nplayfully to the girl, who, as though suddenly overcome by a sort of\nvague regret, still lingered, gazing at him, while a faint color crept\nthrough her cheeks like the deepening hue on the leaves of an opening\nrose. Sah-luma saw her hesitation, and his face grew yet more radiant\nwith malicious mirth.\n\n\"Hence.. hence, Irenya!\" he exclaimed--\"Escape temptation quickly while\nthou mayest! Support thy virgin pride in peace! ... thou shalt never\nsay again Sah-luma's kisses are unwelcome! The Poet's touch shall never\nwrong or sanctify thy name!--thou art safe from me as pillared icicles\nin everlasting snow! Dear little one, be happy without love if that be\npossible! ... nevertheless take heed thou do not weakly clamor in the\nafter-years for once rejected joy!--Now bid yon waiting Priest attend\nme,--tell him I can but spare a few brief moments audience.\"\n\nIrenya's head drooped,--Theos saw tears in her eyes,--but she managed\nto restrain them, and with something of a defiant air she made her\nformal obeisance and withdrew. She did not return again, but a page\nappeared instead, ushering in with ceremonious civility a tall\npersonage, clad in flowing white robes and muffled up to the eyes in a\nmantle of silver tissue,--a majestic, mysterious, solemn-looking\nindividual, who, pausing on the threshold of the apartment, described a\ncircle in the air with a small staff he carried, and said in monotonous\naccents:\n\n\"By the going-in and passing-out of the Sun through the Gates of the\nEast and the Gates of the West,--by the Vulture of Gold and White Lotus\nand the countless virtues of Nagaya, may peace dwell in this house\nforever!\"\n\n\"Agreed to with all my heart!\" responded Sah-luma, carelessly looking\nup from his couch but making no attempt to rise, . . \"Peace is an\nexcellent thing, most holy father!\"\n\n\"Excellent!\" returned the Priest slowly advancing and undoing his\nmantle so that his face became fully visible,--\"So truly excellent\nindeed, that at times it is needful to make war in order to insure it.\"\n\nHe sat down, as he spoke, in a chair which was placed for him at\nSah-luma's bidding by the page who had ushered him in, and he\nmaintained a grave silence till that youthful servitor had departed.\nTheos meanwhile studied his countenance with some curiosity,--it was so\nstrangely impassive, yet at the same time so full of distinctly marked\nintellectual power. The features were handsome but also singularly\nrepulsive,--they were rendered in a certain degree dignified by a full,\ndark beard which, however, failed entirely to conceal the receding\nchin, and compressed, cruel mouth,--the eyes were keen and crafty and\nvery clear,--the forehead was high and intelligent, and deeply furrowed\nwith lines that seemed to be the result of much pondering over close\nand cunning calculation, rather than the marks of profound, unselfish,\nand ennobling thought. The page having left the room, Sah-luma began\nthe conversation:\n\n\"To what unexpected cause, most righteous sir, am I indebted for the\nhonor of this present visit? Methinks I recognize the countenance of\nthe famous Zel, the High-Priest of the Sacrificial Altar--if so, 'tis\nmarvellous so great a man should venture forth alone and unattended, to\nthe house of one who loves not priestly company, and who hath at best\nfor all professors of religion a somewhat indifferent welcome!\"\n\nThe Priest smiled coldly.\n\n\"Most rightly dost thou speak, Sah-luma\"--he answered, his measured,\nmetallic voice seeming to strike a wave of chilling discord through the\nair, \"and most frankly hast thou thus declared one of thy many\ndeficiencies! Atheist as thou art and to that manner born, thou art in\nvery deed outside the pale of all religious teaching and consolement, .\n. nevertheless there is much gentle mercy shown thee by the Virgin\nPriestess of Nagaya\".. here he solemnly bent his head and made the\nrapid sign of a Circle on his breast, . . \"who, knowing thy great\ngenius, doth ever strive with thoughtful zeal to draw thee closely\nwithin the saving Silver Veil! Yet it is possible that even her\npatience with thy sins may tire at last,--wherefore while there is\ntime, offer due penance to the offended gods and humble thy stiff heart\nbefore the Holy Maid, lest she expel thee from her sight forever.\" He\npaused, . . a satirical, half-amused smile hovered round Sah-luma's\ndelicate mouth--his eyes flashed.\n\n\"All this is the mere common rhetoric of the Temple Craft\"--he said\nindolently.. \"Why not, good Zel, give plainer utterance to thine\nerrand?--we know each other's follies well enough to spare formalities!\nLysia has sent thee hither, . . what then? ... what says the beauteous\nVirgin to her willing slave?\"\n\nAn undertone of mockery rang through the languid silvery sweetness of\nhis accents, and the Priest's dark brows knitted in an irritated frown.\n\n\"Thou art over-flippant of speech, Sah-luma!\" he observed austerely.\n\"Take heed thou be not snared into misfortune by the glibness of thy\ntongue! Thou dost speak of the chaste Lysia with unseemly\nlightness.--learn to be reverent, and so shalt thou be wiser!\"\n\nSah-luma laughed and settled himself more easily on his couch, turning\nin such a manner as to look the stately Zel full in the face. They\nexchanged one glance, expressive as it seemed of some mutual secret\nunderstanding,--for the Priest coughed as though he were embarrassed,\nand stroked his beard deliberately with one hand in an endeavor to hide\nthe strange smile that, despite his efforts to conceal it, visibly\nlightened his cold eyes to a sudden tigerish brilliancy.\n\n\"The mission with which I am charged,\" he resumed presently,--\"is to\nthee, Chief Laureate of the realm, and runs as followeth: Whereas thou\nhast of late avoided many days of public service in the Temple, so that\nthose among the people who admire thee follow thine ill example, and\nabsent themselves also with equal readiness,--the Priestess Undefiled,\nthe noble Lysia, doth to-night command thy presence as a duty not to be\nforegone. Therefore come thou and take thy part in the Great Sacrifice,\nfor these late tumults and disaster in the city, notably the perplexing\ndownfall of the Obelisk, have caused all hearts to fail and sink for\nvery fear. The river darkens in its crimson hue each hour by passing\nhour,--strange noises have been heard athwart the sky and in the deeper\nunderground, . . and all these drear unwonted things are so many cogent\nreasons why we should in solemn unison implore the favor of Nagaya and\nthe gods whereby further catastrophes may be perchance averted.\nMoreover for motives of most urgent state-policy it is advisable that\nall who hold place, dignity, and renown within the city should this\nnight be seen as fervent supplicants before the Sacred Shrine,--so may\nmuch threatening rebellion be appeased, and order be restored out of\nimpending confusion. Such is the message I am bidden to convey to\nthee,--furthermore I am required to bear back again to the High\nPriestess thy faithful promise that her orders shall be surely and\nentirely obeyed. Thou art not wont\".. and a pale sneer flitted over his\nfeatures.. \"to set her mandate at defiance.\"\n\nSah-luma bit his lips angrily, and folded his arms above his head with\na lazy yet impatient movement.\n\n\"Assuredly I shall be present at the Service,\" he said curtly.. \"There\nneeded no such weighty summoning! 'Twas my intention to join the ranks\nof worshippers to-night, though for myself I have no faith in worship,\n. . the gods I ween are deaf, and care not a jot whether we mortals\nweep or sing. Nevertheless I shall look on with fitting gravity, and\ndeport myself with due decorum throughout the ceremonious Ritual,\nthough verily I tell thee, reverend Zel, 'tis tedious and monotonous at\nbest, . . and concerning the poor maiden-sacrifice, it is a shuddering\nhorror we could well dispense with.\"\n\n\"I think not so,\".. replied the Priest calmly. \"Thou, who art well\ninstructed in the capricious humors of men, must surely know how dearly\nthe majority of them love the shedding of blood,--'tis a clamorous\nbrute-instinct in them which must be satisfied. Better therefore that\nwe, the anointed Priests, should slay one willing victim for the\npurposes of religion, than that they, the ignorant mob, should kill a\nthousand to gratify their lust of murder. An unresentful, all-loving\nDeity would be impossible of comprehension to a mutually hating and\nmalignant race of beings,--all creeds must be accommodated to the\ndispositions of the million.\"\n\n\"Pardon me...\" suddenly interrupted Theos, \"I am a stranger, and in a\ngreat measure ignorant of this city's customs, . . but I confess I am\namazed to hear a Priest uphold so specious an argument! What! ... must\ndivine Religion be dragged down from its pure throne to pander to the\nselfish passions of the multitude? ... because men are vile, must a\nvile god be invented to suit their savage caprices? ... because men are\nso cruel, must the unseen Creator of things be delineated as even more\nbarbarous than they, in order to give them some pietistical excuse for\nwickedness?--I ask these questions not out of wanton curiosity, but for\nthe sake of instruction!\"\n\nThe haughty Zel turned upon him in severe astonishment.\n\n\"Sir,\" he said--\"Stranger undoubtedly thou art,--and so bold a manner\nof speech most truly savors of the utterly uneducated western\nbarbarian! All wise and prudent governments have learned that a god fit\nfor the adoration of men must be depicted as much like men as\npossible,--any absolutely superhuman attributes are unnecessary to the\ncharacter of a useful deity, inasmuch as no man ever will, or ever can,\nunderstand the worth of superhuman qualities. Humanity is only capable\nof worshipping Self--thus, it is necessary, that when people are\npersuaded to pay honor to an elected Divinity, they should be well and\ncomfortably assured in their own minds that they are but offering\nhomage to an Image of Self placed before them in a deified or heroic\nform. This satisfies the natural idolatrous cravings of Egotism, and\nthis is all that priests or teachers desire. Now in the worship of\nNagaya, we have the natures of Man and Woman conjoined, . . the Snake\nis the emblem of male wisdom united with female subtilty--and the two\nessences, mingled in one, make as near an approach to what we may\nimagine the positive Divine capacity as can be devised on earth by\nearthly intelligences. If, on the other hand, such an absurd doctrine\nas that formulated in the fanatic madman Khosrul's 'Prophecy' could be\nimagined as actually admitted, and proclaimed to the nations, it would\nhave very few followers, and the sincerity of those few might well be\nopen to doubt. For the Deity it speaks of is supposed to be an immortal\nGod disguised as Man,--a God who voluntarily rejects and sets aside His\nown glory to serve and save His perishable creatures,--thus the root of\nthat religion would consist in Self-abnegation, and Self-abnegation is,\nas experience proves, utterly impossible to the human being.\"\n\n\"Why is it impossible?\" asked Theos with a quiver of passionate\nearnestness in his voice,--\"Are there none in all the world who would\nsacrifice their own interests to further another's welfare and\nhappiness?\"\n\nThe Priest smiled,--a delicately derisive smile.\n\n\"Certainly not!\" he replied blandly.. \"The very question strikes me as\nsingularly foolish, inasmuch as we live in a planet where, if we do not\nserve ourselves and look after our own personal advantage, we may as\nwell die the minute we are born, or, better still, never be born at\nall. There is no one living, . . at least not in the wide realm of\nAl-Kyris,--who would put himself to the smallest inconvenience for the\nsake of another, were that other his nearest and dearest\nblood-relation. And in matters of love and friendship, 'tis the same as\nin business,--each man eagerly pursues his own chance of\nenjoyment,--even when he loves, or fancies he loves, a woman, it is\nsolely because her beauty or attractiveness gives HIM temporary\npleasure, not because he has any tenderness or after-regard for the\nnature of HER feelings. How can it be otherwise? ... We elect friends\nthat are useful to US personally,--we care little for THEIR intrinsic\nmerit, and we only tolerate them as long as they happen to suit OUR\ntaste. For generally, on the first occasion of a disagreement or\ndifference of opinion, we shake ourselves free of them without either\nregret or remorse, and seek others who will be meek enough not to offer\nus any open contradiction. It is, and it must be always so: Self is the\nfirst person we are bound to consider, and all religions, if they are\nintended to last, must prudently recognize and silently acquiesce in\nthis, the chief dogma of Man's constitution.\"\n\nSah-luma laughed. \"Excellently argued, most politic Zel!\" he\nexclaimed.. \"Yet methinks it is easy to worship Self without either\nconsecrated altars or priestly assistance!\"\n\n\"Thou shouldst know better than any one with what facility such\ndevotion can be practiced!\" returned Zel ironically, rising as he\nspoke, and beginning to wrap his mantle round him preparatory to\ndeparture--\"Thou hast a wider range of perpetual adoration than most\nmen, seeing thou dost so fully estimate the value of thine own genius!\nSome heretics there are in the city, who say thy merit is but a trick\nof song shared by thee in common with the birds, . . who truly seem to\ntake no pride in the particular sweetness of their unsyllabled\nlanguage, . . but thou thyself art better instructed, and who shall\nblame thee for the veneration with which thou dost daily contemplate\nthine own intellectual powers? Not I, believe me!\".. and his crafty\neyes glittered mockingly, as he arranged his silver gauze muffler so\nthat it entirely veiled the lower part of his features, . . \"And though\nI do somewhat regret to learn that thou, among other noblemen of\nfashion, hast of late taken part in the atheistic discussions\nencouraged by the Positivist School of Thought, still, as a priest, my\nduty is not so much to reproach as to call thee to repentance.\nTherefore I inwardly rejoice to know thou wilt present thyself before\nthe Shrine to-night, if only for the sake of custom ...\"\n\n\"'Only' for the sake of custom!\" repeated Sah-luma amusedly--\"Nay, good\nZel, custom should be surely classified as an exceeding powerful god,\ninasmuch as it rules all things, from the cut of our clothes to the\nform of our creeds!\"\n\n\"True!\" replied Zel imperturbably. \"And he who despises custom becomes\nan alien from his kind,--a moral leper among the pure and clean.\"\n\n\"Oh, say rather a lion among sheep, a giant among pigmies!\" laughed the\nLaureate,--\"For by my soul, a man who had the courage to scorn custom,\nand set the small hypocrisies of society at defiance, would be a\nglorious hero! a warrior of strange integrity whom it would be well\nworth travelling miles to see!\"\n\n\"Khosrul was such an one!\" interposed Theos suddenly.\n\n\"Tush, man! Khosrul was mad!\" retorted Sah-luma.\n\n\"Are not all men thought mad who speak the truth?\" queried Theos gently.\n\nThe priest Zel looked at him with proud and supercilious eyes.\n\n\"Thou hast strange notions for one still young,\" he said ... \"What art\nthou? ... a new disciple of the Mystics? ... or a student of the\nPositive Doctrines?\"\n\nTheos met his gaze unflinchingly. \"What am I?\" he murmured sadly, and\nhis voice trembled, ... \"Reverend Priest, I am nothing! ... Great are\nthe sufferings of men who have lost their wealth, their home, their\nfriends, ... but I ... I have lost Myself! Were I anything ... could I\never hope to be anything, I would pray to be accepted a servant of the\nCross, ... that far-off unknown Faith to which my tired spirit clings!\"\n\nAs he uttered these words, he raised his eyes, ... how dim and misty at\nthe moment seemed the tall white figure of the majestic Zel! and in\ncontrast to it, how brilliantly distinct Sah-luma's radiant face\nappeared, turned toward him in inquiring wonderment! ... He felt a\nswooning dizziness upon him, but the sensation swiftly passed, and he\nsaw the haughty Priest's dark brows bent upon him in a frown of ominous\ndisapproval.\n\n\"'Tis well thou art not a citizen of Al-Kyris\"--he said scornfully--\"To\nstrangers we accord a certain license of opinion,--but if thou wert a\nnative of these realms, thy speech would cost thee dear! As it is, I\nwarn thee! ... dare not to make public mention of the Cross, the\naccursed Emblem of the dead Khosrul's idolatry, ... guard thy tongue\nheedfully!--and thou, Sah-luma if thou dost bring this rashling with\nthee to the Temple, thou must take upon thyself all measures for his\nsafety. For in these days, some words are like firebrands, and he who\ncasts them forth incautiously may kindle flames that only the forfeit\nof his life can quench.\"\n\nThere was a quiver of suppressed fury in his tone, and Sah-luma lifted\nhis lazy lids, and looked at him with an air of tranquil indifference.\n\n\"Prithee, trouble not thyself, most eminent Zel!\" he answered\nnonchalantly ... \"I will answer for my friend's discretion! Thou dost\nmistake his temperament,--he is a budding poet, and utters many a\ndisconnected thought which hath no meaning save to his own\nfancy-swarming brain,--he saw the frantic Khosrul die, and the picture\nhath impressed him for the moment--nothing more! I pledge my word for\nhis demurest prudence at the Service to-night--I would not have him\nabsent for the world, ... 'twere pity he should miss the splendor of a\nscene which doubtless hath been admirably contrived, by priestly art\nand skill, to play upon the passions of the multitude. Tell me, good\nZel, what is the name of the self-offered Victim?\"\n\nThe Priest flashed a strangely malevolent glance at him.\n\n\"'Tis not to be divulged,\" he replied curtly--\"The virgin is no longer\ncounted among the living ... she is as one already departed--the name\nshe bore hath been erased from the city registers, and she wears\ninstead the prouder title of 'Bride of the Sun and Nagaya.' Restrain\nthy curiosity until night hath fallen,--it may be that thou, who hast a\nwide acquaintance among fair maidens, wilt recognize her countenance.\"\n\n\"Nay, I trust I know her not\"--said Sah-luma carelessly--\"For, though\nall women die for me when once their beauty fades, still am I loth to\nsee them perish ere their prime.\n\n\"Yet many are doomed to perish so\"--rejoined the Priest\nimpassively--\"Men as well as women,--and methinks those who are best\nbeloved of the gods are chosen first to die. Death is not difficult,\n... but to live long enough for life to lose all savor, and love all\ncharm, ... this is a bitterness that comes with years and cannot be\nconsoled.\"\n\nAnd retreating slowly toward the door, he paused as he had previously\ndone on the threshold.\n\n\"Farewell, Sah-luma!\" he said ... \"Beware that nothing hinders thee\nfrom the fulfillment of thy promise! ... and let thy homage to the Holy\nMaid be reverent at the parting of the Silver Veil!\"\n\nHe waited, but Sah-luma made no answer--he therefore raised his staff\nand described a circle with it in the same solemn fashion that had\ndistinguished his entrance.\n\n\"By the coming-forth of the Moon through the ways of Darkness, . . by\nthe shining of Stars, . . by the Sleeping Sun and the silence of Night,\n. . by the All-Seeing Eye of Raphon and the Wisdom of Nagaya may the\nprotection of the gods abide in this house forever!\"\n\nAs he pronounced these words he noiselessly departed, without any\nsalutation whatever to Sah-luma, who heaved a sigh of relief when he\nhad gone, and, rising from his couch came and placed one hand\naffectionately on Theos's shoulder.\n\n\"Thou foolish, yet dear comrade!\" he murmured.. \"What moves thee to\nblurt forth such strange and unwarrantable sayings? ... Why wouldst\nthou pray to be a servant of the Cross? ... or why, at any rate, if\nthou hast taken a fancy for the dead Khosrul's new doctrine, wert thou\nso rash as to proclaim thy sentiment to yon unprincipled, bloodthirsty\nZel, who would not scruple to poison the King himself, if his Majesty\ngave sufficient cause of offence! Dost thou desire to be straightway\nslain?--Nay, I will not have thee run thus furiously into danger,--thou\nwilt be offered the Silver Nectar like Nir-jahs, and not even the\nintercession of my friendship would avail to save thee then!\"\n\nTheos smiled rather sadly.\n\n\"And thus would end for ever my mistakes and follies, . .\" he answered\nsoftly.. \"And I should perchance discover the small hidden secret of\nthings--the little, simple unguessed clue, that would unravel the\nmystery and meaning of Existence! For can it be that the majestic\nmarvel of created Nature is purposeless in its design?--that we are\ndoomed to think thoughts which can never be realized?--to dream dreams\nthat perish in the dreaming? ... to build up hopes without foundation?\n... to call upon God when there is no God? ... to long for Heaven when\nthere is no Heaven? ... Ah no, Sah-luma!--surely we are not the mere\nfools and dupes of Time, ... surely there is some Eternal Beyond which\nis not Annihilation, . . some greater, vaster sphere of\nsoul-development where we shall find all that we have missed on earth!\"\n\nSah-luma's face clouded, and a sigh escaped him.\n\n\"I would my thoughts were similar to thine!\" he said sorrowfully.. \"I\nwould I could believe in an immortal destiny, ... but alas, my friend!\nthere is no shadow of ground for such a happy faith,--none neither in\nsense nor science. I have reflected on it many a time till I have\nwearied myself with mournful musing, and the end of all my meditation\nhas been a useless protest against the Great Inevitable, . . a clamor\nof disdain hurled at the huge, blind, indifferent Force that poisons\nthe deep sea of Space with an ever-productive spawn of wasted Life!\nAnon I have flouted my own despair, and have consoled myself with the\nold wise maxim that was found inscribed on the statue of a smiling god\nsome centuries ago.. 'Enjoy your lives, ye passing tribes of men ...\ntake pleasure in folly, for this is the only wisdom that avails! Happy\nis he whose days are filled with the delight of love and laughter, for\nthere is nothing better found on earth, and whatsoever ye do, whether\nwise or foolish, the same End comes to all!'.. Is not this true\nphilosophy, my Theos? ... what can a man do better than enjoy?\"\n\n\"Much depends on the particular form of enjoyment...\" responded Theos\nthoughtfully. \"Some there are, for example, who might find their\ngreatest satisfaction in the pleasures of the table,--others in the\ngratification of sensual desires and gross appetites,--are these to be\nleft to follow their own devices, without any effort being made to\nraise them from the brute-level where they lie?\"\n\n\"Why, in the name of all the gods, SHOULD they be raised?\" demanded\nSah-luma impatiently--\"If their choice is to grovel in mire, why ask\nthem to dwell in a palace?--They would not appreciate the change!\"\n\n\"Again,\" went on Theos--\"there are others who are only happy in the\npursuit of wisdom, and the more they learn, the more they seek to know.\nOne wonders, . . one cannot help wondering.. are their aspirations all\nin vain? ... and will the grave seal down their hopes forever?\"\n\nSah-luma paused a moment before replying.\n\n\"It seems so ...\" he said at last slowly and hesitatingly ... \"And\nherein I find the injustice of the matter,--because however great may\nbe the imagination and fervor of a poet for instance, he never is able\nWHOLLY to utter his thoughts. Half of them remain in embryo, like buds\nof flowers that never come to bloom, . . yet they are THERE, burning in\nthe brain and seeming too vast of conception to syllable themselves\ninto the common speech of mortals! I have often marvelled why such\nideas suggest themselves at all, as they can neither be written nor\nspoken, unless...\" and here his voice sank into a dreamy softness,\n\"unless indeed they are to be received as hints, . . foreshadowings..\nof greater works destined for our accomplishment, hereafter!\"\n\nHe was silent a minute's space, and Theos, watching him wistfully,\nsuddenly asked:\n\n\"Wouldst thou be willing to live again, Sah-luma, if such a thing could\nbe?\"\n\n\"Friend, I would rather never die!\"--responded the Laureate, half\nplayfully, half seriously.. \"But.. if I were certain that death was no\nmore than a sleep, from which I should assuredly awaken to another\nphase of existence, ..I know well enough what I would do!\"\n\n\"What?\" questioned Theos, his heart beginning to beat with an almost\ninsufferable anxiety.\n\n\"I would live a different life NOW!\" answered Sah-luma steadily,\nlooking his companion full in the eyes as he spoke, while a grave smile\nshadowed rather than lightened his features. \"I would begin at once, .\n. so that when the new Future dawned for me, I might not be haunted or\ntortured by the remembrance of a misspent Past! For if we are to\nbelieve in any everlasting things at all, we cannot shut out the fatal\neverlastingness of Memory!\" His words sounded unlike himself...his\nvoice was as the voice of some reproving angel speaking,--and Theos,\nlistening, shuddered, he knew not why, and held his peace.\n\n\"Never to be able to FORGET!\" continued Sah-luma in the same grave,\nsweet tone ... \"Never to lose sight of one's own bygone wilful sins, .\n. this would be an immortal destiny too terrible to endure! For then,\ninexorable Retrospection would forever show us where we had missed the\nway, and how we had failed to use the chances given us, . . moreover,\nwe might haply find ourselves surrounded...\" and his accents grew\nslower and more emphatic.. \"by strange phantoms of our own creating,\nwho would act anew the drama of our obstinate past follies, perplexing\nus thereby into an anguish greater than mortal fancy can depict. Thus\nif we indeed possessed the positive foreknowledge of the eternal\nregeneration of our lives, 'twould be well to free them from all\nhindrance to perfection HERE,--here, while we are still conscious of\nTime and opportunity.\" He paused, then went on in his customary gay\nmanner: \"But fortunately we are not positive, nothing is certain, no\ntruth is so satisfactorily demonstrated that some wiseacre cannot be\nfound to disprove it, . . hence it happens my friend...\" and his face\nassumed its wonted careless expression ... \"that we men whose\ncommon-sense is offended by priestly hypocrisy and occult necromantic\njugglery,--we, who perhaps in our innermost heart of hearts ardently\ndesire to believe in a supreme Divinity and the grandly progressive\nSublime Intention of the Universe, but who, discovering naught but\nignoble Cant and Imposture everywhere, are incontinently thrown back on\nour own resources, . . hence it comes, I say, that we are satisfied to\naccept ourselves, each man in his own personality, as the Beginning and\nEnd of Existence, and to minister to that Absolute Self which after all\nconcerns us most, and which will continue to engage our best service\nuntil...well!--until History can show us a perfectly Selfless Example,\nwhich, if human nature remains consistent with its own traditions, will\nassuredly never be!\"\n\nThis was almost more than Theos could bear, . . there was a tightening\nagony at his heart that made him long to cry out, to weep, or, better\nstill, to fling himself on his knees and pray, . . pray to that\nfar-removed mild Presence, that \"Selfless Example\" who he KNEW had\nhallowed and dignified the world, and yet whose Holy and Beloved Name,\nhe, miserable sinner, was unworthy to even remember! His suffering at\nthe moment was so intense that he fancied some reflection of it must be\nvisible in his face. Sah-luma, however, apparently saw nothing,--he\nstepped across the room, and out to the vine-shaded loggia, where he\nturned and beckoned his companion to his side.\n\n\"Come!\" he said, pushing his hair off his brows with a languid gesture,\n. . \"The afternoon wears onward, and the very heavens seem to smoke\nwith heat,--let us seek cooler air beneath the shade of yonder\ncypresses, whose dark-green boughs shut out the glaring sky. We'll talk\nof love and poesy and tender things till sunset, . . I will recite to\nthee a ballad of mine that Niphrata loved,--'tis called 'An Idyl of\nRoses,'...and it will lighten this hot and heavy silence, when even\nbirds sleep, and butterflies drowse in the hollowed shelter of the\narum-leaves. Come, wilt thou? ... To-night perchance we shall have\nlittle time for pleasant discourse!\"\n\nAs he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with the dazed sensations\nof one under the influence of mesmerism, ... the dazzling face and\nluminous eyes of the Laureate exercised over him an indescribable yet\nresistless authority,--and it was certain that, wherever Sah-luma led\nthe way, he was bound to follow. Only, as he mechanically descended\nfrom the terrace into the garden, and linked his arm within that of his\ncompanion, he was conscious of a vague feeling of pity for\nhimself...pity that he should have dwindled into such a nonentity, when\nSah-luma was so renowned a celebrity, . . pity too that he should have\nsomehow never been able to devise anything original in the Art of\nPoetry!\n\nThis last was evident, . . for he knew already that the \"Idyl of Roses\"\nSah-luma purposed reciting could be no other than what he had fancied\nwas HIS \"Idyl of Roses\" ... a poem he had composed, or rather had\nplagiarized in some mysterious fashion before he had even dreamt of the\ndesign of \"Nourhalma\"...However he had become in part resigned to the\npeculiar position he occupied,--he was just a little sorry for himself,\nand that was all. Even as the parted spirit of a dead man might hover\nruthfully above the grave of its perished mortal body, so he\ncompassionated his own forlorn estate, and heaved a passing sigh of\nregret, not only for all HE ONCE HAD BEEN, but also for all HE COULD\nNEVER BE!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nIN THE TEMPLE OF NAGAYA.\n\n\nThe hours wore on with stealthy rapidity,--but the two friends,\nreclining together under a deep-branched canopy of cypress-boughs, paid\nlittle or no heed to the flight of time. The heat in the garden was\nintense--the grass was dry and brittle as though it had been scorched\nby passing flames,--and a singularly profound stillness reigned\neverywhere, there being no wind to stir the faintest rustle among the\nfoliage. Lying lazily upon his back, with his arms clasped above his\nhead, Theos looked dreamily up at the patches of blue sky seen between\nthe dark-green gnarled stems and listened to the measured cadence of\nthe Laureate's mellow voice as he recited with much tenderness the\npromised poem.\n\nOf course it was perfectly familiar,--the lines were precisely the same\nas those which he, Theos, remembered to have written out, thinking them\nhis own, in an old manuscript book he had left at home. \"At-home!\" ...\nWhere was that? It must be a very long way off! ... He half-closed his\neyes,--a sense of delightful drowsiness was upon him, . . the rise and\nfall of his friend's rhythmic utterance soothed him into a languid\npeace, . . the \"Idyl of Roses\" was very sweet and musical, and, though\nhe knew it of old, he heard it now with special satisfaction, inasmuch\nas, it being no longer his, he was at liberty to bestow upon it that\nfull measure of admiration which he felt it deserved!\n\nYet every now and then his thoughts wandered,--and though he anxiously\nstrove to concentrate his attention on the lovely stanzas that murmured\npast his ears like the gentle sound of waves flowing beneath the\nmesmerism of the moon, his brain was in a continual state of ferment,\nand busied itself with all manner of vague suggestions to which he\ncould give no name.\n\nA great weariness weighed down his spirit--a dim consciousness of the\nfutility of all ambition and all endeavor--he was haunted, too, by the\nsharp hiss of Lysia's voice when she had said, \"KILL SAH-LUMA!\"...Her\nlook, her attitude, her murderous smile, troubled his memory and made\nhim ill at ease,--the thing she had thus demanded at his hands seemed\nmore monstrous than if she had bidden him kill himself! For there had\nbeen one moment, when, mastered by her beauty and the force of his own\npassion, he WOULD have killed himself had she requested it...but to\nkill his adored, his beloved friend! ... ah no! not for a thousand\nsorceress-queens as fair as she!\n\nHe drew a long breath, . . an irresistible desire for rest came over\nhim, . . the air was heavy and warm and fragrant,--his companion's\ndulcet accents served as a lullaby to his tired mind,--it seemed a long\ntime since he had enjoyed a pleasant slumber, for the previous night he\nhad not slept at all. Lower and lower drooped his aching lids, . . he\nwas almost beginning to slip away slowly into a blissful\nunconsciousness, . . when all at once Sah-luma ceased reciting, and a\nharsh, brazen clang of bells echoed through the silence, storming to\nand fro with a violent, hurried uproar suggestive of some sudden alarm.\nHe sprang to his feet, rubbing his eyes,--Sah-luma rose also, a\nslightly petulant expression on his face.\n\n\"Canst thou do no better than sleep\"--he queried complainingly, \"when\nthou art privileged to listen to an immortal poem?\"\n\nImpulsively Theos caught his hand and pressed it fervently.\n\n\"Nay, dost thou deem me so indifferent, my noble friend?\" he cried ...\n\"Thou art mistaken, for though perchance mine eyes were closed, my ears\nwere open; I heard thy every word,--I loved thy every line! What dost\nthou need of praise? ... thou, who canst do naught but work which,\nbeing perfect, is beyond all criticism!\"\n\nSah-luma smiled, well satisfied, and the little lines of threatening\nill-humor vanished from his countenance.\n\n\"Enough!\" he said.. \"I know that thou dost truly honor me above all\npoets, and that thou wouldst not willingly offend. Hearest thou how\ngreat a clamor the ringers of the Temple make to-night?--'tis but the\nsunset chime, . . yet one would think they were pealing forth an angry\nsummons to battle.\"\n\n\"Already sunset!\" exclaimed Theos, surprised.. \"Why, it seems scarce a\nminute since, that we came hither!\"\n\n\"Aye!--such is the magic charm of poesy!\" rejoined Sah-luma\ncomplacently.. \"It makes the hours flit like moments, and long days\nseemed but short hours! ... Nevertheless 'tis time we were within doors\nand at supper,--for if we start not soon for the Temple, 'twill be\ndifficult to gain an entrance, and I, at any rate, must be early in my\nplace beside the King.\"\n\nHe heaved a short, impatient sigh,--and as he spoke, all Theos's old\nmisgivings came rushing back upon him and in full force, filling him\nwith vague sorrow, uneasiness, fear. But he knew how useless it was to\ntry and impart any of his inward forebodings to Sah-luma,--Sah-luma,\nwho had so lightly explained Lysia's treacherous conduct to his own\nentire satisfaction, . . Sah-luma, on whom neither the prophecies of\nKhosrul nor the various disastrous events of the day had taken any\npermanent effect, . . while no attempt could now be made to deter him\nfrom attending the Sacrificial Service in the Temple, seeing he had\nbeen so positively commanded thither by Lysia, through the medium of\nthe priest Zel.\n\nFeeling bitterly his own incompetency to exercise any protective\ninfluence on the fate of his companion, Theos said nothing, but\nsilently followed him, as he thrust aside the drooping cypress boughs\nand made his way out to more open ground, his lithe, graceful figure\nlooking even more brilliant and phantom-like than ever, contrasted with\nthe deep green gloom spread about him by the hoary moss-covered trees\nthat were as twisted and grotesque in shape as a group of fetich idols.\nAs he bent back the last branchy barrier however, and stepped into the\nfull light, he stopped short,--and, uttering a loud exclamation, lifted\nhis hand and pointed westward, his dark eyes dilating with amazement\nand awe.\n\nTheos at once came swiftly up beside him, and looked where he looked, .\n. what a scene of terrific splendor he beheld! ... Right across the\nhorizon, that glistened with a pale green hue like newly frozen water,\na cloud, black as the blackest midnight, lay heavy and motionless, in\nform resembling an enormous leaf, fringed at the edges with tremulous\nlines of gold.\n\nThis nebulous mass was absolutely stirless, . . it appeared as though\nit had been thrown, a ponderous weight, into the vault of heaven, and\nhaving fallen, there purposed to remain. Ever and anon beamy threads of\nlightning played through it luridly, veining it with long, arrowy\nflashes of orange and silver,--while poised immediately above it was\nthe sun, looking like a dull scarlet seal, ... a ball of dim fire\ndestitute of rays.\n\nOn all sides the sky was crossed by wavy flecks of pearl and sudden\nglimpses as of burning topaz,--and down toward the earth drooped a thin\nazure fog,--filmy curtain, through which the landscape took the\nstrangest tints and unearthly flushes of color. A moment,--and the\nspectral sun dropped suddenly into the lower darkness, leaving behind\nit a glare of gold and green,--lowering purple shadows crept over\nacross the heavens, darkening them as smoke darkens flame,--but the\nhuge cloud, palpitating with lightning, moved not at all nor changed\nits shape by so much as a hair's breadth, . . it appeared like a vast\npall spread out in readiness for the solemn state-burial of the world.\n\nFascinated by the aspect of the weird sky-phenomenon, Theos was at the\nsame time curiously impressed by a sense of its UNREALITY, . . indeed\nhe found himself considering it with the calm attentiveness of one who\nis brought face to face with a remarkable picture effectively painted.\nThis peculiar sensation, however, was, like many others of his\nexperience, very transitory, . . it passed, and he watched the\nlightnings come and go with a certain hesitating fear mingled with\nwonder. Sah-luma was the first to speak.\n\n\"Storm at last!\" ... he said, forcing a smile though his face was\nunusually pale,--\"It has threatened us all day...'twill break before\nthe night is over. How sullenly yonder heavens frown! ... they have\nquenched the sun in their sable darkness as though it were a beaten\nfoe! This will seem an ill sign to those who worship him as a god,--for\ntruly he doth appear to have withdrawn himself in haste and anger. By\nmy soul! 'Tis a dull and ominous eve!\" ... and a slight shudder ran\nthrough his delicate frame, as he turned toward the white-pillared\nloggia garlanded with its climbing vines, roses, and passion-flowers,\nthrough which there now floated a dim golden, suffused radiance\nreflected from lamps lit within, . . \"I would the night were past and\nthat the new day had come!\"\n\nWith these words, he entered the house, Theos accompanying him, and\ntogether they went at once to the banqueting-hall. There they supped\nroyally, served by silent and attentive slaves,--they themselves,\nfeeling mutually depressed, yet apparently not wishing to communicate\ntheir depression one to the other, conversed but little. After the\nrepast was finished, they set forth on foot to the Temple, Sah-luma\ninforming his companion, as they went, that it was against the law to\nuse any chariot or other sort of conveyance to go to the place of\nworship, the King himself being obliged to dispense with his sumptuous\ncar on such occasions, and to walk thither as unostentatiously as any\none of his poorest subjects.\n\n\"An excellent rule!\" ... observed Theos reflectively,--\"For the pomp\nand glitter of an earthly potentate's display assorts ill with the\nhomage he intends to offer to the Immortals,--and Kings are no more\nthan commoners in the sight of an all-supreme Divinity.\"\n\n\"True, if there WERE an all-supreme Divinity!\" rejoined Sah-luma\ndryly,--\"But in the present state of well-founded doubt regarding the\nexistence of any such omnipotent personage, thinkest thou there is a\nmonarch living, who is sincerely willing to admit the possibility of\nany power superior to himself? Not Zephoranim, believe me! ... his\nenforced humility on all occasions of public religious observance\nserves him merely as a new channel wherein to proclaim his pride.\nCertes, in obedience to the Priests, or rather let us say in obedience\nto the High Priestess, he paces the common foot-path in company with\nthe common folk, uncrowned and simply clad,--but what avails this\naffectation of meekness? All know him for the King--all make servile\nway for him,--all flatter him! ... and his progress to the Temple\nresembles as much a triumphal procession as though he were mounted in\nhis chariot and returning from some wondrous victory. Besides, humility\nin my opinion is more a weakness than a virtue, . . and even granting\nit were a virtue, it is not possible to Kings,--not as long as people\ncontinue to fawn on royalty like grovelling curs, and lick the sceptred\nhand that often loathes their abject touch.\"\n\nHe spoke with a certain bitterness and impatience as though he were\nsuffering from some inward nervous irritation, and Theos, observing\nthis, prudently made no attempt to continue the conversation. They were\njust then passing down a narrow, rather dark street, lined on both\nsides by lofty buildings of quaint and elaborate architecture. Long,\ngloomy shadows had gathered in this particular spot, where for a short\nspace the silence was so intense that one could almost hear one's own\nheart beat. Suddenly a yellowish-green ray of light flashed across the\npavement, and lo! the upper rim of the moon peered above the\nhouse-tops, looking strangely large and rosily brilliant, . . the air\nseemed all at once to grow suffocating and sulphurous, and between\nwhiles there came the faint plashing sound of water lapping against\nstone with a monotonous murmur as of continuous soft whispers.\n\nThe vast silence, the vast night, were full of a solemn weirdness,--the\nmoon, curiously magnified to twice her ordinary size, soared higher and\nhigher, firing the lofty solitudes of heaven with long, shooting\nradiations of rose and green, while still in the purple hollow of the\nhorizon lay that immense, immovable Cloud, nerved as it were with\nliving lightning which leaped incessantly from its centre like a\nthousand swords drawn and re-drawn from as many scabbards.\n\nPresently the deep booming noise of a great bell smote heavily on the\nstillness, . . a sound that Theos, oppressed by the weight of\nunutterable forebodings, welcomed with a vague sense of relief, while\nSah-luma, hearing it, quickened his pace. They soon reached the end of\nthe street, which terminated in a spacious quadrangular court guarded\non all sides by gigantic black statues, and quickly crossing this\nplace, which was entirely deserted, they came out at once into a\ndazzling blaze of light, . . the Temple of Nagaya in all its stately\nmagnificence towered before them, a stupendous pile of marvellously\ndelicate architecture so fine as to seem like lace-work rather than\nstone.\n\nIt was lit up from base to summit with glittering lamps of all colors,\n. . the twelve revolving stars on its twelve tall turrets cast forth\nwide beams of penetrating radiance into the deepening darkness of the\nnight, . . aloft in its topmost crown of pinnacles swung the\nprayer-commanding bell, . . while the enormous crowds swarming thick\nabout it gave it the appearance of a brilliant Pharos set in the midst\nof a surging sea. The steps leading up to it were strewn ankle-deep\nwith flowers, . . the doors stood open, and a thunderous hum of solemn\nmusic vibrated in wave-like pulsations through the heavy, heated air.\n\nHalf blinded by the extreme effulgence, and confused by the jostling to\nand fro of a multitude immeasurably greater than any he had ever seen\nor imagined, Theos instinctively stretched out his hand in the helpless\nfashion of one not knowing whither next to turn, . . Sah-luma\nimmediately caught it in his own, and hurried him along without saying\na word.\n\nHow they managed to glide through the close ranks of pushing, pressing\npeople, and effect an entrance he never knew,--but when he recovered\nfrom his momentary dazed bewilderment, he found himself inside the\nTemple, standing near a pillar of finely fluted white marble that shot\nup like the stem of a palm-tree and lost its final point in the dim yet\nsparkling splendor of the immense dome above. Lights twinkled\neverywhere,--there was the odor of faint perfumes mingled with the\nfresher fragrance of flowers,--there were distant glimpses of jewelled\nshrines, and the leering faces of grotesque idols clothed in draperies\nof amber, purple, and green,--and between the multitudinous columns\nthat ringed the superb fane with snowy circles, one within the other,\nhung glittering lamps, set with rare gems and swinging by long chains\nof gold.\n\nBut the crowning splendor of the whole was concentrated on the place of\nthe secret Inner Shrine. There an Arch of pale-blue fire spanned the\ndome from left to right, . . there, from huge bronze vessels mounted on\ntall tripods the smoke of burning incense arose in thick and odorous\nclouds,--there children clad in white, and wearing garlands of vivid\nscarlet blossoms, stood about in little groups as still as exquisitely\nmodelled statuettes, their small hands folded, and their eyes downcast,\n. . there, the steps were strewn with branches of palm, flowering\noleander, rose-laurel, and olive-sprays,--but the Sanctuary itself was\nnot visible.\n\nBefore that Holy of Holies hung the dazzling folds of the \"Silver\nVeil,\" a curtain of the most wonderfully woven silver tissue, that seen\nin the flashing azure light of the luminous arch above it, resembled\nnothing so much as a suddenly frozen sheet of foam. Across it was\nemblazoned in large characters:\n\nI AM THE PAST, THE PRESENT, THE FUTURE,\n\nTHE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN, AND THE SHALL-NOT-BE,\n\nTHE EVER, AND THE NEVER,\n\nNO MORTAL KNOWETH MY NAME.\n\nAs Theos with some difficulty, owing to the intense brilliancy of the\nVeil, managed to decipher these words, he heard a solitary trumpet\nsounded,--a clear-blown note that echoed itself many times among the\nlofty arches before it finally floated into silence. Recognizing this\nas an evident signal for some new and important phase in the\nproceedings, he turned his eyes away from the place of the Shrine, and\nlooking round the building was surprised to see how completely the vast\narea was filled with crowds upon crowds of silent and expectant people.\nIt seemed as though not the smallest wedge could have been inserted\nbetween the shoulders of one man and another, yet where he stood with\nSah-luma there was plenty of room. The reason of this however was soon\napparent,--they were in the place reserved for the King and the\nimmediate officers of the Royal Household,--and scarcely had the sweet\nvibration of that clear trumpet-blast died away, when Zephoranim\nhimself appeared, walking slowly and majestically in the midst of a\nselect company of his nobles and courtiers.\n\nHe wore the simple white garb of an ordinary citizen of Al-Kyris,\ntogether with a silver belt and plain-sheathed dagger, . . not a jewel\nrelieved the classic severity of his costume, and not even the merest\nfillet of gold in his rough dark hair denoted his royal rank. But the\npride of precedence spoke in his flashing eyes,--the arrogance of\nauthority in the self-conscious poise of his figure and haughtiness of\nhis step,--his brows were knitted in something of a frown, and his face\nlooked pale and slightly careworn. He spied out Sah-luma at once and\nsmiled kindly,--there was not a trace of coldness in his manner toward\nhis favored minstrel, and Theos noted this with a curious sense of\nsudden consolation and encouragement. \"Why should I have feared\nZephoranim?\" he thought. \"Sah-luma has no greater friend, . . except\nmyself! The King would be the last person in the world to do him any\ninjury!\"\n\nJust then a magnificent burst of triumphal music rolled through the\nTemple,--the music of some mighty instrument, organ-like in sound, but\nseveral tones deeper than the grandest organ ever made, mingled with\nchildren's voices singing. The King seated himself on a cushioned chair\ndirectly in front of the Silver Veil, . . Sah-luma took a place at his\nright hand, giving Theos a low bench close beside him, while the\nvarious distinguished personages who had attended Zephoranim disposed\nthemselves indifferently wherever they could find standing-room, only\nkeeping as near to their monarch as they were able to do in the extreme\npressure of so vast a congregation.\n\nFor now every available inch of space was occupied,--as far as eye\ncould see there were rows upon rows of men and white-veiled women, . .\nTheos imagined there must have been more then five thousand people\npresent. On went the huge pulsations of melody, surging through the\nincense-laden air like waves thudding incessantly on a rocky shore, and\npresently out of a side archway near the Sanctuary-steps came with slow\nand gliding noiselessness a band of priests, walking two by two, and\ncarrying branches of palm. These were all clad in purple and crowned\nwith ivy-wreaths,--they marched sedately, keeping their eyes lowered,\nwhile their lips moved constantly, as though they muttered inaudible\nincantations. Waving their palm-boughs to and fro, they paced along\npast the King and down the centre aisle of the Temple,--then turning,\nthey came back again to the lowest step of the Shrine and there they\nall prostrated themselves, while the children who stood near the\nincense-burners flung fresh perfumes on the glowing embers and chanted\nthe following recitative:\n\n     \"O Nagaya, great, everlasting and terrible!\n      Thou who dost wind thy coils of wisdom into the heart!\n      Thou, whose eyes, waking and sleeping, do behold all things!\n      Thou who art the joy of the Sun and the Master of Virgins!\n      Hear us, we beseech thee, when we call upon thy name!\"\n\nTheir young treble voices were clear and piercing, and pealed up to the\ndome to fall again like the drops of distinct round melody from a\nlark's singing-throat,--and when they ceased there came a short\nimpressive pause. The Silver Veil quivered from end to end as though\nswayed by a faint wind, and the flaming Arch above turned from pale\nblue to a strange shimmering green. Then, in mellow unison, the\nkneeling priests intoned:\n\n     \"O thou who givest words of power to the dumb mouth of the\n       soul in Hades; hear us, Nagaya!\n      O thou who openest the grave and givest peace to the heart;\n       plead for us, Nagaya!\n      O thou who art companion of the Sun and controller of the\n       East and of the West; comfort us, Nagaya!\n\nHere they ended, and the children began again, not to chant but to\nsing.. a strange and tristful tune, wilder than any that vragrant winds\ncould play on the strings of an aeolian lyre:\n\n \"O Virgin of Virgins, Holy Maid, to what shall we resemble thee?\n  Chaste Daughter of the Sun, how shall we praise thy peerless\n    beauty!\n  Thou art the Gate of the House of Stars!--thou art the first of\n    the Seven Jewels of Nagaya!\n  Thou dost wield the sceptre of ebony, and the Eye of Raphon\n    beholds thee with love and contentment!\n  Thou art the Chiefest of Women, ... thou hast the secrets of earth\n   and heaven, thou knowest the dark mysteries!\n  Hail, Lysia! Queen of the Hall of Judgment!\n  Hail, pure Pearl in the Sea of the Sun's glory!\n  Declare unto us, we beseech thee, the Will of Nagaya!\"\n\n\nThey closed this canticle softly and slowly, . . then flinging\nthemselves prone, they pressed their faces to the earth, . . and again\nthe glittering Veil waved to and fro suggestively, while Theos, his\nheart beating fast, watched its shining woof with straining eyes and a\nsense of suffocation in his throat, . . what ignorant fools, what mad\nbarbarians, what blind blasphemers were these people, he indignantly\nthought, who could thus patiently hear the praise of an evil woman like\nLysia publicly proclaimed with almost divine honors!\n\nDid they actually intend to worship her, he wondered? If so, he at any\nrate would never bend the knee to one so vile! He might have done so\nonce, perhaps, ... but now ...! At that instant a flute like murmur of\nmelody crept upward as it seemed from the ground, with a plaintive\nwhispering sweetness like the lament of some exiled fairy,--so\nexquisitely tender and pathetic, and yet withal so heart-stirring and\npassionate, that, despite himself, he listened with a strange, swooning\nsense of languor stealing insidiously over him,--a dreamy lassitude,\nthat while it made him feel enervated and deprived of strength, was\nstill not altogether unpleasing, . . a faint sigh escaped his\nlips,--and he kept his gaze fixed on the Silver Veil as pertinaciously\nas though behind it lay the mystery of his soul's ruin or salvation.\n\nHow the light flashed on its shimmering folds like the rippling\nphosphorescence on southern seas! ... as green and clear and brilliant\nas rays reflected from thousands and thousands of glistening emeralds!\n... And that haunting, sorrowful, weird music! ... How it seemed to eat\ninto his heart and there waken a bitter remorse combined with an\nequally bitter despair!\n\nOnce more the Veil moved, and this time it appeared to inflate itself\nin the fashion of a sail caught by a sudden breeze,--then it began to\npart in the middle very slowly and without sound. Further and further\nback on each side it gradually receded, and ... like a lily disclosed\nbetween folding leaves--a Figure, white, wonderful and angelically\nfair, shone out, the centre jewel of the stately shrine,--a shrine\nwhose immense carven pillars, grotesque idols, bronze and gold\nornaments, jewelled lamps and dazzling embroideries, only served as a\nsort of neutral-tinted background to intensify with a more lustrous\ncharm the statuesque loveliness revealed! O Lysia, UNvirgined Priestess\nof the Sun and Nagaya, how gloriously art thou arrayed in sin! ... O\nsingular Sweetness whose end must needs be destruction, was ever woman\nfairer than thou! ... O love, love, lost in the dead Long-Ago, and\ndrowned in the uttermost darkness of things evil, wilt thou drag my\nsoul with thee again into everlasting night!\n\nThus Theos inwardly raved, without any real comprehension of his own\nthoughts, but only stricken anew by a feverish passion of mingled love\nand hatred as he stared on the witching sorceress whose marvellous\nbeauty was such wonder and torture to his eyes, . . what mattered it to\nhim that King, Laureate, and people had all prostrated themselves\nbefore her in reverent humility? ... HE knew her nature, . . he had\nfathomed her inborn wickedness, . . and though his senses were\nattracted by her, his spirit loathingly repelled her, . . he therefore\nremained seated stiffly upright, watching her with a sort of passive,\nimmovable intentness. As she now appeared before him, her loveliness\nwas absolutely and ideally perfect,--she looked the embodiment of all\ngrace,--the model of all chastity.\n\nShe stood quite still, . . her hands folded on her breast, . . her head\nslightly lifted, her dark eyes upturned, . . her unbound black hair\nstreamed over her shoulders in loose glossy waves, and above her brows\nher diadem of serpents' heads sparkled like a coronal of flame. Her\nrobe was white, made of some silky shining stuff that glistened with\nsoft pearly hues; it was gathered about her waist by a twisted golden\ngirdle. Her arms were bare, decked as before with the small jewelled\nsnakes that coiled upward from wrist to shoulder,--and when after a\nbrief pause she unfolded her hands and raised them with a slow,\nmajestic movement above her head, the great Symbolic Eye flared from\nher bosom like a darting coal, seeming to turn sinister glances on all\nsides as though on the search for some suspected foe.\n\nFortunately no one appeared to notice Theos's deliberate non-observance\nof the homage due to her,--no one except.. Lysia, herself. She met the\nopen defiance, scorn, and reluctant admiration of his glance, . . and a\ncold smile dawned on her features, . . a smile more dreadful in its\nvery sweetness than any frown, . . then, turning away her beautiful,\nfathomless, slumberous eyes and still keeping her arms raised, she\nlifted up her voice, a voice mellow as a golden flute, that pierced the\nsilence with a straight arrow of pure sound, and chanted:\n\n\"Give glory to the Sun, O ye people! for his Light doth illumine your\ndarkness!\"\n\nAnd the murmur of the mighty crowd surged back in answer:\n\n\"We give him glory!\"\n\nHere came a brief clash of brazen bells, and when the clamor ceased,\nLysia continued:\n\n\"Give glory to the Moon, O ye people! ... for she is the servant of the\nSun and the Ruler of the House of Sleep!\"\n\nAgain the people responded;\n\n\"We give her glory!'.. and again the bells jangled tempestuously.\n\n\"Give glory to Nagaya, O ye people! for he alone can turn aside the\nwrath of the Immortals!\"\n\n\"We give him glory!\".. rejoined the multitude,--and \"We give him glory!\nseemed to be shouted high among the arches of the Temple with a strange\nsound as of the mocking laughter of devils.\"\n\nThis preliminary over, there came out of unseen doors on both sides of\nthe Sanctuary twenty priests in companies of ten each; ten advancing\nfrom the left, ten from the right. These were clad in flowing garments\nof carnation-colored silk, heavily bordered with gold, and the leader\nof the right-hand group was the priest Zel. His demeanor was austere\nand dignified, . . he carried a square cushion covered in black, on\nwhich lay a long, thin cruel-looking knife with a jewelled hilt. The\nchief of the priests, who stood on the left, bore a very tall and\nmassive staff of polished ebony, which he solemnly presented to the\nHigh Priestess, who grasped it firmly in one slight hand and allowed it\nto rest steadily on the ground, while its uppermost point reached far\nabove her head.\n\nThen followed the strangest, weirdest scene that even the pen of poets\nor brush of painter devised, . . a march round and round the Temple of\nall the priests, bearing lighted flambeaux and singing in chorus a wild\nLitany,--a confused medley of supplications to the Sun and Nagaya,\nwhich, accompanied as it was by the discordant beating drums and the\nclanging of bells, had an evidently powerful effect on the minds of the\nassembled populace, for presently they also joined in the maddening\nchant, and growing more and more possessed by the contagious fever of\nfanaticism, began to howl and shriek and clap their hands furiously,\ncreating a frightful din suggestive of some fiendish clamor in hell.\n\nTheos, half deafened by the horrible uproar, as well as roused to an\nabnormal pitch of restless excitement, looked round to see how Sah-luma\ncomported himself. He was sitting quite still, in a perfectly composed\nattitude,--a faint, derisive smile played on his lips, . . his profile,\nas it just then appeared, had the firmness and the pure soft outline of\na delicately finished cameo, . . his splendid eyes now darkened, now\nlightened with passion, as he gazed at Lysia, who, all alone in the\ncentre of the Shrine, held her ebony staff as perpendicularly erect as\nthough it were a tree rooted fathoms deep in earth, keeping herself too\nas motionless as a figure of frozen snow.\n\nAnd the King? ... what of him? ... Glancing at that bronze-like\nbrooding countenance, Theos was startled and at the same time half\nfascinated by its expression. Such a mixture of tigerish tenderness,\nservile idolatry, intemperate desire, and craven fear he had never seen\ndelineated on the face of any human being. In the black thirsty eyes\nthere was a look that spoke volumes,--a look that betrayed what the\nheart concealed,--and reading that featured emblazonment of hidden\nguilt, Theos knew beyond all doubt that the rumors concerning the High\nPriestess and the King were true, . . that the dead Khosrul had spoken\nrightly, . . that Zephoranim loved Lysia! ... Love? ... it seemed too\ntame a word for the pent-up fury of passion that visibly and violently\nconsumed the man! What would be the result? ...\n\n\"When the High Priestess Is the King's mistress Then fall Al-Kyris!\"\n\nThese foolish doggerel lines! ... why did they suggest themselves? ...\nthey meant nothing. The question did not concern Al-Kyris at all,--let\nthe city stand or fall as it list, who cared, so long as Sah-luma\nescaped injury! Such, at least, was the tenor of Theos's thoughts, as\nhe rapidly began to calculate certain contingencies that now seemed\nlikely to occur. If, for instance, the King were made aware of\nSah-luma's intrigue with Lysia, would not his rage and jealousy exceed\nall bounds? ... and if, on the other hand, Sah-luma were convinced of\nthe King's passion for the same fatally fair traitress, would not his\nwrath and injured self-love overbear all loyalty and prudence?\n\nAnd between the two powerful rivals who thus by stealth enjoyed her\ncapricious favors, what would Lysia's own decision be?--Like a loud\nhissing in his ears, he heard again the murderous command,--a command\nwhich was half a menace: \"KILL SAH-LUMA!\"\n\nFaint shudders as of icy cold ran through him,--he nerved himself to\nmeet some deadly evil, though he could not guess what that evil might\nbe,--he was willing to throw away all the past that haunted him, and\ncut off all hope of a future, provided he could only baffle the snares\nof the pitiless beauty to whom the torture of men was an evident joy,\nand rescue his beloved and gifted friend from her perilous attraction!\nMaking a strong effort to master the inward conflict of fear and pain\nthat tormented him, he turned his attention anew to the gorgeous\nceremony that was going on, . . the march of the priests had come to an\nabrupt end. They stood now on each side of the Shrine, divided in\ngroups of equal numbers, tossing their flambeaux around and above them\nto the measured ringing of bells. At every upward wave of these flaring\ntorches, a tongue of fire leaped aloft, to instantly break and descend\nin a sparkling shower of gold,--the effect of this was wonderful in the\nextreme, as by the dexterous way in which the flames were flung forth,\nit appeared to the spectator's eyes as though a luminous Snake were\ntwisting and coiling itself to and fro in mid-air.\n\nAll loud music ceased, . . the multitude calmed down by degrees and\nleft off their delirious cries of frenzy or rapture, . . there was\nnothing heard but a monotonous chanting in undertone, of which not a\nsyllable was distinctly intelligible. Then from out a dark portal\nunperceived in the shadowed gloom of a curtained niche, there advanced\na procession of young girls,--fifty in all, clad in pure white and\nclosely veiled.\n\nThey carried small citherns, and arriving in front of the shrine, they\nknelt down in a semicircle, and very gently began to strike the short,\nresponsive strings. The murmur of a lazy rivulet among whispering\nreeds, . . the sighing suggestions of leaves ready to fall in\nautumn,--the low, languid trilling of nightingales just learning to\nsing,--any or all these might be said to resemble the dulcet melody\nthey played; while every delicate arpeggio, every rippling chord was\nmuffled with a soft pressure of their hands ere the sound had time to\nbecome vehement. This elf-like harping continued for a short interval,\nduring which the priests, gathering in a ring round a huge bronze\nfont-shaped vessel hard by, dipped their flambeaux therein and suddenly\nextinguished them.\n\nAt the same moment the lights in the body of the Temple were all\nlowered, . . only the Arch spanning the Shrine blazed in undiminished\nbrilliancy, its green tint appearing more intense in contrast with the\nsurrounding deepening shadow. And now with a harsh clanging noise as of\nthe turning of heavy bolts and keys, the back of the Sanctuary parted\nasunder in the fashion of a revolving double doorway,--and a golden\ngrating was disclosed, its strong glistening bars welded together like\nknotted ropes and wrought with marvellous finish and solidity. Turning\ntoward this semblance of a prison-cell Lysia spoke aloud--her clear\ntones floating with mellifluous slowness above the half-hushed\nquiverings of the cithern-choir:\n\n\"Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst slumber in the bosom of Space ere\never the world was made!\n\n\"Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst behold the Sun born out of Chaos,\nand the Earth enriched with ever-producing life!\n\n\"Come forth, O Nagaya, Friend of the gods and the people, and comfort\nus with the Divine Silence of thy Wisdom supernal!\"\n\nWhile she pronounced these words, the golden grating ascended gradually\ninch by inch, with the steady clank as of the upward winding of a\nchain,--and when she ceased, there came a mysterious, rustling,\nslippery sound, suggestive of some creeping thing forcing its way\nthrough wet and tangled grass, or over dead leaves, . . one instant\nmore, and a huge Serpent--a species of python some ten feet in\nlength--glided through the round aperture made by the lifted bars, and\nwrithed itself slowly along the marble pavement straight to where Lysia\nstood.\n\nOnce it stopped, curving back its glistening body in a strange loop as\nthough in readiness to spring--but it soon resumed its course, and\narrived at the High Priestess's feet. There, its whole frame trembled\nand glowed with extraordinary radiance, . . the prevailing color of its\nskin was creamy white, marked with countless rings and scaly bright\nspots of silver, purple, and a peculiar livid blue,--and all these\ntints came into brilliant prominence, as it crouched before Lysia and\ntwisted its sinuous neck to and fro with an evidently fawning and\nsupplicatory gesture; while she, keeping her sombre dark eyes fixed\nfull upon it, moved not an inch from her position, but, majestically\nserene, continued to hold the tall staff of ebony straight and erect as\na growing palm.\n\nThe cithern-playing had now the soothing softness of a mother's lullaby\nto a tired child, and as the liquid notes quavered delicately on the\notherwise deep stillness, the formidable reptile began to coil itself\nascendingly round and round the ebony rod, . . higher and higher,--one\nglistening ring after another,--higher still, till its eyes were on a\nlevel with the \"Eye of Raphon\" that flamed on Lysia's breast, . . there\nit paused in apparent reflectiveness, and seemed to listen to the\nslumberous strains that floated toward it in wind-like breaths of\nsound, . . then, starting afresh on its upward way, it carefully, and\nwith almost human tenderness, avoided touching Lysia's hand, which now\nrested on the staff between two thick twists of its body, . . and\nfinally it reached the top, where fully raising its crested head, it\ndisplayed the prismatic tints of its soft, restless, wavy throat, which\nwas adorned furthermore by a flexible circlet of magnificent diamonds.\n\nNothing more striking or more singular could Theos imagine than the\nscene now before him, . . the beautiful woman, still as sculptured\nmarble, and the palpitating Snake coiled on that mast-like rod and\nuplifted above her,--while round the twain knelt the Priests, their\nfaces covered in their robes, and from all parts of the Temple the loud\nshout arose:\n\n  \"ALL HAIL, NAGAYA!\"\n  \"Praise, Honor, and Glory be unto thee forever and ever!\"\n\nThen it was that the proud King flung himself to earth and kissed the\ndust in abject submission,--then Sah-luma, carelessly complaisant, bent\nthe knee and smiled to himself mockingly as he performed the act of\nveneration, ... then the enormous multitude with clasped hands and\nbeseeching looks fell down and worshipped the glittering beast of the\nfield, whose shining, emerald-like, curiously sad eyes roved hither and\nthither with a darting yet melancholy eagerness over all the people who\ncalled it Lord!\n\nTo Theos's imagination it looked a creature more sorrowful than\nfierce,--a poor charmed brute, that while netted in the drowsy woofs of\nits mistress Lysia's magnetic spell, seemed as though it dimly wondered\nwhy it should thus be raised aloft for the adoration of infatuated\nhumankind. Its brilliant crest quivered and emitted little arrowy\nscintillations of lustre--the \"god\" was ill at ease in the midst of all\nhis splendor, and two or three times bent back his gleaming neck as\nthough desirous of descending to the level ground.\n\nBut when these hints of rebellion declared themselves in the tremors\nrunning through the scaly twists of his body, Lysia looked up, and at\nonce, compelled as it were by involuntary attraction, \"Nagaya the\nDivine\" looked down. The strange, subtle, mesmeric, sleepy eyes of the\nwoman met the glittering green, mournful eyes of the snake,--and thus\nthe two beautiful creatures regarded each other steadfastly and with an\napparent vague sympathy, till the \"deity,\" evidently overcome by a\nstronger will than his own, and resigning himself to the inevitable,\ntwisted his radiant head back again to the top of the ebony staff, and\nagain surveyed the kneeling crowds of worshippers.\n\nPresently his glistening jaws opened,--his tongue darted forth\nvibratingly,--and he gave vent to a low hissing sound, erecting and\ndepressing his crest with extraordinary rapidity, so that it flashed\nlike an aigrette of rare gems. Then, with slow and solemn step, the\nPriest Zel advanced to the front of the Shrine, and spreading out his\nhands in the manner of one pronouncing a benediction, said loudly and\nwith emphasis:\n\n  \"Nagaya the Divine doth hear the prayers of his people!\n  \"Nagaya the Supreme doth accept the offered Sacrifice!\n  \"BRING FORTH THE VICTIM!\"\n\nThe last words were spoken with stern authoritativeness, and scarcely\nhad they been uttered when the great entrance doors of the Temple flew\nopen, and a procession of children appeared, strewing flowers and\nsinging:\n\n  \"O happy Bride, we bring thee unto joy and peace!\n  \"To thee are opened the Palaces of the Air,\n  \"The beautiful silent Palaces where the bright stars dwell\n  \"O happy Bride of Nagaya! how fair a fate is thine!\"\n\nPausing, they flung wreaths and garlands among the people, and\ncontinued:\n\n  \"O happy Bride! for thee are past all Sorrows and Sin,\n  \"Thou shalt never know shame, or pain or grief or the\n   weariness of tears;\n  \"For thee no husband shall prove false, no children prove\n   ungrateful;\n  \"O happy Bride of Nagaya! how glad a fate is thine.\n  \"O happy Bride! when thou art wedded to the beautiful god, the\n   god of Rest,--\n  \"Thou shalt forget all trouble and dwell among sweet dreams for\n   ever!\n  \"Thou art the blessed one, chosen for the love-embraces of\n   Nagaya!\n  \"O happy Bride! ... how glorious a fate is thine!\"\n\n\nThus they sang in the soft, strange vowel-language of Al-Kyris, and\ntripped along with that innocent, unthinking gayety usual to such young\ncreatures, up to the centre aisle toward the Sanctuary. They were\nfollowed by four priests in scarlet robes and closely masked, . . and\nwalking steadfastly between these, came a slim girl clad in white,\nveiled from head to foot and crowned with a wreath of lotus lilies. All\nthe congregation, as though moved by an impulse, turned to look at her\nas she passed,--but her features were not as yet discernible through\nthe mist-like draperies that enfolded her.\n\nThe singing children, always preceding her and scattering flowers,\nhaving arrived at the steps of the Shrine, grouped themselves on either\nside,--and the red garmented Priests, after having made several\ngenuflections to the glittering Python that now, with reared neck and\nquivering fangs, seemed to watch everything that was going on with\nabsorbed and crafty vigilance, proceeded to unveil the maiden martyr,\nand also to tie her slight hands behind her back by means of a knotted\nsilver cord. Then in a firm voice the Priest Zel proclaimed:\n\n\"Behold the elected Bride of the Sun and the Divine Nagaya!\n\n\"She bears away from the city the burden of your sins, O ye people, and\nby her death the gods are satisfied!\n\n\"Rejoice greatly, for ye are absolved,--and by the Silver Veil and the\nEye of Raphon we pronounce upon all here present the blessing of pardon\nand peace!\"\n\nAs he spoke the girl turned round as though in obedience to some\nmechanical impulse, and fully confronted the multitude, . . her pale,\npure face, framed in a shining aureole of rippling fair hair, floated\nbefore Theos's bewildered eyes like a vision seen indistinctly in a\nmagic crystal, and he was for a moment uncertain of her identity; but\nquick as a flash Sah-luma's glance lighted upon her, and, with a cry of\nhorror that sent desolate echoes through and through the arches of the\nTemple, he started from his seat, his arms outstretched, his whole\nframe convulsed and quivering.\n\n\"Niphrata! ... Niphrata! ...\" and his rich voice shook with a passion\nof appeal, \"O ye gods! ... what mad, blind, murderous cruelty!\nZephoranim!\" ... and he turned impetuously on the astonished monarch:\n\"As thou livest crowned King I say this maid is MINE! ... and in the\nvery presence of Nagaya, I swear she shall NOT die!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nTHE SACRIFICE.\n\n\nA solemn silence ensued. Consternation and wrath were depicted on every\ncountenance. The Sacred Service was interrupted! ... a defiance had\nbeen hurled as it were in the very teeth of the god Nagaya! ... and\nthis horrible outrage to Religion and Law had been actually committed\nby the Laureate of the realm! It was preposterous, ... incredible! ...\nand the gaping crowds reached over each other's shoulders to stare at\nthe offender, pressing forward eager, wondering, startled faces, which\nto Theos looked far more spectral than real, seen in the shimmering\ngreen radiance that was thrown flickering upon them from the luminous\nArch above the Altar. The priests stood still in speechless\nindignation, . . Lysia moved not at all, nor raised her eyes; only her\nlips parted in a very slight cold smile.\n\nSeized with mortal dread, Theos gazed helplessly at his reckless,\nbeautiful poet friend, who with head erect and visage white as a waning\nmoon, haughtily confronted his Sovereign and audaciously asserted his\nright to be heard, even in the Holy place of worship! The King was the\nfirst to break the breathless stillness: his words came harshly from\nhis throat, . . and the great muscles in his neck seemed to swell\nvisibly with his hardly controlled anger.\n\n\"Peace! ... Thou art suddenly distraught, Sah-luma! ...\" he said, in\nhalf-smothered, fierce accents--\"How darest thou uplift thy clamorous\ntongue thus wantonly before Nagaya, and interrupt the progress of his\nSacred Ritual? ... check thy mad speech! ... if ever yonder maid were\nthine, 'tis certain she is thine no longer; ... she hath offered\nherself, a voluntary sacrifice, and the gods are pleased to claim what\nthou perchance hast failed to value!\"\n\nFor all answer, Sah-luma flung himself desperately at the monarch's\nfeet. \"Zephoranim!\" he cried again ... \"I tell thee she is mine! ...\nmine, as truly mine as Love can make her! Oh, she is chaster than\nlily-buds in her sweet body! ... but in her spirit she is\nwedded--wedded to me, Sah-luma, whom thou, O King, hast ever delighted\nto honor! And now must I kneel to thee in vain?--thou whose victories I\nhave sung, whose praises I have chanted in burning words that shall\ncarry thy name forever with triumph, down to unborn generations? ...\nWilt thou become inglorious? ... a warrior stricken strengthless by the\nmummeries of priestcraft,--the juggleries of a perishing creed? Thou\nart the ruler of Al-Kyris,--thou and thou only! Restore to me this\ninnocent virgin-life that has scarcely yet begun to bloom! ... speak\nbut the word and she is saved! ... and her timely rescue shall add\nlustre to the record of thy noblest deeds!\"\n\nHis matchless voice, full of passionate pulsations, exercised for a\nmoment a resistless influence and magnetic charm. The King's lowering\nbrows relaxed,--and a gleam of pity passed like light across his\ncountenance. Instinctively he extended his hand to raise Sah-luma from\nhis humble attitude, as though, even in his wrath, he were conscious of\nthe immense intellectual superiority of a great Poet to ever so great a\nKing; and a thrill of involuntary compassion seemed at the same time to\nrun sympathetically through the vast congregation. Theos drew a quick\nbreath of relief, and glanced at Niphrata, ... how cold and unconcerned\nwas her demeanor! ... Did she not hear Sah-luma's pleading in her\nbehalf? ... No matter!--she would be saved, he thought, and all would\nyet be well!\n\nAnd truly it now appeared as if mercy, and not cruelty, were to be the\norder of the hour, . . for just then the Priest Zel, after having\nexchanged a few inaudible words with Lysia, advanced again to the front\nof the Shrine and spoke in distinct tones of forced gentleness and\nbland forbearance:\n\n\"Hear me, O King, Princes and People! ... Whereas it has unhappily\noccurred, to the wonder and sorrow of many, that the holy Spouse of the\ndivine Nagaya is delayed in her desired departure, by the unforeseen\nopposition and unedifying contumacy of Sah-luma, Poet Laureate of this\nrealm; and lest it may be perchance imagined by the uninitiated, that\nthe maiden is in any way unwilling to fulfil her glorious destiny, the\nHigh and Immaculate Priestess of the Shrine doth bid me here pronounce\na respite; a brief interval wherein, if the King and the People be\nwilling, he who is named Sah-luma shall, by virtue of his high renown,\nbe permitted to address the Virgin-victim and ascertain her own wishes\nfrom her own lips. Injustice cannot dwell within this Sacred\nTemple,--and if, on trial, the maiden chooses the transitory joys of\nEarth in preference to the everlasting joys of the Palaces of the Sun,\nthen in Nagaya's name shall she go free!--inasmuch as the god loves not\na reluctant bride, and better no Sacrifice at all, than one that is\ngrudgingly consummated!\"\n\nHe ceased,--and Sah-luma sprang erect, his eyes sparkling, his whole\ndemeanor that of a man unexpectedly disburdened from some crushing\ngrief.\n\n\"Thanks be unto the benevolent destinies!\" he exclaimed, flashing a\nquick glance of gratitude toward Lysia, . . the statuesque Lysia, on\nwhose delicately curved lips the faintly derisive smile still lingered\n... \"And in return for the life of my Niphrata I will give a thousand\njewels rare beyond all price to deck Nagaya's tabernacle!--and I will\npour libations to the Sun for twenty days and nights, in token of my\nheart's requital for mercy well bestowed!\"\n\nStooping he kissed the King's hand,--whereupon at a sign from Zel, one\nof the priests attired in scarlet unfastened Niphrata's bound hands,\nand led her, as one leads a blind child, straight up to where Sah-luma\nand Theos stood, close beside the King, who, together with many others,\nstared curiously upon her. How fixed and feverishly brilliant were her\nlarge dark-blue eyes! ... how set were the sensitive lines of her\nmouth!--how indifferent she seemed, how totally unaware of the\nLaureate's presence! The priest who brought her retired into the\nbackground, and she remained where he left her, quite mute and\nmotionless. Oh, how every nerve in Theos's body throbbed with\ninexpressible agony as he beheld her thus! The wildest remorse\npossessed him, . . it was as though he looked on the dim picture of a\nruin which he himself had recklessly wrought, . . and he could have\ngroaned aloud in the horrible vagueness of his incomprehensible\ndespair! Sah-luma caught the girl's hand, and peered into her white,\nstill face.\n\n\"Niphrata! .. .Niphrata!\" he said in a tremulous half-whisper, \"I am\nhere,--Sah-luma! ... Dost thou not know me!\"\n\nShe sighed, . . a long, shivering sigh,--and smiled, . . what a\nstrange, wistful, dying smile it was! ... but she made no answer.\n\n\"Niphrata!\"--continued the Laureate, passionately pressing the little,\ncold fingers that lay so passively in his grasp.. \"Look at me! ... I\nhave come to save thee! ... to take thee home again, . . home to thy\nflowers, thy birds, thy harp, . . thy pretty chamber with its curtained\nnook, where thy friend Zoralin waits and weeps all day for thee! ... O\nye gods!--how weak am I!\".. and he fiercely dashed away the drops that\nglistened on his black silky lashes, . . \"Come with me, sweet one! ...\"\nhe resumed tenderly--\"Come!--Why art thou thus silent? ... thou whose\nvoice hath many a time outrivalled the music of the nightingales! Hast\nthou no word for me, thy lord?--Come!\".. and Theos, struggling to\nrepress his own rising tears, heard his friend's accents sink into a\nstill lower, more caressing cadence ... \"Thou shalt never again have\ncause for grief, my Niphrata, never! ... We will never part! ...\nListen! ... am I not he whom thou lovest?\"\n\nThe poor child's set mouth trembled,--her beautiful sad eyes gazed at\nhim uncomprehendingly.\n\n\"He whom I love is not here!\".. she said in tired, soft tones; \"I left\nhim, but he followed me; and now, he waits for me...yonder!\".. And she\nturned resolutely toward the Sanctuary, as though compelled to do so by\nsome powerful mesmeric attraction, . . \"See you not how fair he\nis!\"...and she pointed with her disengaged hand to the formidable\npython, through whose huge coils ran the tremors of impatient and eager\nbreathing, . . \"How tenderly his eyes behold me! ... those eyes that I\nhave worshipped so patiently, so faithfully, and yet that never\nlightened into love for me till now! O thou more than beloved!--How\nbeautiful thou art, my adored one, my heart's idol!\" and a look of pale\nexaltation lightened her features, as she fixed her wistful gaze, like\na fascinated bird, on the shadowy recess whence the Serpent had\nemerged--\"There,--there thou dost rest on a couch of fadeless\nroses!--how softly the moonlight enfolds thee with a radiance as of\noutspread wings!--I hear thy voice charming the silence! ... thou dost\ncall me by my name, . . O once poor name made rich by thy sweet\nutterance! Yes, my beloved, I am ready! ... I come! I shall die in thy\nembraces, . . nay, I shall not die but sleep! ... and dream a dream of\nlove that shall last forever and ever! No more sorrow ... no more\ntears, . . no more heartsick longings ...\"\n\nHere she stopped in her incoherent speech, and strove to release her\nhand from Sah-luma's, her blue eyes filling with infinite anxiety and\ndistress.\n\n\"I pray thee, good stranger,\" she entreated with touching\nmildness,--\"whosoever thou art, delay me not, but let me go! ... I am\nbut a poor love-sorrowful maid on whom Love hath at last taken\npity!--be gentle therefore, and hinder me not on my way to Sah-luma. I\nhave waited for happiness so long! ... so long!\"\n\nHer young, plaintive voice quavered into a half sob,--and again she\nendeavored to break away from the Laureate's hold. But he, overcome by\nthe excess of his own grief and agitation, seized her other hand, and\ndrew her close up to him.\n\n\"Niphrata, Niphrata!\" he cried despairingly. \"What evil hath befallen\nthee? Where is thy sight.. thy memory? ... LOOK! ... Look straight in\nthese eyes of mine, and read there my truth and tenderness! ... _I_ am\nSah-luma, thine own Sah-luma! ... thy poet, thy lover, thy master, thy\nslave, . . all that thou wouldst have me be, I am! Whither wouldst thou\nwander in search of me? Thou hast no further to go, dear heart, than\nthese arms, . . thou art safe with me, my singing bird, . . come! ..Let\nme lead thee hence, and home!\"\n\nShe watched him while he spoke, with a strange expression of distrust\nand uneasiness. Then, by a violent effort, she wrenched her hands from\nhis clasp, and stood aloof, waving him back with an eloquent gesture of\namazed reproach.\n\n\"Away!\" she said, in firm accents of sweet severity,--\"Thou art a demon\nthat dost seek to tempt my soul to ruin! THOU Sah-luma!\".. and she\nlifted her lily-crowned head with a movement of proud rejection.. \"Nay!\n... thou mayst wear his look, his smile, . . thou mayst even borrow the\nclear heaven-lustre of his eyes,--but I tell thee thou art fiend, not\nangel, and I will not follow thee into the tangled ways of sin! Oh,\nthou knowest not the meaning of true love, thou! ... There is treachery\non thy lips, and thy tongue is trained to utter honeyed falsehood!\nMethinks thou hast wantonly broken many a faithful heart!--and made\nlight jest of many a betrayed virgin's sorrow! And thou darest to call\nthyself MY Poet, . . MY Sah-luma, in whom there is no guile, and who\nwould die a thousand deaths rather than wound the frailest soul that\ntrusted him! ... Depart from me, thou hypocrite in Poet's guise! ...\nthou cruel phantom of my love! ... Back to that darkness where thou\ndost belong, and trouble not my peace!\"\n\nSah-luma recoiled from her, amazed and stupefied. Theos clenched his\nhands together in a sort of physical effort to keep down the storm of\nemotions working within him,--for Niphrata's words burnt into his brain\nlike fire, ..too well, too well he understood their full intensity of\nmeaning! She loved the IDEAL Sah-luma, . . the Sah-luma of her own pure\nfancies and desires, . . NOT the REAL man as he was, with all his\nhaughty egotism, vainglory, and vice,--vice in which he took more pride\nthan shame. Perhaps she had never known him in his actual\ncharacter,--she, like other women of her lofty and ardent type, had no\ndoubt set up the hero of her life as a god in the shrine of her own\nholy and enthusiastic imagination, and had there endowed him with\nresplendent virtues, which he had never once deemed it worth his while\nto practise. Oh the loving hearts of women!--How much men have to\nanswer for, when they voluntarily break these clear mirrors of\naffection, wherein they, all unworthy, have been for a time reflected\nangel-wise, with all the warmth and color of an innocently adoring\npassion shining about them like the prismatic rays in a vase of\npolished crystal! To Niphrata, Sah-luma remained as a sort of splendid\ndivinity, for whom no devotion was too vast, too high, or too complete,\n. . better, oh surely far better that she should die in her beautiful\nself-deception, than live to see her elected idol descend to his true\nlevel, and openly display all the weaknesses of his volatile, flippant,\ngodless, sensual, yet, alas! most fascinating and genius-gifted nature,\n. . a nature, which, overflowing as it was with potentialities of noble\ndeeds, yet lacked sufficient intrinsic faith and force to accomplish\nthem! This thought stung Theos like a sharp arrow-prick, and filled him\nwith a strange, indescribable penitence; and he stood in dumb misery,\nremorsefully eyeing his friend's consternation, disappointment, and\npained bewilderment, without being able to offer him the slightest\nconsolation.\n\nSah-luma was indeed the very picture of dismay, . . if he had never\nsuffered in his life before, surely he suffered now! Niphrata, the\ntender, the humbly adoring Niphrata, positively rejected him!--refused\nto recognize his actual presence, and turned insanely away from him\ntoward some dream-ideal Sah-luma whom she fancied could only be found\nin that unexplored country bordered by the cold river of Death!\nMeanwhile, the silence in the Temple was intense,--the Priests were\nlike so many wax figures fastened in fixed positions; the King, leaning\nslightly forward in his chair, had the appearance of a massively\nmoulded image of bronze,--and to Theos's overwrought condition of mind,\nthe only actually living things present seemed to be the monster\nSerpent whose scaly folds palpitated visibly in the strong light, . .\nand the hideous \"Eye of Raphon,\" that blazed on Lysia's breast with a\nmenacing stare, as of a wrathful ghoul. All at once a flash of\ncomprehension lightened the Laureate's sternly perplexed face,--a\nbitter laugh broke from his lips.\n\n\"She has been drugged!\" he cried fiercely, pointing to Niphrata's white\nand rigid form, . . \"Poisoned by some deadly potion devised of devils,\nto twist and torture the quivering centres of the brain! Accursed\nwork!--Will none undo it?\" and springing forward nearer the Shrine, he\nraised his angry, impassioned eyes to the dark, inscrutable ones of the\nHigh Priestess, who met his troubled look with serene and irresponsive\ngravity ... \"Is there no touch of human pity in things divine? ... no\nmercy in the icy fate that rules our destinies? ... This child knows\nnaught of what she does; she hath been led astray in a moment of\nexcitement and religious exaltation, . . her mind hath lost its\nbalance,--her thoughts float disconnectedly on a sea of vague\nillusions, ... Ah! ... by the gods! ... I understand it all now!\" and\nhe suddenly threw himself on his knees, his appealing gaze resting, not\non the Snake-Deity, but on the lovely countenance of Lysia, fair and\nbrilliant as a summer morn, with a certain waving light of triumph\nabout it, like the reflected radiance of sunbeams, ... \"She is under\nthe influence of Raphon! ... O withering madness! ... O cureless\nmisery.. She is ruled by that most horrible secret force, unknown as\nyet to the outer world of men! ... and she hears things that are not,\nand sees what has no existence! O Lysia, Daughter of the Sun! ... I do\nbeseech thee, by all the inborn gentleness of womanhood, unwind the\nMystic Spell!\"\n\nA serious smile of feigned, sorrowful compassion parted the beautiful\nlips of the Priestess; but she gave no word or sign in answer,--and the\nweird Jewel on her breast at that moment shot forth a myriad\nscintillations as of pointed sharp steel. Some extraordinary power in\nit, or in Lysia herself, was manifestly at work,--for with a violent\nstart Sah-luma rose from his knees, and staggered helplessly backward,\n. . one hand pressed to his eyes as though to shut out some blinding\nblaze of lightning! He seemed to be vaguely groping his way to his\nformer place beside the King, and Theos, seeing this, quickly caught\nhim by the arm and drew him thither, whispering anxiously the while:\n\n\"Sah-luma!-Sah-luma! ... What ails thee?\"\n\nThe Laureate turned upon him a bewildered, piteous face, white with an\nintensity of speechless anguish.\n\n\"Nothing!\"...he faltered,--\"Nothing! ... 'tis over, . . the child must\ndie!\"...Then all suddenly the hard, drawn lines of his countenance\nrelaxed,--great tears gathered in his eyes, and fell slowly one by one,\n. . and moving aside, he shrank away as far as possible into the shadow\ncast by a huge column close by.. \"O Niphrata! ... Niphrata!\".. Theos\nheard him say in a voice broken by despair.. \"Why do I love thee only\nnow, . . NOW, when thou art lost to me forever!\"\n\nThe King looked after him half-compassionately, half-sullenly; but\npresently paid no further heed to his distress. Theos, however, kept\nnear him, whispering whatever poor suggestions of comfort he could, in\nthe extremity of his own grief, devise, . . a hopeless task,--for to\nall his offered solace Sah-luma made but the one reply:\n\n\"Oh let me weep! ... Let me weep for the untimely death of Innocence!\"\n\nAnd now the cithern-playing, which had ceased, commenced again,\naccompanied by the mysterious thrilling bass notes of the invisible\norgan-like instrument, whose sound resembled the roll and rush of huge\nbillows breaking into foam. As the rich and solemn strains swept\ngrandly through the spacious Temple, Niphrata stretched out her hands\ntoward the High Priestess, a smile of wonderful beauty lighting up her\nfair child-face.\n\n\"Take me, O ye immortal gods!\" she cried, her voice ringing in clear\ntune above all the other music.. \"Take me and bear me away on your\nstrong, swift wings to the Everlasting Palaces of Air, wherein all\nsorrows have end, and patient love meets at last its long-delayed\nreward! Take me.. for lo! I am ready to depart! My soul is wounded and\nweary of its prison,--it struggles to be free! O Destiny, I thank thee\nfor thy mercy! ... I praise thee for the glory thou dost here unveil\nbefore mine eyes! Pardon my sins! ... accept my life! ... sanctify my\nlove!\"\n\nA murmur of relief and rejoicing ran rippling through the listening\ncrowds,--a weight seemed lifted from their minds, . . the victim was\nwilling to die after all! ... the Sacrifice would be proceeded with.\nThere was a slight pause,--during which the priests crossed and\nre-crossed the Sanctuary many times, one of them descending the steps\nto tie Niphrata's hands behind her back as before. In the immediate\ninterest of the moment, Sah-luma and his hot interference seemed to be\nalmost forgotten, . . a few people, indeed, cast injured and indignant\nlooks toward the corner where he dejectedly leaned, and once the\nwrinkled, malicious head of old Zabastes peered at him, with an\nexpression of incredulous amazement,--but otherwise no sympathy was\nmanifested by any one for the popular Laureate's suffering and\ndiscomfiture. He was the nation's puppet, . . its tame bird, whose\nbusiness was to sing when bidden, . . but he was not expected to have\nany voice in matters of religion or policy,--and still less was he\nsupposed to intrude any of his own personal griefs on the public\nnotice. Let him sing!--and sing well,--that was enough; but let him\ndare to be afflicted, and annoy others with his wants and troubles, why\nthen he at once became uninteresting! ... he might even die for all\nanybody cared! This was the unspoken sullen thought that Theos,\nsensitive to the core on his friend's behalf, instinctively felt to be\nsmouldering in the heart of the mighty multitude,--and he resented the\nhalf-implied, latent ungratefulness of the people with all his soul.\n\n\"Fools!\".. he muttered under his breath,--\"For you, and such as you,\nthe wisest sages toil in vain! ... on you Art wastes her treasures of\nsuggestive loveliness! ... low grovellers in earth, ye have no eyes for\nheaven! O ignorant, ungenerous, fickle hypocrites, whose ruling passion\nis the greed of gold!--Why should great men perish, that YE may live!\n... And yet.. your acclamations make up the thing called Fame! Fame?\n... Good God!--'tis a brief shout in the universal clamor, scarce heard\nand soon forgotten!\"\n\nAnd filled with strange bitterness, he gazed disconsolately at\nNiphrata, who stood like one in a trance of ecstasy, patiently awaiting\nher doom, her lovely, innocent blue eyes gladly upturned to the long,\njewel-like head of Nagaya, which twined round the summit of the ebony\nstaff, seemed to peer down at her in a sort of drowsy reflectiveness.\nThen, all suddenly, Lysia spoke, . . how enchanting was the exquisite\nmodulation of that slow, languid, silvery voice!\n\n \"Come hither, O Maiden fair, pure, and faithful!\n   The desire of thy soul is granted!\n  Before thee are the Gates of the Unknown World!\n   Already they open to admit thee;\n  Through their golden bars gleams the glory of thy future!\n   Speak! ... What seest thou?\"\n\nA moment of breathless silence ensued,--all present seemed to be\nstraining their ears to catch the victim's answer. It came,--soft and\nclear as a bell:\n\n\"I see a wondrous land o'er-canopied with skies of gold and azure: . .\nwhite flowers grow in the fragrant fields, . . there are many trees, .\n. I hear the warbling of many birds; . . I see fair faces that smile\nupon me and gentle hands that beckon! ... Figures that wear glistening\nrobes, and carry garlands of roses and myrtle, pass slowly, singing as\nthey go! ... How beautiful they are! How strange! ... how sweet!\"\n\nAnd as she uttered these words, in accents of dreamy delight, she\nascended the first step of the Shrine. Theos, looking, held his breath\nin wonder and fear, while Sah-luma with a groan turned himself\nresolutely away, and, pressing his forehead against the great column\nwhere he stood, hid his eyes in his clasped hands.\n\nThe High Priestess continued:\n\n    \"Come hither, O Maiden of chaste and patient life!\n     Rejoice greatly, for thy virtue hath pleased the gods:\n     The undiscovered marvels of the Stars are thine,\n     Earth has no more control over thee:\n     Heaven is thine absolute Heritage! ...\n     Behold! the Ship of the Sun awaits thee!\n     Speak! ... What seest thou?\"\n\nA soft cry of rapture came from the girl's lips.\n\n\"Oh, I see glory everywhere!\".. she exclaimed.. \"Light everywhere! ...\nPeace everywhere! ... O joy, joy! ... The face of my beloved shines\nupon me,--he calls, . . he bids me come to him! ... Ah! we shall be\ntogether at last, . . we twain shall be as one never to part, never to\ndoubt, never to suffer more! O let me hasten to him! ... Why should I\nlinger thus, when I would fain, be gone!\"\n\nAnd she sprang eagerly up the second and third steps of the Sanctuary,\nand faced Lysia,--her head thrown back, her blue eyes ablaze with\nexcitement, her bosom heaving, and her delicate features transfigured\nand illumined by unspeakable inward delirious bliss. Just then the\nPriest Zel lifted the long, jewel-hilted knife from the black cushion\nwhere it had lain till now, and, crouching stealthily in the shadow\nbehind Lysia, held it in both bands, pointed straight forward in a\nlevel line with Niphrata's breast. Thus armed, he waited, silent and\nimmovable.\n\nA slight shudder of morbid expectancy seemed to quiver through the vast\ncongregation, . . but Theos's nerves were strung up to such a high\npitch of frenzied horror that he could neither speak nor\nsigh,--motionless as a statue, he could only watch, with freezing\nblood, each detail of the extraordinary scene. Once more the High\nPriestess spoke:\n\n \"Come hither, O happy Maiden whose griefs are ended:\n  The day of thy triumph and reward has dawned!\n  For thee the Immortals unveiled the mysteries of being,--\n  To thee, they openly declare all secrets ...\n  To thee the hidden things of Wisdom are made manifest:\n  For the last time ere thou leavest us, hear, and answer, . .\n  Speak!--What seest thou?\"\n\n\"LOVE!\" replied Niphrata in a tone of thrilling and solemn tenderness..\n\"LOVE, the Eternal All, in which dark things are made light!--Love,\nthat is never served in vain! ... LOVE wherein lost happiness is\nrediscovered and perfected! ... O DIVINE LOVE, by whom the passion of\nmy heart is sanctified! Absorb me in the quenchless glory of thine\nImmortality! ... Draw me to Thyself, and let me find in Thee my Soul's\ncompletion!\"\n\nHer voice sank to a low prayerful emphasis, . . her look was as of a\nrapt angel waiting for wings. Lysia's gaze dwelt upon her with\nslow-dilating wonder and contempt.. such a devout and earnest\nsupplication was evidently not commonly heard from the lips of Nagaya's\nvictims. At that instant, too, Nagaya himself seemed curiously excited\nand disturbed,--his great glittering coils quivered so violently, as to\nshake the rod on which he was twined, . . and when his Priestess raised\nher mesmeric reproving eyes toward him, he bent back his head\nrebelliously, and sent a vehement hiss through the silence, like the\nnoise made by the whirl of a scimitar.\n\nSuddenly, and with deafening abruptness, a clap of thunder, short and\nsharp as a quick volley of musketry, crashed overhead,--accompanied by\na strange circular sweep of lightning that blazed through the windows\nof the Temple, illumining it from end to end with a brilliant blue\nglare. The superstitious crowd exchanged startled looks of terror, . .\nthe King moved uneasily and glanced frowningly about him,--it was\nplainly manifest that no one had forgotten the disastrous downfall of\nthe Obelisk, ..and there seemed to be a contagion of alarm in the very\nair. But Lysia was perfectly self-possessed, . . in fact she appeared\nto accept the threat of a storm as an imposing, and by no means\nundesirable, adjunct to the mysteries of the Sacrificial Rite, for\nriveting her basilisk eyes on Niphrata, she said in firm, clear,\ndecisive accents:\n\n\"The gods grow impatient! ... Wherefore, O Princess and People of\nAl-Kyris, let us hasten to appease their anger! Depart, O stainless\nMaid! ... depart hence, and betake thee to the Golden Throne of the\nSun, our Lord and Ruler, . . and in the Name of Nagaya, may the\nshedding of thy virginal blood avert from us and ours the wrath of the\nImmortals! Linger no longer, . . Nagaya accepts thee! ... and the Hour\nstrikes Death!\"\n\nWith the last word a sullen bell boomed heavily through and through the\nTemple.. and, at once, . . like a frenzied bird or butterfly winging\nits way into scorching flame, . . Niphrata rushed forward with swift,\nunhesitating, dreadful precision straight on the knife outheld by the\nuntrembling ruthless hands of the Priest Zel! One second,--and Theos\nsick with horror, saw her speeding thus, . . the next,--and the whole\nplace was enveloped in dense darkness!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nTHE CUP OF WRATH AND TREMBLING.\n\n\nA flash of time, . . an instant of black, horrid eclipse, too brief for\nthe utterance of even a word or cry, ... and then,--with an appalling\nroar, as of the splitting of huge rocks and the tearing asunder of\nmighty mountains, the murky gloom was lifted, rent, devoured, and swept\naway on all sides by a sudden bursting forth of Fire! ... Fire leaped\nup alive in twenty different parts of the building, springing aloft in\nspiral coils from the marble pavement that yawned crashingly open to\ngive the impetuous flames their rapid egress, . . fire climbed lithely\nround and round the immense carven columns, and ran, nimbly dancing and\ncrackling its way among the painted and begemmed decorations of the\ndome, ... fire enwrapped the side-altars, and shrivelled the jewelled\nidols at a breath, . . fire unfastened and shook down the\nswinging-lamps, the garlands, the splendid draperies of silk and\ncloth-of-gold...fire--fire everywhere! ... and the madly affrighted\nmultitude, stunned by the abrupt shock of terror, stood for a moment\nparalyzed and inert, . . then, with one desperate yell of wild brute\nfear and ferocity, they rushed headlong in a struggling, shrieking,\ncursing, sweltering swarm toward the great closed portals of the\ncentral aisle. As they did so, a tremendous weight of thunder seemed to\ndescend solidly on the roof with a thudding burst as though a thousand\nwalls had been battered down at one blow, . . the whole edifice rocked\nand trembled in the terrific reverberation, and almost simultaneously,\nthe doors were violently jerked open, wrenched from their hinges, and\nhurled, all burning and split with flame, against the forward-fighting\ncrowds! Several hundred fell under the fiery mass, a charred heap of\ncorpses,--the raging remainder pressed on in frenzied haste, clambering\nover piles of burning dead,--trampling on scorched, disfigured faces\nthat perhaps but a moment since had been dear to them,--each and all\nbent on forcing a way out to the open air. In the midst of the\noverwhelming awfulness of the scene, Theos still retained sufficient\npresence of mind to remember that, whatever happened, his first care\nmust be for Sah-luma, . . always for Sah-luma, no matter who else\nperished! ... and he now held that beloved comrade closely clasped by\nthe arm, while he eagerly glanced about him on every side for some\noutlet through which to make a good and swift escape.\n\nThe most immediate place of safety seemed to be the Inner Sanctuary of\nNagaya, . . it was untouched by the flames, and its Titanic pillars of\nbrass and bronze suggested, in their very massiveness, a nearly\nimpregnable harbor of refuge. The King had fled thither, and now stood,\nlike a statue of undaunted gloomy amazement, beside Lysia, who on her\npart appeared literally frozen with terror. Her large, startled eyes,\nroving here and there in helpless anxiety, alone gave any animation to\nthe deathly, rigid whiteness of her face, and she still mechanically\nsupported the Sacred Ebony Staff, without apparently being aware of the\nfact that the Snake Deity, convulsed through all his coils with fright,\nhad begun to make there-from his rapid DESCENT. The priests, the\nvirgins,--the poor, unhappy little singing children,--flocked hurriedly\ntogether, and darted to the back of the great Shrine, in the manifest\nintention of reaching some private way of egress known only to\nthemselves,--but their attempts were evidently frustrated, for no\nsooner had they gone than they sped back again, their faces scorched\nand blackened, and uttering cries and woeful lamentations they flung\nthemselves wildly among the struggling crowds in the main body of the\nTemple, and fought for life in the jaws of death, every one for Self,\nand no one for another! Volumes of smoke rolled up from the ground, in\nthick and suffocating clouds, accompanied by incessant sharp reports\nlike the close firing of guns, . . jets of flame and showers of cinders\nbroke forth fountain-like, scattering hot destruction on every hand, .\n. while a few flying sparks caught the end of the \"Silver Veil\"--and\nwithered it into nothingness with one bright resolute flare!\n\nHalf maddened by the shrieks and dying groans that resounded everywhere\nabout him, and yet all the time feeling as though he were some\nspectator set apart, and condemned to watch the progress of a ghastly\nphantasmagoria in Hell, Theos was just revolving in his mind whether it\nwould or would not be possible to make a determined climb for escape\nthrough one of the tall painted windows, some of which were not yet\nreached by the fire, when, with a sudden passionate exclamation,\nSah-luma broke from his hold and rushed to the Sanctuary. Quick as\nlightning, Theos followed him, . . followed him close, as he sprang up\nthe steps and confronted Lysia with eager, outstretched arms. The dead\nNiphrita lay near him, . . fair as a sculptured saint, with the cruel\nwound of sacrifice in her breast,--but he seemed not to see that\npiteous corpse of Faithfulness! His grief for her death had been a mere\ntransient emotion, . . his stronger earthly passions re-asserted their\ntempestuous sway,--and for sweet things perished and gone to heaven he\nhad no further care. On Lysia, and on Lysia's living beauty alone, his\neyes flamed their ardent glory.\n\n\"Come! ... Come!\" he cried.. \"Come, my love--my life! ... Let me save\nthee! ... Or if I cannot save thee, let us die together!\"\n\nScarcely had the words left his lips, when the King, with a swift\nforward movement like the pounce of some desert-panther, turned\nfiercely upon him, . . amazement, jealousy, distrust, revenge, all\ngathering stormily in the black frown of his bent vindictive brows. His\ngreat chest heaved pantingly--his teeth glittered wolfishly through his\njetty beard, . . and in the terrible nerve-tension of the moment, the\nfury of the spreading conflagration was forgotten, at any rate, by\nTheos, who, stricken numb and rigid by a shock of alarm too poignant\nfor expression, stared aghast at the three figures before\nhim...Sah-luma, Lysia, Zephoranim, . . especially Zephoranim, whose\nbursting wrath threatened to choke his utterance.\n\n\"What sayest thou, Sah-luma?\" he demanded in a sort of ferocious\ngasping whisper ... \"Repeat thy words! ... Repeat them!\" ... and his\nhand clutched at his dagger-hilt, while his restless, lowering glance\nflashed from Lysia to the Laureate and from the Laureate back to Lysia\nagain.. \"Death encompasses us, . . this is no time for trifling! ...\nSpeak!\".. and his voice suddenly rose to a frantic shout of rage,\n\"Speak! What is this woman to thee?\"\n\n\"Everything!\".. returned Sah-luma with prompt and passionate\nfearlessness, his glorious eyes blazing a proud defiance as he spoke..\n\"Everything that woman can be, or ever shall be, unto man! Call her by\nwhatsoever name a foolish creed enjoins, . . Virgin-Daughter of the\nSun, or High-Priestess of Nagaya,--she is nevertheless MINE!--and mine\nonly! I am her lover!\"\n\n\"THOU!\" and with a hoarse cry, Zephoranim sprang upon, and seized him\nby the throat.. \"Thou liest! I,--I, crowned King of Al-Kyris, I am her\nlover!--chosen by her out of all men! ... and dost thou dare to pretend\nthat she hath preferred THEE, a mere singer of mad songs, to ME? ...\nThou unscrupulous knave! ... I tell thee she is MINE! .. Dost hear\nme?--Mine.. mine.. MINE!\" and he shrieked the last word out in a\nperfect hurricane of passion,--\"My Queen.. my mistress!--heart of my\nheart!--soul of my soul! ... Let the city burn to ashes, and the whole\nland be utterly consumed, in death as in life Lysia is mine! ... and\nthe gods themselves shall never part her from me!\"\n\nAnd suddenly releasing his grasp he hurled Sah-luma away as he might\nhave hurled aside a toy figure,--and a peal of reckless musical\nlaughter echoed mockingly through the vaulted shrine. It was Lysia's\nlaughter! ... and Theos's blood grew cold as he heard its cruel,\nsilvery ring ... even so had she laughed when Nir-jalis died!\n\nSah-luma reeled backward from the King's thrust, but did not\nfall,--white and trembling, with his sad and splendid features, frozen\nas it were into a sculptured mask of agonized beauty, he turned upon\nthe treacherous woman he loved the silent challenge of his eloquent\neyes. Oh, that look of piteous pain and wonder! a whole lifetime's\nwasted opportunities seemed concentrated in its unspeakable reproach!\nShe met it with a sort of triumphant, tranquil indifference, . . an\nuncontrollable wicked smile curved the corners of her red lips, . . the\nsacred Ebony Staff had somehow slipped from her hands, and it now lay\non the ground, the half-uncoiled Serpent still clinging to it, in\nglittering lengths that appeared to be quite motionless.\n\n\"Ah, Lysia, hast thou played me false?\".. cried the unhappy Laureate at\nlast, as with a quick, impulsive movement, he caught her round jewelled\narm in a resolute grip.. \"After all thy vows, thy endearments, thy\nembraces, hast thou betrayed me? Speak truly! ... Art thou not all in\nall to me? ... hast thou not given thyself body and soul into my\nkeeping? To this braggart King I deign no answer--one word of thine\nwill suffice! ... Be brave.. be faithful! ... Declare thy love for me,\neven as thou hast oft declared it a thousand remembered times!\"\n\nOver the face of the beautiful Priestess swept a strange expression of\nmingled fear, antagonism, loathing, and exultation. Her eyes wandered\nto the red tongued leaping flames that tossed in eddying rings round\nthe Temple, running every second nearer to the place where she stood,\nand in that one glance she seemed to recognize the hopelessness of\nrescue and certainty of death. A careless, haughty acceptance of her\nfate manifested itself in the pallid resolve of her drawn features, . .\nbut as she allowed her gaze to return and dwell on Sah-luma, the old,\nmalicious mirth flushed and gave lustre to her loveliness, and she\nlaughed again...a laugh of uttermost bitter scorn.\n\n\"Declare my love for thee!\" she said in thrilling accents.. \"Thou\nboaster! Let the gods, who have kindled this fiery end for us, bear\nwitness to my hatred! I hate thee! ... Aye, even THEE!\".. and she\npointed at him jeeringly, as he recoiled from her in wide eyed anguish\nand amazement:--\"No man have I ever loved, but thee have I hated most\nof all! All men have I despised for their folly, greed and\nvain-glory,--I have fought them with their own weapons of avarice,\ncunning, cruelty, and falsehood,--but THOU hast been even beneath MY\ncontempt! 'Twas scarcely worth my while to fool thee, thou wert so\neasily fooled! ... 'Twas idle sport to rouse thy passions, they were so\neasily roused! Poet and Perjurer, . . Singer and Sophist! Thou to whom\nthe Genius of Poesy was as a pearl set in a swine's snout! ... thou\nwert not worthy to be my dupe, seeing that thou camest to me already in\nbonds, the dupe of thine own Self! Niphrata loved thee,--and thou didst\nplay with and torture her more unmercifully than wild beasts play with\nand torture their prey; . . but thou couldst never trifle with ME! O\nthou who hast taken so much pride in the breaking of many women's\nhearts, learn that thou hast never stirred one throb of passion in\nMINE! ... that I have loathed thy beauty while caressing thee, and\nlonged to slay thee while embracing thee! ... and that even now I would\nI saw thee dead before me, ere I myself am forced to die!\"\n\nPausing in the swift torrent of her words, her white breast heaved\nviolently with the rise and fall of her panting breath,--her dark,\nbrilliant eyes dilated, while the symbolic Jewel she wore, and the\ncrown of serpents' heads in her streaming hair, seemed to glitter about\nher like so many points of lightning. At that instant one side of the\nSanctuary split asunder, giving way to a bursting wreath of flames.\nSeeing this, she uttered a piercing cry, and stretched out her arms.\n\n\"Zephoranim! ... Save me!\"\n\nIn a second, the King sprang toward her, but not before Sah-luma, wild\nwith wrath, had interposed himself between them.\n\n\"Back!\" he exclaimed passionately, addressing the infuriated monarch..\n\"While I live, Lysia is mine!--let her hate and deny me as she\nwill!--and sooner than see her in thine arms, O King, I will slay her\nwhere she stands!\"\n\nHis bold attitude was magnificent,--his countenance more than beautiful\nin its love betrayed despair, . . and for a moment the savage\nZephoranim paused irresolute, his scowling brows bent on his erstwhile\nfavorite Minstrel with an expression that hovered curiously between\nbitterest enmity and reluctant reverence. There seemed to be a\nstruggling consciousness in his mind of the immortality of a Poet as\ncompared with the evanescent power of a King,--and also a quick\nrealization of the truth that, let his anger be what it would, they\ntwain were partakers in the same evil, and were mutually deceived by\nthe same false woman! But ere his saving sense of justice could\nprevail, a ripple of discordant, delirious laughter broke once more\nfrom Lysia's lips,--her eye shone vindictively,--her whole face became\nanimated with a sudden glow of fiendish triumph.\n\n\"Zephoranim!\" she cried, \"Hero! ... Warrior! ... King! ... Thou who\nhast risked thy crown and throne and life for my sake and the love of\nme! ... Wilt lose me now? ... Wilt let me perish in these raging\nflames, to satisfy this wanton liar and unbeliever in the gods, to\nwhose disturbance of the Holy Ritual we surely owe this present fiery\ndisaster! Save me, O strong and noble Zephoranim! ... Save me, and with\nme save the city and the people! KILL SAH-LUMA!\"\n\nO barbarous, inexorable words!--they rang like a desolating knell in\nthe ears of the bewildered, fear-stricken Theos, and startled him from\nhis rigid trance of speechless misery. Uttering an inarticulate dull\ngroan, he made a violent effort to rush forward--to serve as a living\nshield of defence to his adored friend, . . to ward off the imminent\nblow! Too late! too late! ... Zephoranim's dagger glittered in the air,\nand rapidly descended ... One gasping cry! ... and Sah-luma lay\nprone,--beautiful as a slain Adonis, . . the rich red blood pouring\nfrom his heart, and a faint, stern smile frozen on the proud lips whose\ndulcet singing-speech was now struck dumb forever! With a shriek of\nagony, Theos threw himself beside his murdered comrade, . . heedless of\nKing, Priestess, flames, and all the out-breaking fury of earth and\nheaven, he bent above that motionless form, and gazed yearningly into\nthe fair colorless face.\n\n\"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!\"\n\nNo sign! ... No tremulous stir of breath! Dead--dead,--dead in his\nprime of years--dead in the zenith of his glory!--all the delicate,\ndreaming genius turned to dust and ashes! ... all the ardent light of\ninspiration quenched in the never-lifting darkness of the grave! ...\nand in the first delirious paroxysm of his grief Theos felt as though\nlife, time, and the world were ended for him also, with this one\nsuddenly destroyed existence!\n\n\"O thou mad King!\" he cried fiercely, \"Thou hast slain the chief wonder\nof thy realm and reign! Die now when thou wilt, thou shalt only he\nremembered as the murderer of Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma, whose name shall\nlive when thine is covered in shameful oblivion!\"\n\nZephoranim frowned,--and threw the blood-stained dagger from him.\n\n\"Peace, clamorous fool!\" he said, \"Sah-luma hath gone but a moment\nbefore me, . . as Poet he hath received precedence even in death! When\nthe last hour comes for all of us, it matters not how we die, . . and\nwhether I am hereafter remembered or forgotten I care not! I have lived\nas a man should live,--fearing nothing and conquered by none,--except\nperchance by Love, that hath brought many kings ere now to untimely\nruin!\" Here his moody eyes lighted on Lysia. \"How many lovers hast thou\nhad, fair soul?\".. he demanded in a stern yet tremulous voice ... \"A\nthousand? ... I would swear this dead Minstrel of mine was one,--for\nthough I slew him at thy bidding I saw the truth in his dying eyes! ...\nNo matter!--We shall meet in Hades,--and there we shall have ample time\nto urge our rival claims upon thy favor! Ah!\".. and he suddenly laid\nhis two strong hands on her white uncovered shoulders, and gazed at her\nreproachfully as she shrank a little beneath his close scrutiny, . .\n\"Thou divine Traitress! Have I not challenged the very heavens for thy\nsake? ... and lo! the prophecy is fulfilled and Al-Kyris must fall! How\nmany men would have loved thee as I have loved? ... None! not even this\ndead Sah-luma, slain like a dog to give thee pleasure! Come! ... Let me\nkiss thee once again ere death makes cold our lips! False or true, thou\nart nevertheless fair!--and the wrathful gods know best how I worship\nthy fairness!\"\n\nAnd folding his arms about her, he kissed her passionately. She clung\nto him like a lithe serpentine thing,--her eyes ablaze, her mouth\nquivering with suppressed hysterical laughter. Pointing to Sah-luma's\nbody, she said in a strange excited whisper:\n\n\"Nay, hast thou slain him in very truth, Zephoranim! ... slain him\nutterly? For I have heard that poets cannot die,--they live when the\nwhole world deems them dead,--they rise from their shut graves and\nre-invest the earth with all the secrets of past time, . . Oh! my brain\nreels! ... I talk mere madness! ... there is no afterwards of\ndeath!--No, no! No gods, no anything but blankness.. forgetfulness..\nand silence! ... for us, and for all men! ... How good it is!--how\nexcellently devised a jest! ... that the whole wide Universe should be\nbut a cheat of time! ... a bubble blown into Space, to float, break,\nand perish,--all for the idle sport of some unknown and shapeless\nDevil-Mystery!\"\n\nShuddering, half-laughing, half-weeping, she clasped her hands round\nthe monarch's throat, and hid her wild eyes in his breast, while he,\nunnerved by her distraction and his own inward torture, glared about\nhim on all sides for some glimmering chance of rescue, but could see\nnone. The flames were now attacking the Shrine on every side like a\nbesieging army,--their leaping darts of blue and crimson gleaming here\nand there with indescribable velocity, . . and still Theos knelt by\nSah-luma's corpse in dry-eyed despair, endeavoring with feverish zeal\nto stanch the oozing blood with a strip torn from his own garments, and\nlistening anxiously for the feeblest heart-throb, or smaller pulsation\nof smouldering life in the senseless stiffening clay.\n\nAll at once a hideous scream assailed his ears,--another, and yet\nanother rang above the crackling roar of the gradually conquering fire,\n. . and half-lifting Sah-luma's body in his arms, he looked up...O\nhorror, horror! his nerves contracted,--his blood seemed to turn to ice\nin his veins, . . his head swam giddily, . . and he thought the moment\nof his own death had come, for surely no man could behold the sight he\nsaw and yet continue to live on! Lysia the captor was made captive at\nlast! ..bound, helpless, imprisoned, and hopelessly doomed, ..Nagaya\nhad claimed his own! The huge Snake, terrified beyond all control at\nthe bursting breadth of fire environing the shrine, had turned in its\nbrute fear to the mistress it had for years been accustomed to obey,\nand had now, with one stealthy noiseless spring, twisted its uppermost\ncoil close about her waist, where its restless head, alarmed eyes, and\ndarting fangs all glistened together like a blazing cluster of gems!\nthe more she struggled to release herself from its deathful embrace,\nthe tighter its body contracted and the more maddened with fright it\nbecame. Shriek upon shriek broke from her lips and pierced the\nsuffocating air, . . while with all his great muscular force Zephoranim\nthe King strove in desperate agony to tear her from the awful clutch of\nthe monster he had but lately knelt to as divine! In vain, ..in vain!\n... the strongest efforts were useless, ... the cruel, beautiful,\npitiless Priestess of Nagaya was condemned to suffer the same frightful\ndeath she had so often mercilessly decreed for others! Closer and\ncloser grew the fearful Python's constricting clasp, . . nearer and\nnearer swept the dancing battalion of destroying flames! ... For one\nfleeting breath of time Theos stared aghast at the horrid scene, . .\nthen making a superhuman effort he raised Sah-luma's corpse entirely\nfrom the ground and staggered with his burden away, . . away from the\nburning Shrine, . . the funeral pyre, as it vaguely seemed to him, of a\nwasted Love and a dead passion!\n\n     *     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nWhither should he go! ... Down into the blazing area of the\nfast-perishing Temple? Surely no safety could be found there, where the\nfire was raging at its utmost height! ... yet he went on mechanically,\nas though urged forward by some force superior to his own, . . always\nclinging to the idea that his friend still lived and that if he could\nonly reach some place of temporary shelter he might yet be able to\nrestore him. It was possible the wound was not fatal, . . far more\npossible to his mind than that so gloriously famed a Poet should be\ndead!\n\nSo he dimly thought, while he stumbled dizzily along, . . his forehead\nwet with clammy dews, . . his limbs trembling under the weight he bore,\n. . his eyes half-blinded by the hot flying sparks and drifting smoke,\n. . and his soul shaken and appalled by the ghastly sights that met his\nview wheresoever he turned. Crushed and writhing bodies of men, women,\nand children, half-living, half-dead, . . heaps of corpses, fast\nblazing to ashes,--broken and falling columns, . . yawning gaps in the\nground, from which were cast forth volleys of red cinders and streams\nof lava, ... all these multitudinous horrors surrounded him, as with\nuncertain, faltering steps he moved on like a sick man walking in\nsleep, carrying his precious burden! He knew nothing of where he was\nbound,--he saw no outlet anywhere--no corner wherein the Fire-fiend had\nnot set up devouring dominion, . . but nevertheless he steadily\ncontinued his difficult progress, clasping Sah-luma's corpse with a\nstrange tenacity, and concentrating all his attention on protecting it\nfrom the withering touch of the ravenous flames. All at once,--as he\nstrove to force his way over a fallen altar from which the hideous\npresiding stone idol had toppled headlong, killing in its descent some\ntwenty or thirty people whose bodies lay crushed beneath it,--a face\nhorribly disfigured and tortured into a mere burnt sketch of its former\nlikeness twisted itself up and peered at him, the face of Zabastes, the\nCritic. His protruding eyes glistened with something of their old\nmalign expression as he perceived whose helpless form it was that was\nbeing carried by.\n\n\"What! ... is the famous Sah-luma gone?\" he gasped, his words half\nchoking him in their utterance as he stretched out a skinny hand and\ncaught at Theos's garments ... \"Good youth, stay! ... Stay! ... Why\nburden thyself with a corpse when thou mightest rescue a living man?\nSave ME! ... Save ME! ... I was the Poet's adverse Critic, and who but\nI should write his Eulogy now that he is no more! ... Pity! ... Pity,\nmost courteous, gentle sir! ... Save me if only for the sake of\nSah-luma's future honor! Thou knowest not how warmly, how generously,\nhow nobly, I can praise the dead!\"\n\nTheos gazed down upon him in unspeakable, melancholy scorn, . . was it\nonly through time-serving creatures such as this miserable Zabastes,\nthat the after-glory of perished poets was proclaimed to the world? ...\nWhat then was the actual worth of Fame?\n\nShuddering, he wrenched himself away, and passed on silently, heedless\nof the savage curses the despairing scribe yelled after him as he went,\nand he involuntarily pressed the dead corpse of his beloved friend\ncloser to his heart, as though he thought he could re-animate it by\nthis mute expression of tenderness! Meanwhile the fire raged\ncontinuously,--the Temple was fast becoming a pillared mass of flames,\n. . and presently,--choked and giddy with the sulphurous vapors--he\nstopped abruptly, struggling for breath. His time had come at last, he\nthought, . . he with Sah-luma must die!\n\nJust then a loud muttering and rolling of thunder swept in eddying\nvibrations round him, followed by a sharp, splitting noise, . . raising\nhis aching eyes, he saw straight before him, a yawning gloomy archway,\nlike the solemn portal of a funeral vault.. dark, yet with a white\nglimmer of steps leading outward, and a dim sparkle as of stars in\nheaven. A rush of new vigor inspired him at this sight, and he resumed\nhis way, stumbling over countless corpses strewn among fallen blocks of\nmarble,--and every now and then looking back in awful fascination to\nthe fiery furnace of the body of the Temple, where of all the vast\nnumbers that had lately crowded it from end to end, there were only a\nhundred or so remaining alive,--and these were fast perishing in\nfrightful agony. The Shrine of Nagaya was enveloped in thick black\nsmoke, crossed here and there by flashes of flame,--the bare outline of\nits Titanic architecture was scarcely discernible! Yet the thought of\nthe dreadful end of Lysia, the loveliest woman he had ever seen, moved\nhim now to no emotion whatever--save..gladness! Some deadly evil seemed\nburnt out of his life, . . moreover her command had slain Sah-luma! ...\nEnough! ... no fate however horrible, could be more so than she in her\nwanton wickedness deserved! ... But alas! her beauty! ... He dared not\nthink of its subtle, slumberous charm! ... and stung to a new sense of\ndesperation, he plunged recklessly toward the dusky aperture he had\nseen, which appeared to enlarge itself mysteriously as he approached,\nlike the opening gateway of some magic cavern.\n\nSuddenly a faint groan at his feet startled him,--and, looking down\nhastily, he perceived an unfortunate man lying half crushed under the\nponderous fragment of a split column, which had fallen across his body\nin such manner that any attempt to extricate him would have been worse\nthan useless. By the bright light of the leaping flames, Theos had no\ndifficulty in recognizing the pallid countenance of his late\nacquaintance, the learned Professor of Positivism, Mira-Khabur, who was\nevidently very near his woeful and most positive end! Struck by an\nimpulse of compassion he paused, . . yet what could he say? ..In such a\ncase, where rescue was impossible, all comfort seemed mockery,--and\nwhile he stood silent and irresolute, he fancied the Professor smiled!\nIt was a very ghastly smile,--nevertheless it hid in it a curious touch\nof bland and scrupulous inquiry.\n\n\"Is not this...a very.. remarkable occurrence?\" ... asked a voice so\nfeeble and far away that it was difficult to believe it came from the\nlips of the suffering sage. \"Of course...it arises from...a volcanic\neruption! ... and the mystery of the red river.. is.. solved!\" Here an\nirrepressible moan of anguish broke through his heroic effort at\nequanimity;--\"It is NOT a phenomenon!\".. and a gleam of obstinate\nself-assertion lit up his poor glazing eyes, \"Nothing is phenonmenal!\n... only I am not able...to explain.... I have no time...no time...to\nanalyze.. my very ... singular...sensations!\"\n\nA rush of blood choked his utterance--his throat rattled, ... he was\ndead! ... and the dreary speculative smile froze on his mouth in the\nlikeness of a solemn sneer. At that moment, a terrific swirling,\nsurging noise, like the furious boiling of an underground whirlpool,\nrumbled heavily through the air, . . and lo! with a sudden, swift shock\nthat sent Theos reeling forward and almost falling, under the\nburdensome weight he carried, the earth opened, . . disclosing a huge\npit of black nothingness,--an enormous chasm,--into which, with an\nappalling clamor as of a hundred incessant peals of thunder, the whole\nmain area of the Temple, together with its mass of dead and dying human\nbeings, sank in less than five seconds!--the ground closing\ninstantaneously over its prey with a sullen roar, as though it were\nsome gigantic beast devouring food too long denied. And instead of the\nvanished fane arose a mighty Pillar of Fire! ... a vast increasing\nvolume of scarlet and gold flame that spread outward and\nupward,--higher and higher, in tapering lines and dome-like curves of\nliving light, . . while Theos, being hurled along resistlessly by the\nforce of the convulsion, had reached, though he knew not how, the dark\nand quiet cell-like portal with its out-leading steps, . . the only\nvisible last hope and chance of safety, . . and he now leaned against\nits cold stone arch, trembling in every limb, clasping the dead\nSah-luma close, and looking back in affrighted awe at the tossing\nvortex of fury from which he had miraculously escaped. And,--as he\nlooked,--a host of spectral faces seemed to rise whitely out of the\nflames and wonder at him! ... faces that were solemn, wistful, warning,\nand beseeching by turns! ... they drifted through the fire and smiled,\nand wept, and vanished, to reappear again and yet again! ... and as,\nwith painfully beating heart, he strove to combat the terror that\nseized him at this strange spectacular delusion, all suddenly the heavy\nwreaths of smoke that had till now hung over the Inner Shrine of Nagaya\nparted like drapery drawn aside from a picture.. and for a brief\nbreathing space of direst agony he saw Lysia once more,--Lysia, in a\ntorture as horrible as any ever depicted in a bigot's idea of his\nenemy's Hell! Round and round her writhing form the sacred Serpent was\ntwined in all his many coils,--with both hands she had grasped the\ncreature's throat in her frenzy, striving to thrust back its quivering\nfangs from her breast, whereon the evil \"Eye of Raphon\" still gleamed\ndistinctly with its adamantine chilly stare, . . at her feet lay the\nbody of the King her lover, dead and wrapped in a ring of flames! ...\nAlone--all, all alone, she confronted Death in its most appalling\nshape.. her countenance was distorted, yet beautiful still with the\nbeauty of a maddened Medusa, . . white and glittering as a fair ghost\ninvoked from some deadly gulf of pain, she stood, a phantom-figure of\nmingled loveliness and horror, circled on every side by fire!\n\nWith wild, straining eyes Theos gazed upon her thus, ... for the last\ntime! ... For with a crash that seemed to rend the very heavens, the\ngreat bronze columns surrounding her, which had, up to the present,\nresisted the repeated onslaughts of the flames, bent together all at\nonce and fell in a melting ruin.. and the victorious fire roared loudly\nabove them, enveloping the whole Shrine anew in dense clouds of smoke\nand jets of flame,--Lysia had perished! All that proud loveliness, that\ndazzling supremacy, that superb voluptuousness, that triumphant\ndominion, . . swept away into a heap of undiscoverable ashes! And\nZephoranim's haughty spirit too had fled,--fled, stained with guilt and\nmost unroyal dishonor, all for the sake of one woman's fairness--the\nfairness of body only--the brilliant mask of flesh that too often hides\nthe hideousness of a devil's nature!\n\nFor one moment Theos remained stupefied by the sheer horror of the\ncatastrophe,--then, recalling his bewildered wits to his aid, he peered\nanxiously through the archway where he rested, . . there seemed to be a\ndim red glow at the end of the downward-leading steps, as well as a\ndusky azure tint, like a patch of midnight sky. The Temple was now\nnothing but a hissing shrieking pyramid of flames,--the hot and\nblinding glare was almost too intense for his eyes to endure,--yet so\nfascinated was he by the sublime terror and grandeur of the spectacle,\nthat he could scarcely make up his mind to turn away from it! The\nthought of Sah-luma, however, gave the needful spur to his flagging\nenergies, and without pausing to consider where he might be going, he\nslowly and hesitatingly descended the steps before him, and presently\nreached a sort of small open court paved with black marble. Here he\ntenderly laid his burden down,--a burden grown weightier with each\nmoment of its bearing,--and letting his aching arms drop listlessly at\nhis sides, he looked up dreamily,--not all at once comprehending the\ncause of the vast lurid light that crimsoned the air like a wide aurora\nborealis everywhere about him, . . then,--as the truth suddenly flashed\non his mind, he uttered a loud, irrepressible cry of amazement and awe!\n\nFar as his gaze could see,--east, west, north, south, the whole city of\nAl-Kyris was in flames!--and the burning Temple of Nagaya was but a\nmere spark in the enormous breadth of the general conflagration!\nPalaces, domes, towers, and spires were tottering to red destruction, .\n. fire...fire everywhere! ... nothing but fire,--save when a furious\ngust of scorching wind blew aside the masses of cindery smoke, and\nshowed glimpses of sky and the changeless shining of a few cold quiet\nstars. He cast one desperate glance from earth to heaven, . . how was\nit possible to escape from this kindling furnace of utter annihilation!\n... Where all were manifestly doomed, how could HE expect to be saved!\nAnd moreover, if Sah-luma was indeed dead, what remained for him but to\ndie also!\n\n     *     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nCalming the frenzy of his thoughts by a strong effort, he began to\nvaguely wonder why and how it happened that the place where he now was,\n. . this small and insignificant court,--had so far escaped the fire,\nand was as cool and sombre as a sacred tomb set apart for some hero,\n... or Poet? Poet!--The word acted as a stimulant to his tired\nstruggling brain, and he all at once remembered what Sah-luma had said\nto him at their first meeting: \"There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and\nI am he!\"\n\nO true, true! Only one Poet! ... Only one glory of the great city, that\nnow served him as funeral pyre!--only one name worth remembering in all\nits perishing history.. the name of SAH-LUMA! Sah-luma, the beautiful,\nthe gifted, the famous, the beloved, . . he was dead! This thought, in\nits absorbing painfulness, straightway drove out all others,--and\nTheos, who had carried his comrade's corpse bravely and unshrinkingly\nthrough a fiery vortex of imminent peril, now sank on his knees all\ndesolate and unnerved, his hot tears dropping fast on that fair, still,\nwhite face that he knew would never flush to the warmth of life again!\n\n\"Sah-luma! Sah-luma!\" he whispered, \"My friend ... My more than\nbrother! Would I could have died for thee! ... Would thou couldst have\nlived to fulfil the nobler promise of thy genius! ... Better far thou\nhadst been spared to the world than I! ... for I am Nothing, . . but\nthou wert Everything!\"\n\nAnd taking the clay-cold hands in his own, he kissed them reverently,\nand, with an unconscious memory not born of his recent adventures,\nfolded them on the dead Laureate's breast in the fashion of a Cross.\n\nAs he did this an icy spasm seemed to contract his heart, . . seized by\na sudden insufferable anxiety, he stared like one spell-bound into\nSah-luma's wide-open, fixed, and glassy eyes. Dead eyes! ... yet how\nfull of mysterious significance! ... What--WHAT was their weird secret,\ntheir imminent meaning! ... Why did their dark and frozen depths appear\nto retain a strange, living undergleam of melting, sorrowful,\nbeseeching sweetness? ... like the eyes of one who prays to be\nremembered, though changed after long absence! What hot and terrible\ndelirium was this that snatched at his whirling brain as he bent closer\nand closer over the marble quiet countenance, and studied with a sort\nof fierce intentness every line of those delicate, classic features, on\nwhich high thought had left so marked an impress of dignity and power!\nWhat a marvellous, half-reproachful, half-appealing smile lingered on\nthe finely-curved set lips! ... How wonderful, how beautiful, how\nbeloved beyond all words was this fair dead god of poesy on whom he\ngazed with such a passion of yearning!\n\nStooping more and more, he threw his arms round the senseless form, and\npartly lifting it from the ground, brought the wax-pallid face nearer\nto his own.. so near that the cold mouth almost touched his, . . then\nfilled with an awful, unnamable misgiving, he scanned his murdered\ncomrade's perished beauty in puzzled, vague bewilderment, much as an\nignorant dullard might perplexedly scan the incomprehensible characters\nof some hieroglyphic scroll. And, as he looked, a sharp pang shot\nthrough him like a whizzing ball of fire, . . a convulsion of mental\nagony shook his limbs,--he could have shrieked aloud in the extremity\nof his torture, but the struggling cry died gasping in his throat.\nStill as stone he kept his strained, steadfast gaze fixed on Sah-luma's\ncorpse, slowly absorbing the full horror of a tremendous Suggestion,\nthat like a scorching lava-flood swept into every subtle channel of his\nbrain. For the dead Sah-luma's eyes grew into the semblance of his own\neyes! ... the dead Sah-luma's face smiled spectrally back at him in the\nimage of his own face! ... it was as though he beheld the Picture of\nhimself, slain and reflected in a magician's mirror! Round him the very\nheavens seemed given up to fire,--but he heeded it not,--the world\nmight be at an end and the day of Judgment, proclaimed,--nothing would\nhave stirred him from where he knelt, in that dreadful stillness of\nmystic martyrdom, drinking in the gradual, glimmering consciousness of\na terrific Truth, . . the amazing, yet scarcely graspable solution of a\nsupernatural Enigma, ... an enigma through which, like a man lost in\nthe depths of a dark forest, he had wandered up and down, seeking\nlight, yet finding none!\n\n\"O God!\" he dumbly prayed. \"Thou, with whom all things are possible,\ngive eyes to this blind trouble of my heart! I am but as a grain of\ndust before thee, . . a poor perishable atom, devoid of simplest\ncomprehension! ... Do Thou of Thy supernal pity teach me what I must\nknow!\"\n\nAs he thought out this unuttered petition, a tense cord seemed to snap\nsuddenly in his brain, . . a rush of tears came to his relief, and\nthrough their salt and bitter haze the face of Sah-luma appeared to\nmelt into a thin and spiritual brightness,--a mere aerial outline of\nwhat it had once been, . . the glazed dark eyes seemed to flash living\nlightning into his, . . the whole lost Personality of the dead Poet\nseemed to environ him with a mysterious, potent, incorporeal\ninfluence.. an influence that he felt he must now or never repel,\nreject, and utterly RESIST! ... With a shuddering cry, he tore his\nreluctant arms away from the beloved corpse, . . with trembling, tender\nfingers he closed and pressed down the white eyelids of those\nlove-expressive eyes, and kissed the broad poetic brow!\n\n\"Whatever thou WERT or ART to me, Sah-luma,\" he murmured in sobbing\nhaste,--\"thou knowest that I loved thee, though now I leave thee!\nFarewell!\"--and his voice broke in its strong agony--\"O how much easier\nto divide body from soul than part myself from thee! Sah-luma, beloved\nSah-luma! God give thee rest! ... God pardon thy sins,--and mine!\"\n\nAnd he pressed his lips once more on the folded rigid hands; . . as he\ndid so, he inadvertently touched the writing-tablet that hung from the\ndead Laureate's girdle. The red glow of the fire around him enabled him\nto see distinctly what was written on it, . . there were about twenty\nlines of verse, in exquisitely clear and fine caligraphy, ... and, as\nhe read, he knew them well, . . they were the last lines of the poem\n\"Nourhalma\"!\n\nHe dared trust his own strength no longer, . . one wild, adoring,\nlingering, parting look at his dead rival in song, whom he had loved\nbetter than himself,--and then,--full of a nameless fear, he fled! ...\nfled recklessly, and with swift, mad fury as though demons followed in\npursuit, . . fled through the burning city, as a lost and frenzied\nspirit might speed through the deserts of Hell! Everywhere about him\nresounded the crackling hiss of the flames, and the crash of falling\nbuildings, . . mighty pinnacles and lofty domes melted and vanished\nbefore is eyes in a blaze of brilliant destruction! ... on--on he went,\nmeeting confused, scattered crowds of people, whose rushing,\nwhite-garmented figures looked like ghosts flying before a storm, . .\nthe cries and shrieks of women and children, and the groans of men were\nmingled with the restless roaring of lions and other wild beasts burnt\nout of their dens in the Royal Arena, the distant circle of which could\nbe dimly seen, surrounded by fountain-like jets of fire. Some of these\nmaddened animals ran against him, as he sped along the blazing\nthoroughfares,--but he made no attempt to avoid them, nor was he\nsensible of any other terror than that which was WITHIN HIMSELF and was\npurely mental. On! ... On!--Still on he went,--a desperate, lonely man,\nlost in a hideous nightmare of flame and fury, . . seeing nothing but\none vast flying rout of molten red and gold, . . speaking to none, . .\nutterly reckless as to his own fate, . . only impelled on and on, but\nwhither he knew not, nor cared to know!\n\nAll at once his, strength gave way...his nerves seemed to break asunder\nlike so many over-wound harp-strings, . . a sudden silvery clanging of\nbells rang in his ears, and with them came a sound of multitudinous\nsoft, small voices: \"Kyrie Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!\"\n\n Hush! ... What was that? ... What did it mean? ... Halting\nabruptly, he gave a wild glance round him,--up to the sky, where the\nflaring flames spread in tangled lengths and webs of light, . . then,\nstraight before him to the City of Al-Kyris, now a wondrous vision of\nredly luminous columns and cupolas, with the wet gleam of the river\nenfolding its blazing streets and towers: . . and while he yet beheld\nit, lo! IT RECEDED FROM HIS VIEW! Further, . . further!--further away,\ntill it seemed nothing but the toppling and smoldering of heavy clouds\nafter the conflagration of the sunset!\n\nHark, hark again! ... \"Kyrie, Eleison! ... Kyrie, Eleison!\" With a\nsense of reeling rapture and awe he listened, . . he understood! ... he\nfound the NAME he had so long forgotten! \"CHRIST, have mercy upon\nme!\"...he cried, and in that one urgent supplication he uttered all the\npent-up anguish of his soul! Blind and dizzy with the fevered whirl of\nhis own emotions, he stumbled forward and fell! ... fell heavily over a\nblock of stone, . . stunned by the shock, he lost consciousness, but\nonly for a moment; . . a dull aching in his temples roused him,--and\nmaking a faint effort to rise, he turned slowly and languidly on his\narm, . . and with a long, deep, shuddering sigh...AWOKE!\n\n He was on the Field of Ardath. Dawn had just broken. The east was\none wide, shimmering stretch of warm gold, and over it lay strips of\nblue and gray, like fragments of torn battle-banners. Above him\nsparkled the morning star, white and glittering as a silver lamp, among\nthe delicate spreading tints of saffron and green, . . and beside\nhim,--her clear, pure features flushed by the roseate splendor of the\nsky, her hands clasped on her breast, and her sweet eyes full of an\ninfinite tenderness and yearning, knelt EDRIS!--Edris, his\nflower-crowned Angel, whom last he had seen drifting upward and away\nlike a dove through the glory of the Cross in Heaven!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nSUNRISE.\n\n\nEntranced in amazed ecstasy he lay quite quiet, . . afraid to speak or\nstir! This gentle Presence,--this fair, beseeching face, might vanish\nif he moved! So he dimly fancied, as he gazed up at her in mute wonder\nand worship, his devout eyes drinking in her saintly loveliness, from\nthe deep burnished gold of her hair to the soft, white slimness of her\nprayerfully folded hands. And while he looked, old thoughts like\nhome-returning birds began to hover round his soul,--sweet and dear\nremembrances, like the sunset lighting up the windows of an empty\nhouse, began to shine on the before semi-darkened nooks and crannies of\nhis brain. Clearer and clearer grew the reflecting mirror of his\nconsciousness,--trouble and perplexity seemed passing away forever from\nhis mind, . . a great and solemn peace environed him, . . and he began\nto believe he had crossed the boundary of death and had entered at last\ninto the Kingdom of Heaven! O let him not break this holy silence! ...\nLet him rest so, with all the glory of that Angel-visage shed like\nsummer sunbeams over him! ... Let him absorb into his innermost being\nthe exquisite tenderness of those innocent, hopeful, watchful, starry\neyes whose radiance seemed to steal into the golden morning and give it\na sacred poetry and infinite marvel of meaning! So he mused, gravely\ncontented, ... while all through the brightening skies overhead, came\nthe pale, pink flushing of the dawn, like a far fluttering and\nscattering of rose-leaves. Everything was so still that he could hear\nhis own heart beating forth healthful and regular pulsations, . . but\nhe was scarcely conscious of his own existence,--he was only aware of\nthe vast, beautiful, halcyon calm that encircled him shelteringly and\nsoothed all care away.\n\nGradually, however, this deep and delicious tranquillity began to yield\nto a sweeping rush of memory and comprehension, ... he knew WHO he was\nand WHERE he was,--though he did not as yet feel absolutely certain of\nlife and life's so-called realities. For if the City of Al-Kyris, with\nall its vivid wonders, its distinct experiences, its brilliant\npageantry, had been indeed a DREAM, then sorely it was possible he\nmight be dreaming still! ... Nevertheless he was able to gather up the\nfragments of lost recollection consecutively enough to realize, by\ngentle degrees, his actual identity and position in the world, . . he\nwas Theos Alwyn, . . a man of the nineteenth century after Christ. Ah!\nthank God for that! ... AFTER Christ! ... not one who had lived five\nthousand years BEFORE Christ's birth! ... And this quiet, patient\nMaiden at his side, . . who was she? A vision? ... or an actually\nexistent Being? Unable to resist the craving desire of his heart, he\nspoke her name as he now remembered it, . . spoke it in a faint, awed\nwhisper.\n\n\"Edris!\"\n\n\"Theos, my Beloved!\"\n\nO sweet and thrilling voice! more musical than the singing of birds in\na sun-filled Spring!\n\nHe raised himself a little, and looked at her more intently:--she\nsmiled,--and that smile, so marvellous in its pensive peace and lofty\ndevotion, was as though all the light of an unguessed paradise had\nsuddenly flashed upon his soul!\n\n\"Edris!\" he said again, trembling in the excess of mingled hope and\nfear ... \"Hast thou then returned again from heaven, to lift me out of\ndarkness? ... Tell me, fair Angel, do I wake or sleep? ... Are my\nsenses deceived? Is this land a dream? ... Am I myself a dream, and\nthou the only manifest sweet Truth in a world of drifting shadows! ...\nSpeak to me, gentle Saint! ... In what vast mystery have I been\nengulfed? ... in what timeless trance of soul-bewilderment? ... in what\nblind uncertainty and pain? ... O Sweet! ... resolve my wordless\nwonder! Where have I strayed? ... what have I seen? ... Ah, let not my\nrough speech fright thee back to Paradise! ... Stay with me! ...\ncomfort me! ... I have lost thee so long! let me not lose thee now!\"\n\nSmiling still, she bent over him, and pressed her warm, delicate\nringers lightly on his brow and lips. Then softly she rose and stood\nerect.\n\n\"Fear nothing, my beloved!\" she answered, her silvery accents sending a\nthrob of holy triumph through the air.. \"Let no trouble disquiet thee,\nand no shadow of misgiving dim the brightness of thy waking moments!\nThou hast slept ONE night on the Field of Ardath, in the Valley of\nVision!--but lo! the Night is past!\".. and she pointed toward the\neastern horizon now breaking into waves of rosy gold, \"Rise! and behold\nthe dawning of thy new Day!\"\n\nRoused by her touch, and fired by her tone and the grand, unworldly\ndignity of her look and bearing, he sprang up, . . but as he met the\nfull, pure splendor of her divine eyes, and saw, wavering round her\nhair, a shining aureole of amber radiance like a wreath of woven\nsunbeams, his spirit quailed within him, . . he remembered all his\ndoubts of her,--his disbelief, . . and falling at her feet, he hid his\nface in a shame that was better than all glory,--a humiliation that was\nsweeter than all pride.\n\n\"Edris! Immortal Edris!\".. he passionately prayed, \"As thou art a\ncrowned saint in Heaven, shed light on the chaos of my soul! From the\ndepths of a penitence past thought and speech I plead with thee! Hear\nme, my Edris, thou who art so maiden-meek, so tender-patient! ... hear\nme, help me, guide me...I am all thine! Say, didst thou not summon me\nto meet thee here upon this wondrous Field of Ardath?--did I not come\nhither according to thy words?--and have I not seen things that I am\nnot able to express or understand? Teach me, wise and beloved one! ...\nI doubt no more! I know Myself and Thee:--thou art an angel,--but I!\n... alas, what am I? A grain of sand in thy sight and in God's, . . a\nmere Nothing, comprehending nothing,--unable even to realize the extent\nof my own nothingness! Edris, O Edris! ... THOU canst not love me! ...\nthou mayst pity me perchance, and pardon, and bless me gently in\nChrist's dear Name! ... but love! ... THY love! ... Oh let me not\naspire to such heights of joy, where I have no place, no right, no\nworthiness!\"\n\n\"No worthiness!\" echoed Edris! ... what a rapture trembled through her\nsweet caressing voice!--\"My Theos, who is so worthy to win back what is\nthine own, as thou? All Heaven has wondered at thy voluntary\nexile,--thy place in God's supernal Sphere has long been vacant, . .\nthy right to dwell there, none have questioned, ... thy throne is\nempty--thy crown unclaimed! Thou art an Angel even as I! ... but thou\nart in bonds while I am free! Ah, how sad and strange it is to me to\nsee thee here thus fettered to the Sorrowful Star, when, countless\naeons since, thou mightest have enjoyed full liberty in the Eternal\nLight of the everlasting Paradise!\"\n\nHe listened, ... a strong, sweet hope began to kindle in him like\nflame, . . but he made no answer. Only he caught and kissed the edge of\nher garment, . . its soft gray cloudy texture brushed his lips with the\nodorous coolness of a furled roseleaf. She seemed to tremble at his\naction, ... but he dared not look up. Presently he felt the pulsing\npressure of her hands upon his head! and a rush of strange, warm vigor\nthrilled through his veins like an electric flash of new and\nnever-ending life.\n\n\"Thou wouldst seek after and know the truth!\" she said, \"Truth\nCelestial,--Truth Unchangeable, . . Truth that permeates and underlies\nall the mystic inward workings of the Universe, . . workings and secret\nlaws unguessed by Man! Vast as Eternity is this Truth,--ungraspable in\nall its manifestations by the merely mortal intelligence, ...\nnevertheless thy spirit, being chastened to noble humility and\nrepentance, hath risen to new heights of comprehension, whence thou\ncanst partly penetrate into the wonders of worlds unseen. Did I not\ntell thee to 'LEARN FROM THE PERILS OF THE PAST, THE PERILS OF THE\nFUTURE'--and understandest thou not the lesson of the Vision of\nAl-Kyris? Thou hast seen the Dream-reflection of thy former Poet-fame\nand glory in old time,--THOU WERT SAH-LUMA!\"\n\nAn agony of shame possessed him as he heard. His soul at once seized\nthe solution of the mystery, . . his quickened thought plunged\nplummet-like straight through the depths of the bewildering\nphantasmagoria, in which mere reason had been of no practical avail,\nand straightway sounded its whole seemingly complex, but actually\nsimple meaning! HE WAS SAH-LUMA! ... or rather, he HAD BEEN Sah-luma in\nsome far stretch of long-receded time, ... and in his Dream of a single\nnight, he had loved the brilliant Phantom of his Former Self more than\nhis own present Identity! Not less remarkable was the fact that, in\nthis strange Sleep-Mirage, he had imagined himself to be perfectly\nUNselfish, whereas all the while he had honored, flattered, and admired\nthe more Appearance of Himself more than anything or everything in the\nworld! Ay!--even his occasional reluctant reproaches to Himself in the\nghostly impersonation of Sah-luma had been far more tender than severe!\n\nO deep and bitter ingloriousness! ... O speechless degradation of all\nthe higher capabilities of Man! to love one's own ephemeral\nShadow-Existence so utterly as to exclude from thought and sympathy all\nother things whether human or divine! And was it not possible that this\nSpectre of Self might still be clinging to him? Was it dead with the\nDream of Sah-luma? ... or had Sah-luma never truly died at all? ... and\nwas the fine, fire-spun Essence that had formed the Spirit of the\nLaureate of Al-Kyris yet part of the living Substance of his present\nnature, ... he, a world-unrecognized English poet of the nineteenth\ncentury? Did all Sah-luma's light follies, idle passions, and careless\ncruelties remain inherent in him? Had he the same pride of intellect,\nthe same vain-glory, the same indifference to God and Man? Oh, no, no!\n... he shuddered at the thought! ... and his head sank lower and lower\nbeneath the benediction touch of Her whose tenderness revived his\nnoblest energies, and lit anew in his heart the pure, bright fire of\nheaven-encompassing Aspiration.\n\n\"THOU WERT SAH-LUMA!\" went on the mildly earnest voice, \"And all the\nwide, ungrudging fame given to Earth's great poets in ancient days, was\nthine! Thy name was on all men's mouths, ... thou wert honored by\nkings, ... thou wert the chief glory of a great people, ... great\nthough misled by their own false opinions, ... and the City of\nAl-Kyris, of which thou wert the enshrined jewel, was mightier far than\nany now built upon the earth! Christ had not come to thee, save by dim\ntypes and vague prefigurements which only praying prophets could\ndiscern, ... but God had spoken to thy soul in quiet moments, and thou\nwouldst neither hear Him nor believe in Him! I had called thee, but\nthou wouldst not listen, ... thou didst foolishly prefer to hearken to\nthe clamorous tempting of thine own beguiling human passions, and wert\naltogether deaf to an Angel's whisper! Things of the earth earthly\ngained dominion over thee ... by them thou wert led astray, deceived,\nand at last forsaken, ... the genius God gave thee thou didst misuse\nand indolently waste, ... thy brief life came, as thou hast seen, to\nsudden-piteous end,--and the proud City of thy dwelling was destroyed\nby fire! Not a trace of it was left to mark the spot where once it\nstood. The foundations of Babylon were laid above it, and no man\nguessed that it had ever been. And thy poems, ... the fruit of thy\nheaven-sent but carelessly accepted inspiration,--who is there that\nremembers them? ... No one! ... save THOU! THOU hast recovered them\nlike sunken pearls from the profound ocean of limitless Memory, ... and\nto the world of To-day thou dost repeat the SELF-SAME MUSIC to which\nAl-Kyris listened entranced so many thousands of generations ago!\"\n\nA deep sigh, that was half a groan, broke from his lips, ... he could\nnow take the measurement of his own utter littleness and incompetency!\nHE COULD CREATE NOTHING NEW! Everything he had written, as he fancied\nonly just lately, had been written by himself before! The problem of\nthe poem \"Nourhalma\" ... was explained, ... he had designed it when he\nhad played his part on the stage of life as Sah-luma,--and perhaps not\neven then for the first time! In this pride-crushing knowledge there\nwas only one consolation, ... namely, that if his Dream was a true\nreflection of his Past, and exact in details as he felt it must be,\nthen \"Nourhalma,\" had not been given to Al-Kyris, ... it had been\ncomposed, but not made public. Hence, so far, it was new to the world,\nthough not new to himself. Yet he had considered it wondrously new! a\n\"perfectly original\" idea! ... Ah! who dares to boast of any idea as\nhumanly \"original\" ... seeing that all ideas whatsoever must be\nreferred back to God and admitted as His and His only! What is the\nwisest man that ever lived, but a small, pale, ill-reflecting mirror of\nthe Eternal Thought that controls and dominates all things! ... He\nremembered with conscience-stricken confusion what pleasure he had\nfelt, what placid satisfaction, what unqualified admiration, when\nlistening to his own works recited by the ghost-presentment of his\nFormer Self! ... pleasure that had certainly exceeded whatever pain he\nhad suffered by the then enigmatical and perplexing nature of the\nincident. O what a foolish Atom he now seemed, viewed by the standard\nof his newly aroused higher consciousness! ... how poor and passive a\nslave to the glittering, beckoning Phantasm of his own perishable Fame!\n\nThus on the Field of Ardath he drained the cup of humility to the\ndregs,--the cup which like that offered to the Prophet of Holy Writ was\n\"full as it were with water, but the color of it was like fire\"--the\nwater of tears.. the fire of faith, . . and with that prophet he might\nhave said.. \"When I had drunk of it, my heart uttered understanding,\nand wisdom grew in my breast, for my spirit strengthened my memory.\"\n\nMeanwhile Edris, still keeping her gentle hands on his bent head, went\non:\n\n\"In such wise didst thou, my Beloved, as the famous Sah-luma,\nmournfully perish.. and the nations remembered thee no more! But thy\nspiritual, indestructible Essence lived on, and wandered dismayed and\nforlorn through a myriad forms of existence in the depths of Perpetual\nDarkness which MUST be, even as the Everlasting Light IS. Thy immortal\nbut perverted Will bore thee always further from God, . . further from\nHim, and so far from me, that thou wert at times beyond even an Angel's\nken! Ages upon ages rolled away, . . the centuries between Earth and\nEarths purposed redemption passed, ... and, . . though in Heaven these\nmeasured spaces of time that appear so great to men are as a mere\nworld's month of summer, . . still, to me, for once God's golden days\nseemed long! I had lost THEE! Thou wert my soul's other soul, my\nking!--my immortality's completion! ... and though thou wert, alas! a\nfallen brightness, yet I held fast to my one hope, . . the hope in thy\ndiviner nature, which, though sorely overcome, WAS NOT, and COULD NOT\nBE wholly destroyed. I knew the fate in store for thee, . . I knew that\nthou with other erring spirits wert bound to live again on earth when\nChrist had built His Holy Way therefrom to Heaven,--and never did I\ncease for thy dear sake to wait and watch and pray! At last I found\nthee, ... but ah! how I trembled for thy destiny! To thee had been\ndelivered, as to all the children of men, the final message of\nsalvation.. the Message of Love and Pardon which made all the angels\nwonder! ... but thou didst utterly reject it--and with the same willful\narrogance of thy former self, Sah-luma, thou wert blindly and\ndesperately turning anew into darkness! O my Beloved, that darkness\nmight have been eternal! ... and crowded with memories dating from the\nvery beginning of life! ... Nay, let me not speak of that Supernal\nAgony, since Christ hath died to quench its terrors! ... Enough!--by\nhappy chance, through my desire, thine own roused better will, and the\nstrength of one who hath many friends in Heaven, thy spirit was\nreleased to temporary liberty, . . and in thy vision at Dariel, which\nwas NO vision, but a Truth, I bade thee meet me here. And why? ...\nSOLELY TO TEST THY POWER OF OBEDIENCE TO A DIVINE IMPULSE UNEXPLAINABLE\nBY HUMAN REASON,--and I rejoiced as only angels can rejoice, when of\nthine own Free-Will thou didst keep the tryst I made with thee! Yet\nthou knewest me not! ... or rather thou WOULDST NOT KNOW ME, . . till I\nleft thee! ... 'Tis ever the way of mortals, to doubt their angels in\ndisguise!\"\n\nHer sweet accents shook with a liquid thrill suggestive of tears,--but\nhe was silent. It seemed to him that he would be well content to hold\nhis place forever, if forever he might hear her thus melodiously speak\non! Had she not called him her \"other soul, her king, her immortality's\ncompletion!\"--and on those wondrous words of hers his spirit hung,\nimpassioned, dazzled, and entranced beyond all Time and Space and\nNature and Experience!\n\nAfter a brief pause, during which his ravished mind floated among the\nthousand images and vague feelings of a whole Past and Future merged in\none splendid and celestial Present, she resumed, always softly and with\nthe same exquisite tenderness of tone:\n\n\"I left thee, Dearest, but a moment, ... and in that moment, He who\nhath himself shared in human sorrows and sympathies,--He who is the\nembodiment of the Essence of God's Love,--came to my aid. Plunging thy\nsenses in deep sleep, as hath been done before to many a saint and\nprophet of old time here on this very field of Ardath,--he summoned up\nbefore thee the phantoms of a PORTION of thy Past, ... phantoms which,\nto thee, seemed far more real than the living presence of thy faithful\nEdris! ... alas, my Beloved! ... thou art not the only one on the\nSorrowful Star who accepts a Dream for Reality and rejects Reality as a\nDream!\"\n\nShe paused again,--and again continued: \"Nevertheless, in some degree\nthy Vision of Al-Kyris was true, inasmuch as thou wert shown therein as\nin a mirror, ONE phase, ONE only of thy former existence upon earth.\nThe final episode was chosen,--as by the end of a man's days alone\nshall he be judged! As much as thy dreaming-sight was able to see,--as\nmuch as thy brain was able to bear, appeared before thee, ... but that\nthou, slumbering, wert yet a conscious Personality among Phantoms, and\nthat these phantoms spoke to thee, charmed thee, bewildered thee,\ntempted thee, and swayed thee, . . this was the Divine Master's work\nupon thine own retrospective Thought and Memory. He gave the shadows of\nthy bygone life, seeming color, sense, motion, and speech,--He blotted\nout from thy remembrance His own Most Holy Name, . . and, shutting up\nthe Present from thy gaze, He sent thy spirit back into the Past.\nThere, thou, perplexed and sorrowful, didst painfully re-weave the last\nfragments of thy former history, . . and not till thou hadst abandoned\nthe Shadow of Thyself, didst thou escape from the fear of destruction!\nThen, when apparently all alone, and utterly forsaken, a cloud of\nangels circled round thee, . . THEN, at thy first repentant cry for\nhelp, He who has never left an earnest prayer unanswered bade me\ndescend hither, to waken and comfort thee! ... Oh, never was His\nbidding more joyously obeyed! Now I have plainly shown thee the\ninterpretation of thy Dream, . . and dost thou not comprehend the\nintention of the Highest in manifesting it unto thee? Remember the\nwords of God's Prophet of old:\n\n      \"'Behold the Field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory\n        hath the moon unveiled!\n      \"'And I beheld and was sore amazed, for I was no longer\n        Myself, but Another\n      \"'And the sword of death was in that Other's soul,--and yet\n        that Other was but Myself in pain\n      \"'And I knew not the things which were once familiar, and my\n        heart failed within me for very fear!'\"\n\nShe spoke the quaint and mystic lines with a grave, pure, rhythmic\nutterance that was like the far-off singing of sweet psalmody;--and\nwhen she ceased, the stillness that followed seemed quivering with the\nrich vibrations of her voice, ... the very air was surely rendered\nsofter and more delicate by such soul-moving sound!\n\nBut Theos, who had listened dumbly until now, began to feel a sudden\nsorrowful aching at his heart, a sense of coming desolation, . . a\nconsciousness that she would soon depart again, and leave him and, with\na mingled reverence and passion, he ventured to draw one of the fair\nhands that rested on his brows, down into his own clasp. He met with no\nresistance, and half-happy, half-agonized, he pressed his lips upon its\nsoft and dazzling whiteness, while the longing of his soul broke forth\nin words of fervid, irrepressible appeal.\n\n\"Edris!\" he implored.. \"If thou dost love me give me my death!\nHere,--now, at thy feet where I kneel! ... of what avail is it for me\nto struggle in this dark and difficult world? ... O deprive me of this\nfluctuating breath called Life and let me live indeed! I understand.. I\nknow all thou hast said,--I have learned my own sins as in a glass\ndarkly,--I have lived on earth before, and as it seems, made no good\nuse of life, ... and now: now I have found THEE! Then why must I lose\nthee? ... thou who camest to me so sweetly at the first? ... Nay, I\ncannot part from thee--I will not! ... If thou leavest me, I have no\nstrength to follow thee; I shall but miss the way to thine abode!\"\n\n\"Thou canst not miss the way!\"--responded Edris softly, . . \"Look up,\nmy Theos,--be of good cheer, thou Poet to whom Heaven's greatest gifts\nof Song are now accorded! Look up and tell me, . . is not the way made\nplain?\"\n\nSlowly and in reverential fear, he obeyed, and raised his eyes, still\nholding her by the hand,--and saw behind her a distinctly marked shadow\nthat seemed flung downward by the reflection of some brilliant light\nabove, . . the shadow of a Cross, against which her delicate figure\nstood forth in shining outlines. Seeing, he understood,--but\nnevertheless his mind grew more and more disquieted. A thousand\nmisgivings crowded upon him,--he thought of the world, . . he\nremembered what it was, . . he was living in an age of heresy and\nwanton unbelief, where not only Christ's Divinity was made blasphemous\nmock of, but where even God's existence was itself called in question..\nand as for ANGELS! ... a sort of shock ran through his nerves as he\nreflected that though preachers preached concerning these supernatural\nbeings,--though the very birth of Christ rested on Angels'\ntestimony,--though poets wrote of them, and painters strove to\ndelineate them on their most famous canvases, each and all thus\nPRACTICALLY DEMONSTRATING THE SECRET INSTINCTIVE INTUITION OF HUMANITY\nthat such celestial Forms ARE,--yet it was most absolutely certain that\nnot a man in the prosaic nineteenth century would, if asked, admit, to\nany actual belief in their existence! Inconsistent? ... yes!--but are\nnot men more inconsistent than the very beasts of the field their\ntyranny controls? What, as a rule, DO men believe in? ... Themselves!\n... only themselves! They are, in their own opinion, the Be-All and the\nEnd-All of everything! ... as if the Supreme Creative Force called God\nwere incapable of designing any Higher Form of Thinking-Life than their\npigmy bodies which strut on two legs and, with two eyes and a small,\nquickly staggered brain, profess to understand and weigh the whole\nfoundation and plan of the Universe!\n\nGrowing swiftly conscious of all that in the Purgatory of the Present\nawaited him, Theos felt as though the earth-chasm that had swallowed up\nAl-Kyris in his dream had opened again before him, affrighting him with\nits black depth of nothingness and annihilation,--and in a sudden agony\nof self-distrust he gazed yearningly at the fair, wistful face above\nhim, . . the divine beauty that was HIS after all, if he only knew how\nto claim it!--Something, he knew not what, filled him with a fiery\nrestlessness,--a passion of protest and aspiration, which for a moment\nwas so strong that it seemed to him he must, with one fierce effort,\nwrench himself free from the trammels of mortality, and straightway\ntake upon him the majesty of immortal nature, and so bear his Angel\nlove company whithersoever she went! Never had the fetters of flesh\nweighed upon him with such-heaviness! ... but, in spite of his feverish\nlonging to escape, some authoritative yet gentle Force held him\nprisoner.\n\n\"God!\" he muttered ... \"Why am I thus bound?--why can I not be free?\"\n\n\"Because thy time for freedom has not come!\" said Edris, quickly\nanswering his thought ... \"Because thou hast work to do that is not yet\ndone! Thy poet labors have, up till now, been merely REPETITION, ...\nthe repetition of thy Former Self, ... Go! the tired world waits for a\nnew Gospel of Poesy, ... a new song that shall rouse it from its\napathy, and bring it closer unto God and all things high and fair!\nWrite!--for the nations wait for a trumpet-voice of Truth! ... the\ngreat poets are dead, . . their spirits are in Heaven, . . and there is\nnone to replace them on the Sorrowful Star save THOU! Not for Fame do\nthy work--nor for Wealth, . . but for Love and the Glory of God!--for\nLove of Humanity, for Love of the Beautiful, the Pure, the Holy! ...\nlet the race of men hear one more faithful Apostle of the Divine\nUnseen, ere Earth is lost in the withering light of a larger Creation!\nGo! ... perform thy long-neglected mission,--that mission of all poets\nworthy the name.. TO RAISE THE WORLD! Thou shalt not lack strength nor\nfervor, so long as thou dost write for the benefit of others. Serve God\nand live!--serve Self and die! Such is the Eternal Law of Spheres\nInvisible, . . the less thou seest of Self, the more thou seest of\nHeaven! ... thrust Self away, and lo! God invests thee with His\nPresence! Go forth into the world, . . a King uncrowned, . . a Master\nof Song, . . and fear not that I, Edris, will forsake thee,--I, who\nhave loved thee since the birth of Time!\"\n\nHe met her beautiful, luminous, inspired eyes, with a sad\ninterrogativeness in his own. What a hard fate was meted out to him!\n... To teach the world that scoffed at teaching!--to rouse the\ngold-thirsting mass of men to a new sense of things divine! O vain\ntask!--O dreary impossibility! ... Enough surely, to guide his own Will\naright, without making any attempt to guide the wills of others!\n\nHer mandate seemed to him almost cruel,--it was like driving him into a\nhowling wilderness, when with one touch, one kiss, she might transport\nhim into Paradise! If SHE were in the world, . . if SHE were always\nwith him.. ah! then how different, how easy life would be! Again he\nthought of those strange entrancing words of hers.. \"My other soul, . .\nmy king.. my immortality's completion!\"--and a sudden wild idea took\nswift possession of his brain.\n\n\"Edris!\" he cried.. \"If I may not yet come to thee, then come THOU to\nme! ... Dwell thou with me! ... O by the force of my love, which God\nknoweth, let me draw thee, thou fair Light, into my heart's gloom! Hear\nme while I swear my faith to thee as at some holy shrine! ... As I\nlive, with all my soul I do accept thy Master Christ, as mine utmost\ngood, and His Cross as my proudest glory! ... but yet, bethink thee,\nEdris, bethink thee of this world,--its wilful sin, its scorn of God,\nand all the evil that like a spreading thunder-cloud darkens it day by\nday! Oh, wilt thou leave me desolate and alone? ... Fight as I will, I\nshall often sink under blows, . . conquer as I may, I shall suffer the\nsolitude of conquest, unless THOU art with me! Oh, speak!--is there no\ndeeper divine intention in the marvellous destiny that has brought us\ntogether?--thou, pure Spirit, and I, weak Mortal? Has love, the primal\nmover of all things, no hold upon thee? ... If I am, as thou sayest,\nthy Beloved, loved by thee so long, even while forgetful of and\nunworthy of thy love, can I not NOW,--now when I am all\nthine,--persuade thee to compassionate the rest of my brief life on\nearth? ... Thou art in woman's shape here on this Field of Ardath,--and\nyet thou art not woman! Oh, could my love constrain thee in God's Name,\nto wear the mask of mortal body for my sake, would not our union even\nnow make the Sorrowful Star seem fair? ... Love, love, love! Come to\nmine aid, and teach me how to shut the wings of this sweet bird of\nparadise in mine own breast! ... God! Spare her to me for one of Thy\nsweet moments which are our mortal years! ... Christ, who became a mere\nchild for pity of us, let me learn from Thee the mystic spell that\nmakes Thine angel mine!\"\n\nCarried away by his own forceful emotion he hardly knew what he said, .\n. but an unspeakable, dizzy joy flooded his soul, as he caught the look\nshe gave him! ... a wild, sweet, amazed, half-tender, half-agonized,\nwholly HUMAN look, suggestive of the most marvellous possibilities! One\neffort and she released her hand from his, and moved a little apart,\nher eyes kindling with celestial sympathy in which there was the very\nfaintest touch of self-surrender. Self-surrender? ... what! from an\nAngel to a mortal? ... Ah no! ... it could not be,--yet he felt filled\nall at once with a terrible sense of power that at the same time was\nmingled with the deepest humility and fear.\n\n\"Hush!\"--she said, and her lovely, low voice was\ntremulous,--\"Hush!--Thou dost speak as if we were already in God's\nWorld! I love thee, Theos! ... and truly, because thou art prisoned\nhere, I love the sad Earth also! ... but dost thou think to what thou\nwouldst so eagerly persuade me? To live a mortal life? ... to die? ...\nto pass through the darkest phase of world-existence known in all the\nteeming spheres? Nay!\".. and a look of pathetic sorrow came over her\nface.. \"How could I, even for thee, my Theos, forsake my home in\nHeaven?\"\n\nHer last words were half-questioning, half-hesitating, ... her manner\nwas as of one in doubt.. and Theos, kneeling still, surveyed her in\nworshipping silence. Then he suddenly remembered what the Monk and\nMystic, Heliobas, had said to him at Dariel on the morning after his\ntrance of soul-liberty: . . \"If, as I conjecture, you have seen one of\nthe fair inhabitants of higher spheres than ours, you would not drag\nher spiritual and death-unconscious brightness down to the level of the\n'reality' of a mere human life? ... Nay, if you would you could not!\"\nAnd now, strange to say, he felt that he COULD but WOULD NOT; and he\nwas overcome with remorse and penitence for the egotistical nature of\nhis own appeal.\n\n\"My love--my life!\" he said brokenly,--\"Forgive me,--forgive my selfish\nprayer! ... Self spoke,--not I, . . yet I had thought Self dead, and\nburied forever!\" A faint sigh escaped him ... \"Believe me, Sweet, I\nwould not have thee lose one hour of Heaven's ecstasies, . . I would\nnot have thee saddened by Earth's wilful miseries, ... no! not even for\nthat lightning-moment which numbers up man's mortal days! Speed back to\nAngel-land, my Edris!--I will love thee till I die, and leave the\nAfterward to Christ. Be glad, thou fairest, dearest One! ... unfurl thy\nrainbow wings and fly from me! ... and wander singing through the\ngroves of Heaven, making all Heaven musical, . . perchance in the\nsilence of the night I may catch the echo of thy voice and fancy thou\nart near! And trust me, Edris! ... trust me! ... for my faith will not\nfalter, ... my hope shall not waver, ... and though in the world I may,\nI MUST have tribulation, yet will I believe in Him who hath by simple\nlove overcome the world!\"\n\nHe ceased, . . a great quiet seemed to fall upon him,--the quiet of a\ndeep and passive resignation.\n\nEdris drew nearer to him,--timidly as a shy bird, yet with a wonderful\nsmile quivering on her lips, and in the clear depths of her starry\neyes. Very gently she placed her arms about his neck and looked down at\nhim with divinely compassionate tenderness.\n\n\"Thou beloved one!\" she said, \"Thou whose spirit was formerly equal to\nmine, and to all angels, in God's sight though through pride it fell!\nLearn that thou art nearer to me now than thou hast been for a myriad\nages! ... between us are renewed the strong, sweet ties that shall\nnevermore be broken, unless ...\" and her voice faltered,--\"Unless thou,\nof thine own Free Will, break them again in spite of all my prayers!\nFor, BECAUSE thou art immortal even as I, though thou art pent up in\nmortality, even so must thy Will remain immortally unfettered, and what\nthou dost firmly elect to do, God will not prevent. The Dream of thy\nPast was a lesson, not a command,--thou art free to forget or remember\nit as thou wilt while on earth, since it is only AFTER Death that\nMemory is ineffaceable, and, with its companion Remorse, constitutes\nHell. Obey God, or disobey Him,--He will not force thee either way, . .\nconstrained love hath no value! Only this is the Universal Law,--that\nwhosoever disobeys, his disobedience recoils on his own head as of\nNecessity it MUST,--whereas obedience is the working in perfect harmony\nwith all Nature, and of equal Necessity brings its own reward. Cling to\nthe Cross for one moment.. the moment called by mortals, Life, ... and\nit shall lift thee straightway into highest Heaven! There will I wait\nfor thee,--and there thou shalt make me thine own forever!\"\n\nHe sighed and gazed at her wistfully.\n\n\"Alas, my Edris! ... Not till then?\" he murmured.\n\nShe bent over him and kissed his forehead,--a caress as brief and light\nas the passing flutter of a bird's wing.\n\n\"Not till then!\"--she whispered--\"Unless the longing of thy love\ncompels!\"\n\nHe started. What did she mean? ... His eyes flashed eager inquiry into\nhers, so soft and brilliantly clear, with the light of an eternal peace\ndwelling in their liquid, mysterious loveliness,--and meeting his\nquestioning look, the angelic smile brightened more gloriously round\nher lips. But there was now something altogether unearthly in her\nbeauty, ... a wondrous inward luminousness began to transfigure her\nface and form, . . he saw her garments whiten to a sparkling radiance\nas of sunbeams on snow, ... the halo round her bright hair deepened\ninto flame-like glory--her stature grew loftier, and became as it were\nendowed with supreme and splendid majesty, . . and the exquisite\nfairness of her countenance waxed warmly transparent, with the delicate\nhue of a white rose, through which the pink color faintly flushes soft\nsuggestions of ruddier life. His gaze dwelt upon her in unspeakable\nwondering adoration, mingled with a sense of irrepressible sorrow and\nheaviness of heart, ... he felt she was about to leave him, . . and was\nit not a parting of soul from soul?\n\nJust then the Sun stepped royally forth from between the red and gold\ncurtains of the east,--and in that blaze of earth's life-radiance her\nfigure became resplendently invested with vivid rays of roseate lustre\nthat far surpassed the amber shining of the Orb of day! Awed, dazzled,\nand utterly overcome, he yet strove to keep his straining eyes steadily\nupon her,--conscious that her smile still blessed him with its\ntenderness, ... he made a wild effort to drag himself nearer to her, .\n. to touch once more the glittering edge of her robe ... to detain her\none little, little moment longer! Ah! how wistfully, how fondly she\nlooked upon him! ... Almost it seemed as if she might, after all,\nconsent to stay! ... He stretched out his arms with a pathetic gesture\nof love, fear, and soul-passionate supplication.\n\n\"Edris! ... Edris!\".. he cried half despairingly. \"Oh, by the strength\nof thine Angelhood have pity on the weakness of my Manhood!\"\n\nSurely she heard, or seemed to hear! ... and yet she gave no answer!\n... No sign! ... No promise!--no gesture of farewell! ... only a look\nof divine, compassionating, perfect love, . . a look so pure, so\npenetrating, so true, so rapturous, that flesh and blood could bear the\nglory of her transfigured Presence no longer,--and blind with the\nburning effulgence of her beauty, he shut his eyes and covered his\nface. He knew now, if he had never known it before, what was meant by\n\"an Angel standing in the sun!\" [Footnote: Revelation, chap, xix., 17.]\nMoreover, he also knew that what Humanity calls \"miracles\" ARE\npossible, and DO happen,--and that instead of being violations of the\nLaw of Nature as we understand it, they are but confirmations of that\nLaw in its DEEPER DEPTHS,--depths which, controlled by Spiritual Force\nalone, have not as yet been sounded by the most searching scientists.\nAnd what is Material Force but the visible manifestation of the\nSpiritual behind it? ... He who accepts the Material and denies the\nSpiritual, is in the untenable position of one who admits an Effect and\ndenies a Cause! And if both Spiritual and Material BE accepted, then\nhow can we reasonably dare to set a limit to the manifestations of\neither the one or the other?\n\n     *     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nWhen he at last looked up, Edris had vanished! He was alone, . . alone\non the Field of Ardath, ... the field that was \"barren\" in very truth,\nnow she, his Angel, had been drawn away, as it seemed, into the\nsunlight, . . absorbed like a paradise-pearl into those rays of\nlife-giving gold that lit and warmed the reddening earth and heaven!\n\nSlowly and dizzily he rose to his feet, and gazed about him in vague\nbewilderment. He had passed ONE NIGHT on the field! One night only! ...\nand he felt as though he had lived through years of experience! Now,\nthe VISION was ended, . . Edris, the REALITY, had fled, . . and the\nWorld was before him, . . the World, with all the unsatisfying things\nit grudgingly offers, . . the World in which Al-Kyris had been a \"City\nMagnificent\" in the centuries gone,--and in which he, too, had played\nhis part before, and had won fame, to be forgotten as soon as dead!\nFame! ... how he had longed and thirsted for it! ... and what a\nfoolish, undesirable distinction it seemed to him now!\n\nSteadying his thoughts by a few moments of calm reflection, he\nremembered what he had in charge to do, . . TO REDEEM HIS PAST. To use\nand expend whatever force was in him for the good, the help, the\nconsolement, and the love of others, ... NOT to benefit himself! This\nwas his task, . . and the very comprehension of it gave him a rush of\nvigor and virile energy that at once lifted the cloud of\nlove-loneliness from his soul.\n\n\"My Edris!\" he whispered.. \"Thou shalt have no cause to weep for me in\nHeaven again! ... with God's help I will win back my lost heritage!\"\n\nAs he spoke the words his eyes caught a glimpse of something white on\nthe turf where, but a moment since, his Angel-love had stood,--he\nstooped toward it, . . it was one half-opened bud of the wonderful\n\"Ardath-flowers\" that had covered the field in such singular profusion\non the previous night when she first appeared. One only! ... might he\nnot gather it?\n\nHe hesitated, . . then very gently and reverently broke it off, and\ntenderly bore it to his lips. What a beautiful blossom it was! ... its\nfragrance was unlike that of any other flower,--its whiteness was more\npure and soft than that of the rarest edelweiss on Alpine snows, and\nits partially disclosed golden centre had an almost luminous\nbrightness. As he held it in his hand, all sorts of vague, delicious\nthoughts came sweeping across his brain, ... thoughts that seemed to\nset themselves to music wild and strange and NEW, and suggestive of the\nsweetest, noblest influences! A thrill of expectation stirred in him,\nas of great and good things to be done,--grand changes to be wrought in\nthe complex web of human destiny, brought about by the quickening and\ndevelopment of a pure, unselfish, spiritual force, that might with\nsaving benefit flow into the perplexed and weary intelligence of man; .\n. and cheered, invigorated, and conscious of a circling, widening,\never-present Supreme Power that with all-surrounding love was ever on\nthe side of work done for love's sake, he gently shut the flower within\nhis breast, resolving to carry it with him wheresoever he went as a\ntoken and proof of the \"signs and wonders\" of the Prophet's Field.\n\nAnd now he prepared to quit the scene of his mystic Vision, in which he\nhad followed with prescient pain the brief, bright career, the useless\nfame, the evil love-passion, and final fate of his Former Self,--and\ncrossing the field with lingering tread, he looked back many times to\nthe fallen block of stone where he had sat when he had first perceived\nGod's maiden Edris, stepping softly through the bloom. When should he\nagain meet her? Alas! ... not till Death, the beautiful and beneficent\nHerald of true Liberty, summoned him to those lofty heights of Paradise\nwhere she had habitation. Not till then, unless, ... unless, ... and\nhis heart beat with a sudden tumult as he recollected her last words, .\n. \"UNLESS THE LONGING OF THY LOVE COMPELS!\"\n\nCould love COMPEL her, he wondered, to come to him once more while yet\nhe lived on earth? Perhaps! ... and yet if he indeed had such power of\nlove, would it be generous or just to exert it? No! ... for to draw her\ndown from Heaven to Earth seemed to him now a sort of\nsacrilege,--dearer to him was HER joy than his own! But suppose the\npossibility of her being actually HAPPY with him in mortal existence,\n... suppose that Love, when absolutely pure, unselfishly mutual,\nhelpful, and steadfast, had it in its gift to make even the Sorrowful\nStar a Heaven in miniature, what then?\n\nHe would not trust himself to think of this! ... the mere shadowy\nsuggestion of such supreme delight filled him with a strong passion of\nyearning, to which in his accepted creed of Self-abnegation he dared\nnot yield! Firmly restraining, resisting, and renouncing his own\ndesires, he mentally raised a holy shrine for her in his soul, ... a\nshrine of pure faith, warm with eternal aspirations and bright with\ntruth, wherein he hallowed the memory of her beauty with a sense of\ndevout, love-like gladness. She was safe.. she was content, . . she\nblossomed flower-like in the highest gardens of God where all things\nfared well;--enough for him to worship her at a distance, . . to keep\nthe clear reflection of her loveliness in his mind, ... and to live, so\nthat he might deserve to follow and find her when his work on earth was\ndone. Moreover, Heaven to him was no longer a vague, mythical realm,\nill-defined by the prosy descriptions of church-preachers,--it was an\nactual WORLD to which HE was linked,--in which HE had possessions, of\nwhich HE was a native, and for the perpetuation and enlargement of\nwhose splendor ALL worlds existed!\n\nArrived at the boundary of the field, the spot marked by the broken\nhalf-buried pillar of red granite Heliobas had mentioned, he\npaused--thinking dreamily of the words of Esdras, who in answer to his\nAngel-visitant's inquiry: \"Why art thou disquieted?\" had replied:\n\"Because thou hast forsaken me, and yet I did according to thy words,\nand I went into the field, and lo! I have seen and yet see, that I am\nnot able to express.\" Whereupon the Angel had said, \"Stand up manfully\nand I will advise thee!\"\n\n\"Stand up manfully!\" Yes! ... this is what he, Theos Alwyn, meant to\ndo. He would \"stand up manfully\" against the howling iconoclasm and\natheism of the Age,--he would be Poet henceforth in the true meaning of\nthe word, namely Maker, . . he would MAKE not BREAK the grand ideal\nhopes and heaven-climbing ambitions of Humanity! ... he would endeavor\nhis utmost best to be that \"Hierarch and Pontiff of the world\"--as a\nmodern rugged Apostle of Truth has nobly said,--\"who Prometheus-like\ncan shape new Symbols and bring new fire from heaven to fix them into\nthe deep, infinite faculties of Man.\"\n\nWith a brief silent prayer, he turned away at last, and walked slowly,\nin the lovely silence of the early Eastern morning, back to the place\nfrom whence he had last night wandered,--the Hermitage of Elzear, near\nthe Ruins of Babylon. He soon came in sight of it, and also perceived\nElzear himself, stooping over a small plot of ground in front of his\ndwelling, apparently gathering herbs. When he approached, the old man\nlooked up and smiled, giving him a silent, expressively courteous\nmorning greeting,--by his manner it was evident that he thought his\nguest had merely been out for an early stroll ere the heat of the day\nset in. And yet Al-Kyris! ... How real had seemed that dream-existence\nin that dream-city! The figure of Elzear looked scarcely more\nsubstantial than the phantom-forms of Sah-luma, Zephoranim, Khosrul,\nZuriel, or Zabastes,--while Lysia's exquisite face and seductive form,\nNiphrata's pensive beauty, and all the local characteristics of the\nplace, were stamped on the dreamer's memory as faithfully as scenes\nflashed by the sun on the plates of photography! True, the pictures\nwere perhaps now slightly fading into the similitude of pale negatives,\n. . but still, would not everything that happened in the ACTUAL world\nmerge into that same undecided dimness with the lapse of time?\n\nHe thought so, . . and smiled at the thought, ... the transitory nature\nof earthly things was a subject for joy to him now,--not regret. With a\nkindly word or two to his venerable host, he went through the open door\nof the Hermitage, and entered the little room he had left only a few\nhours previously. It appeared to him as familiar and UNfamiliar as\nAl-Kyris itself! ... till raising his eyes he saw the great Crucifix\nagainst the wall,--the sacred Symbol whose meaning he had forgotten and\nhopelessly longed for in his Dream,--and from which, before his visit\nto the field of Ardath, he had turned with a sense of bitter scorn and\nproud rejection. But NOW! ... Now he gazed upon it in unspeakable\nremorse,--in tenderest desire to atone, ... the sweet, grave, patient\nEyes of the holy Figure seemed to meet his with a wondrous challenge of\nlove, longing, and most fraternal, sympathetic comprehension of his\nnature.... he paused, looking, ... and the pre-eminently false words\nof George Herbert suddenly occurred to him, \"Thy Saviour sentenced\njoy!\" O blasphemy! ... SENTENCED joy? Nay!--rather re-created it, and\ninvested it with divine certainties, beyond all temporal change or\nevanishment! ... Yielding to a swift impulse, he threw himself on his\nknees, and with clasped hands, leaned his brows against the feet of the\nsculptured Christ. There he rested in wordless peace,--his whole soul\nentranced in a divine passion of faith, hope, and love ... there with\nthe \"Ardath flower\" in his breast, he consecrated his life to the\nHighest Good,--and there in absolute humility, and pure, child-like\ndevotion, he crucified SELF forever!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART III.--POET AND ANGEL.\n\n\n \"O Golden Hair! ... O Gladness of an Hour\n  Made flesh and blood!\"\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n \"Who speaks of glory and the force of love\n  And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!\n  With all the coyness, all the beauty sheen\n  Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,\n  A queen of peace art thou,--and on thy head\n  The golden light of all thy hair is shed\n  Most nimbus-like, and most suggestive too\n  Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded.\"\n\n       *     *     *     *     *\n\n \"Our thoughts are free,--and mine have found at last\n  Their apt solution; and from out the Past\n  There seems to shine as 'twere a beacon-fire:\n  And all the land is lit with large desire\n  Of lambent glory; all the quivering sea\n  Is big with waves that wait the Morn's decree\n  As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile\n  Athwart the splendors of my dreams of thee!\"\n\n          --\"A Lover's Litanies.\"--ERIC MACKAY.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nFRESH LAURELS.\n\n\nIt was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed in a melancholy\nfog,--a fog too dense to be more than temporarily disturbed even by the\nsudden gusts of the bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily, sometimes\nchanging to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the slippery roads\nand pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and stirring up much\nirritation in the minds of those ill-fated foot-passengers whom\nbusiness, certainly not pleasure, forced to encounter the\ninconveniences of the weather. Against one house in particular--an\nold-fashioned, irregular building situated in a somewhat out-of-the-way\nbut picturesque part of Kensington--the cold, wet blast blew with\nspecially keen ferocity, as though it were angered by the sounds\nwithin,--sounds that in truth rather resembled its own cross groaning.\nCurious short grunts and plaintive cries, interspersed with an\noccasional pathetic long-drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea that\nsomebody was playing, or trying to play, on a refractory stringed\ninstrument, the well-worn composition known as Raff's \"Cavatina.\" And,\nin fact, had the vexed wind been able to break through the wall and\nembody itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered the\nproducer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the\nHonorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor so\noften displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently\nendeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello. He adored\nhis big instrument,--the more unmanageable it became in his hands, the\nmore he loved it. Its grumbling complaints at his unskilful touch\ndelighted him,--when he could succeed in awakening a peevish dull sob\nfrom its troubled depths, he felt a positive thrill of almost\nprofessional triumph,--and he refused to be daunted in his efforts by\nthe frequently barbaric clamor his awkward bowing wrung from the\ntortured strings. He tried every sort of music, easy and intricate--and\nhis happiest hours were those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted\nin anxious scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth of a\nsonata or fantasia much too complex for any one but a trained artist,\nenjoying to the full the mental excitement of the discordant struggle,\nand comfortably conscious that as his residence was \"detached,\" no\nobtrusive neighbor could either warn him to desist, or set up an\nopposition nuisance next door by constant practice on the distressingly\nover-popular piano. One thing very much in his favor was, that he never\nmanifested any desire to perform in public. No one had ever heard him\nplay, . . he pursued his favorite amusement in solitude, and was amply\nsatisfied, if when questioned on the subject of music, he could find an\nopportunity to say with a conscious-modest air, \"MY instrument is the\n'cello.\" That was quite enough self-assertion for him, . . and if any\none ever urged him to display his talent, he would elude the request\nwith such charming grace and diffidence, that many people imagined he\nmust really be a great musical genius who only lacked the necessary\ninsolence and aplomb to make that genius known.\n\nThe 'cello apart, Villiers was very generally recognized as a\ndiscerning dilettante in most matters artistic. He was an excellent\njudge of literature, painting, and sculpture, . . his house, though\nsmall, was a perfect model of taste in design and adornment, . . he\nknew where to pick up choice bits of antique furniture, dainty\nporcelain, bronzes, and wood-carvings, while in the acquisition of rare\nbooks he was justly considered a notable connoisseur. His delicate and\nfastidious instincts were displayed in the very arrangement of his\nnumerous volumes, ... none were placed on such high shelves as to be\nout of hand reach, . . all were within close touch and ready to\ncommand, ranged in low, carved oak cases or on revolving stands, ...\nwhile a few particularly rare editions and first folios were shut in\ncurious little side niches with locked glass-doors, somewhat resembling\nsmall shrines such as are used for the reception of sacred relics. The\napartment he called his \"den\"--where he now sat practising the\n\"Cavatina\" for about the two-hundredth time--was perhaps the most\nfascinating nook in the whole house, inasmuch as it contained a little\nbit of everything, arranged with that perfect attention to detail which\nmakes each object, small and great, appear not only ornamental, but\npositively necessary. In one corner a quaint old jar overflowed with\nthe brightness of fresh yellow daffodils; in another a long, tapering\nVenetian vase held feathery clusters of African grass and fern, . .\nhere the medallion of a Greek philosopher or Roman Emperor gleamed\nwhitely against the sombrely painted wall; there a Rembrandt portrait\nflashed out from the semi-obscure background of some rich, carefully\ndisposed fold of drapery,--while a few admirable casts from the antique\nlit up the deeper shadows of the room, such as the immortally youthful\nhead of the Apollo Belvedere, the wisely serene countenance of the\nPallas Athene that Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles.\n\nJudging from his outward appearance only, few would have given Villiers\ncredit for being the man of penetrative and almost classic refinement\nhe really was,--he looked far more athletic than aesthetic.\nBroad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a round, blunt head firmly set\non a full, strong throat, he had, on the whole, a somewhat obstinate\nand pugilistic air which totally belied his nature. His features, open\nand ruddy, were, without being handsome, decidedly attractive--the\nmouth was rather large, yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and\nsparklingly suggestive of a native inborn love of humor. There was\nsomething fresh and piquant in the very expression of naive\nbewilderment with which he now adjusted his eyeglass--a wholly\nunnecessary appendage--and set himself strenuously to examine anew the\nchords of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought so\neasy and which he found so puzzling, . . he could manage the simple\nmelody fairly well, but the chords!\n\n\"They are the very devil!\".. he murmured plaintively, staring at the\nscore, and hitching up his unruly instrument more securely against his\nknee, . . \"Perhaps the bow wants a little rosin.\"\n\nThis was one of his minor weaknesses,--he would never quite admit that\nfalse notes were his own fault. \"They COULDN'T be, you know!\" he mildly\nargued, addressing the obtrusive neck of the 'cello, which had a\ncurious, stubborn way of poking itself into his chin, and causing him\nto wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in which he held it\nhad nothing to do with this awkward occurrence! \"I'm not such a fool as\nnot to understand how to find the right notes, after all my practice!\nThere's something wrong with the strings,--or the bridge has gone\nawry,--or\"--and this was his last resource--\"the bow wants more rosin!\"\n\nThus he hugged himself in deliciously wilful ignorance of his own\nshortcomings, and shut his ears to the whispered reproaches of musical\nconscience. Had he been married his wife would no doubt have lost no\ntime in enlightening him,--she would have told him he was a wretched\nplayer, that his scrapings on the 'cello were enough to drive one mad,\nand sundry other assurances of the perfectly conjugal type of\nfrankness,--but as it chanced he was a happy bachelor, a free and\nindependent man with more than sufficient means to gratify his\nparticular tastes and whims. He was partner in a steadily prosperous\nbanking concern, and had just enough to do to keep him pleasantly and\nprofitably occupied. Asked why he did not marry, he replied with blunt\nand almost brutal honesty, that he had never yet met a woman whose\nconversation he could stand for more than an hour.\n\n\"Silly or clever,\" he said, \"they are all possessed of the same\ninfinite tedium. Either they say nothing, or they say everything; they\nare always at the two extremes, and announce themselves as dunces or\nblue-stockings. One wants the just medium,--the dainty commingling of\nsimplicity and wisdom that shall yet be pure womanly,--and this is\nprecisely the jewel 'far above rubies' that one cannot find. I've given\nup the search long ago, and am entirely resigned to my lot. I like\nwomen very well--I may say very much--as friends, but to take one on\nchance as a comrade for life! ... No, thank you!\"\n\nSuch was his fixed opinion and consequent rejection of matrimony; and\nfor the rest, he studied art and literature and became an authority on\nboth; so much so that on one occasion he kept a goodly number of people\naway from visiting the Royal Academy Exhibition, he having voted it a\n\"disgrace to Art.\"\n\n\"English artists occupy the last grade in the whole school of\npainting,\" he had said indignantly, with that decisive manner of his\nwhich somehow or other carried conviction, . . \"The very Dutch surpass\nthem; and instead of trying to raise their standard, each year sees\nthem grovelling in lower depths. The Academy is becoming a mere gallery\nof portraits, painted to please the caprices of vain men and women, at\na thousand or two thousand guineas apiece; ugly portraits, too, woodeny\nportraits, utterly uninteresting portraits of prosaic nobodies. Who\ncares to see 'No. 154. Mrs. Flummery in her presentation-dress'..\nexcept Mrs. Flummery's own particular friends? ... or '283. Miss Smox,\neldest daughter of Professor A. T. Smox,' or '516. Baines Bryce, Esq.'?\n... Who IS Baines Bryce? ... Nobody ever heard of him before. He may be\na retired pork-butcher for all any one knows! Portraits, even of\ncelebrities, are a mistake. Take Algernon Charles Swinburne, for\ninstance, the man who, when left to himself, writes some of the\ngrandest lines in the English language, HE had his portrait in the\nAcademy, and everybody ran away from it, it was such an unutterable\nhideous disappointment. It was a positive libel of course, . .\nSwinburne has fine eyes and a still finer brow, but instead of\nidealizing the POET in him, the silly artist painted him as if he had\nno more intellectual distinction than a bill-sticker! ... English art!\n... pooh! ... don't speak to me about it! Go to Spain, Italy,\nBavaria--see what THEY can do, and then say a Miserere for the sins of\nthe R A's!\"\n\nThus he would talk, and his criticisms carried weight with a tolerably\nlarge circle of influential and wealthy persons, who when they called\nupon him, and saw the perfection of his house and the rarity of his art\ncollections, came at once to the conclusion that it would be wise, as\nwell as advantageous to themselves, to consult him before purchasing\npictures, books, statues, or china, so that he occupied the powerful\nposition of being able with a word to start an artist's reputation or\ndepreciate it, as he chose,--a distinction he had not desired, and\nwhich was often a source of trouble to him, because there were so few,\nso very few, whose work he felt he could conscientiously approve and\nencourage. He was eminently good-natured and sympathetic; he would not\ngive pain to others without being infinitely more pained himself; and\nyet, for all his amiability, there was a stubborn instinct in him which\nforbade him to promote, by word or look, the fatal nineteenth century\nspread of mediocrity. Either a thing must be truly great and capable of\nbeing measured by the highest standards, or for him it had no value.\nThis rule he carried out in all branches of art,--except his own\n'cello-playing. That was NOT great,--that would never be great,--but it\nwas his pet pastime; he chose it in preference to the billiards,\nbetting, and bar-lounging that make up the amusements of the majority\nof the hopeful manhood of London, and, as has already been said, he\nnever inflicted it upon others.\n\nHe rubbed the rosin now thoughtfully up and down his bow, and glanced\nat the quaint old clock--an importation from Nurnberg--that ticked\nsolemnly in one corner near the deep bay-window, across which the heavy\nolive green plush curtains were drawn, to shut out the penetrating\nchill of the wind. It wanted ten minutes to nine. He had given orders\nto his man servant that he was on no account to be disturbed that\nevening, . . no matter what visitors called for him, none were to be\nadmitted. He had made up his mind to have a long and energetic\npractice, and he felt a secret satisfaction as he heard the steady\npatter of the rain outside, . . the very weather favored his desire for\nsolitude,--no one was likely to venture forth on such a night.\n\nStill gravely rubbing his brow, his eyes travelled from the clock in\nthe corner to a photograph on the mantel-shelf--the photograph of a\nman's face, dark, haughty, beautiful, yet repellent in its beauty, and\nwith a certain hard sternness in its outline--the face of Theos Alwyn.\nFrom this portrait his glance wandered to the table, where, amid a\npicturesque litter of books and papers, lay a square, simply bound\nvolume, with an ivory leaf-cutter thrust in it to mark the place where\nthe reader left off, and its title plainly lettered in gold at the\nback--\"NOURHALMA.\"\n\n\"I wonder where he is!\" ... he mused, his thoughts naturally reverting\nto the author of the book.. \"He cannot know what all London knows, or\nsurely he would be back here like a shot! It is six months ago now\nsince I received his letter and that poem in manuscript from Tiflis in\nArmenia,--and not another line has he sent to tell me of his\nwhereabouts! Curious fellow he is! ... but, by Jove, what a genius! No\nwonder he has besieged Fame and taken it by storm! I don't remember any\nsimilar instance, except that of Byron, in which such an unprecedented\nreputation was made so suddenly! And in Byron's case it was more the\ndomestic scandal about him than his actual merit that made him the\nrage, . . now the world knows literally nothing about Alwyn's private\nlife or character--there's no woman in his history that I know of--no\nvice, ... he hasn't outraged the law, upset morals, flouted at decency,\nor done anything that according to modern fashions OUGHT to have made\nhim famous--no! ... he has simply produced a perfect poem, stately,\ngrand, pure, and pathetic,--and all of a sudden some secret spring in\nthe human heart is touched, some long-closed valve opened, and lo and\nbehold, all intellectual society is raving about him,--his name is in\neverybody's mouth, his book in every one's hands. I don't altogether\nlike his being made the subject of a 'craze';--experience shows me it's\na kind of thing that doesn't last. In fact, it CAN'T last.. the\nreaction invariably sets in. And the English public is, of all publics,\nthe most insane in its periodical frenzies, and the most capricious.\nNow, it is all agog for a 'shilling sensational'--then it discusses\nitself hoarse over a one-sided theological novel made up out of\ntheories long ago propounded and exhaustively set forth by Voltaire,\nand others of his school,--anon it revels in the gross descriptions of\nshameless vice depicted in an 'accurately translated' romance of the\nParis slums,--now it writes thousands of letters to a black man, to\nsympathize With him because he has been CALLED black!--could anything\nbe more absurd! ... it has even followed the departure of an elephant\nfrom the Zoo in weeping crowds! However, I wish all the crazes to which\nit is subject were as harmless and wholesome as the one that has seized\nit for Alwyn's book,--for if true poetry were brought to the front,\ninstead of being, as it often is, sneered at and kept in the\nbackground, we should have a chance of regaining the lost Divine Art,\nthat, wherever it has been worthily followed, has proved the glory of\nthe greatest nations. And then we should not have to put up with such\ndetestable inanities as are produced every day by persons calling\nthemselves poets, who are scarcely fit to write mottoes for dessert\ncrackers, . . and we might escape for good and all from the infliction\nof 'magazine-verse,' which is emphatically a positive affront to the\nhuman intelligence. Ah me! what wretched upholders we are of\nShakespeare's standard! ... Keats was our last splendor,--then there is\nan unfilled gap, bridged in part by Tennyson..... and now comes Alwyn\nblazing abroad like a veritable meteor,--only I believe he will do more\nthan merely flare across the heavens,--he promises to become a notable\nfixed star.\"\n\nHere he smiled, somewhat pleased with his own skill in metaphor, and\nhaving rubbed his bow enough, he drew it lingeringly across the 'cello\nstrings. A long, sweet, shuddering sound rewarded him, like the upward\nwave of a wind among high trees, and he heard it with much\ngratification. He would try the Cavatina again now, he decided, and\nbringing his music-stand closer, he settled himself in readiness to\nbegin. Just then the Nurnberg clock commenced striking the hour,\naccompanying each stroke with a very soft and mellow little chime of\nbells that sent fairy-like echoes through the quiet room. A bright\nflame started up from the glowing fire in the grate, flinging ruddy\nflashes along the walls,--a rattling gust of rain dashed once at the\nwindows,--the tuneful clock ceased, and all was still. Villiers waited\na moment; then with heedful earnestness, started the first bar of\nRaff's oft-murdered composition, when a knock at the door disturbed him\nand considerably ruffled his equanimity.\n\n\"Come in!\" he called testily.\n\nHis man-servant appeared, a half-pleased, half-guilty look on his staid\ncountenance.\n\n\"Please, sir, a gentleman called--\"\n\n\"Well!--you said I was out?\"\n\n\"No, sir! leastways I thought you might be at home to him, sir!\"\n\n\"Confound you!\" exclaimed Villiers petulantly, throwing down his bow in\ndisgust,--\"What business had you to think anything about it? ... Didn't\nI tell you I wasn't at home to ANYBODY?\"\n\n\"Come, come, Villiers!\".. said a mellow voice outside, with a ripple of\nsuppressed laughter in its tone, . . \"Don't be inhospitable! I'm sure\nyou are at home to ME!\"\n\nAnd passing by the servant, who at once retired, the speaker entered\nthe apartment, lifted his hat, and smiled. Villiers sprang from his\nchair in delighted astonishment.\n\n\"Alwyn!\" he cried; and the two friends--whose friendship dated from\nboyhood--clasped each other's hands heartily, and were for a moment\nboth silent,--half-ashamed of those affectionate emotions to which\nimpulsive women may freely give vent, but to which men may not yield\nwithout being supposed to lose somewhat of the dignity of manhood.\n\n\"By Jove!\" said Villiers at last, drawing a deep breath. \"This IS a\nsurprise! Only a few minutes ago I was considering whether we should\nnot have to note you down in the newspaper as one of the 'mysterious\ndisappearances' grown common of late! Where do you come from, old\nfellow?\"\n\n\"From Paris just directly,\" responded Alwyn, divesting himself of his\novercoat, and stepping outside the door to hang it on an evidently\nfamiliar nail in the passage, and then re-entering,--\"But from Bagdad\nin the first instance. I visited that city, sacred to fairy-lore, and\nfrom thence journeyed to Damascus like one of our favorite merchants in\nthe Arabian Nights,--then I went to Beyrout, and Alexandria, from which\nlatter place I took ship homeward, stopping at delicious Venice while\non my way.\"\n\n\"Then you did the Holy Land, I suppose?\" queried Villiers, regarding\nhim with sudden and growing inquisitiveness.\n\n\"My dear fellow, certainly NOT! The Holy Land, invested by touts, and\noverrun by tourists, would neither appeal to my imagination nor my\nsentiments--and in its present state of vulgar abuse and unchristian\nsacrilege, it is better left unseen by those who wish to revere its\nassociations, . . don't you think so?\"\n\nHe smiled as he put the question, and drawing up an old-fashioned oak\nchair to the fire, seated himself. Villiers meanwhile stared at him in\nunmitigated amazement, . . what had come to the fellow, he wondered?\nHow had he managed to invest himself with such an overpowering\ndistinction of look and grace of bearing? He had always been a handsome\nman,--yes, but there was certainly something more than handsome about\nhim now. There was a singular magnetism in the flash of the fine soft\neyes, a marvellous sweetness in the firm lines of the perfect mouth, a\nroyal grandeur and freedom in the very poise of his well-knit figure\nand noble head, that certainly had not before been apparent in him.\nMoreover, that was an odd remark for him to make about \"wishing to\nrevere\" the associations of the Holy Land,--very odd, considering his\nformerly skeptical theories!\n\nRousing himself from his momentary bewilderment, Villiers remembered\nthe duties of hospitality.\n\n\"Have you dined, Alwyn?\" he asked, with his hand on the bell.\n\n\"Excellently!\" was the response, accompanied by a bright upward glance;\n\"I went to that big hotel opposite the Park, had dinner, left the\nsurplus of my luggage in charge, selected one small portmanteau, took a\nhansom and came on here, resolved to pass one night at least under your\nroof ...\"\n\n\"One night!\" interrupted Villiers; \"You're very much mistaken, if you\nthink you are going to get off so easily! You'll not escape from me for\na month, I tell you! Consider yourself a prisoner!\"\n\n\"Good! Send for the luggage to-morrow!\" laughed Alwyn, flinging himself\nback in his chair in an attitude of lazy comfort, \"I give in!--I resign\nmyself to my fate! But what of the 'cello?\"\n\nAnd he pointed to the bulgy-looking casket of sweet sleeping\nsounds--sleeping generally so far as Villiers was concerned, but ready\nto wake at the first touch of the master-hand. Villiers glanced at it\nwith a comical air of admiring vanquishment.\n\n\"Oh, never mind the 'cello!\" he said indifferently, \"that can bear\nbeing put by for a while. It's a most curious instrument,--sometimes it\nseems to sound better when I have let it rest a little. Just like a\nhuman thing, you know--it gets occasionally tired of me, I suppose! But\nI say, why didn't you come straight here, bag, baggage, and all? ...\nWhat business had you to stop on the way at any hotel? ... Do you call\nthat friendship?\"\n\nAlwyn laughed at his mock injured tone.\n\n\"I apologize, Villiers! ... I really do! But I felt it would be\nscarcely civil of me to come down upon you for bed, board, and lodging,\nwithout giving you previous notice, and at the same time I wanted to\ntake you by surprise, as I DID. Besides I wasn't sure whether I should\nfind you in town--of course I knew I should be welcome if you were!\"\n\n\"Rather!\" assented Villiers shortly and with affected gruffness.. \"If\nyou were sure of nothing else in this world, you might be sure of\nthat!\".. He paused squared his shoulders, and put up his eyeglass,\nthrough which he scanned his friend with such a persistently\nscrutinizing air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused.\n\n\"What are you staring at me for?\" he demanded gayly,--\"Am I so bronzed?\"\n\n\"Well--you ARE rather brown,\" admitted Villiers slowly ... \"But that\ndoesn't surprise me. The fact is, it's very odd and I can't altogether\nexplain it, but somehow I find you changed, . . positively very much\nchanged too!\"\n\n\"Changed? In appearance, do you mean? How?\"\n\n\"'Look here upon this picture and on this,'\" quoted Villiers\ndramatically, taking down Alwyn's portrait from the mantleshelf, and\nmentally comparing it with the smiling original. \"No two heads were\never more alike, and yet more distinctly UNlike. Here\"--and he tapped\nthe photograph--\"you have the appearance of a modern Timon or Orestes..\nbut now, as you actually ARE, I see more resemblance in your face to\nTHAT\"--and he pointed to the serene and splendid bust of the\n\"Apollo\"--\"than to this 'counterfeit presentment,' of your former self.\"\n\nAlwyn flushed,--not so much at the implied compliment, as at the words\n\"FORMER SELF.\" But quickly shaking off his embarrassment, he glanced\nround at the \"Apollo\" and lifted his eyebrows incredulously.\n\n\"Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass of yours\nrepresents objects to your own view in a classic light which is\nentirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the faintest similitude between\nmy own features and that of the sunborn Lord of Laurels.\"\n\n\"Oh, YOU may not trace it,\" said Villiers calmly, \"but nevertheless\nothers will. Some people say that no man knows what he really is like,\nand that even his own reflection in the glass deceives him. Besides, it\nis not so much the actual contour for the features that impresses one,\nit is the LOOK,--you have the LOOK of the Greek god, the look of\nconscious power and inward happiness.\"\n\nHe spoke seriously, thoughtfully,--surveying his friend with a vague\nfeeling of admiration akin to reverence.\n\nAlwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze. \"Well, so\nfar, my looks do not belie me,\" he said gently, after a pause.. \"I AM\nconscious of both power and joy!\"\n\n\"Why, naturally!\" and Villiers laid one hand affectionately on his\nshoulder.. \"Of course the face of the whole world has changed for you,\nnow that you have won such tremendous fame!\"\n\n\"FAME!\"--Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that Villiers was quite\nstartled,--\"Fame! Who says I am famous?\" And his eyes flashed forth an\namazed, almost haughty resentment.\n\nHis friend stared--then laughed outright.\n\n\"Who says it? ... Why, all London says it. Do you mean to tell me,\nAlwyn, that you've not seen the English papers and magazines,\ncontaining all the critical reviews and discussions on your poem of\n'Nourhalma?\"\n\nAlwyn winced at the title,--what a host of strange memories it recalled!\n\n\"I have seen nothing,\" he replied hurriedly, \"I have made it a point to\nlook at no papers, lest I should chance on my own name coupled, as it\nhas been before, with the languid abuse common to criticism in this\ncountry. Not that I should have cared,--NOW! ...\" and a slight smile\nplayed on his lips.. \"In fact I have ceased to care. Moreover, as I\nknow modern success in literature is chiefly commanded by the praise of\na 'clique,' or the services of 'log-rollers,' and as I am not included\nin any of the journalistic rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any\nparticular favor or recognition from the public.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the hand, \"let me be\nthe first to congratulate you! It is often the way that when we no\nlonger specially crave a thing, that thing is suddenly thrust upon us\nwhether we will or no,--and so it has happened in YOUR case. Learn,\ntherefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you sent to me from\nTiflis, and which was published under my supervision about four months\nago, has already run through six editions, and is now in its seventh.\nSeven editions of a poem,---a POEM, mark you!--in four months, isn't\nbad, . . moreover, the demand continues, and the long and the short of\nit is, that your name is actually at the present moment the most\ncelebrated in all London,--in fact, you are very generally\nacknowledged the greatest poet of the day! And,\" continued Villiers,\nwringing his friend's hand with uncommon fervor.. \"I say, God bless\nyou, old boy! If ever a man deserved success, YOU do! 'Nourhalma' is\nmagnificent!--such a genius as yours will raise the literature of the\nage to a higher standard than it has known since the death of Adonais\n[Footnote: Keats.] You can't imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your\ntriumph!\"\n\nAlwyn was silent,--he returned his companion's cordial hand-pressure\nalmost unconsciously. He stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, and\nlooking gravely down into the fire. His first emotion was one of\nrepugnance,--of rejection, . . what did he need of this\nwill-o'-the-wisp called Fame, dancing again across his path,--this\ntransitory torch of world-approval! Fame in London! ... What was it,\nwhat COULD it be, compared to the brilliancy of the fame he had once\nenjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris! As this thought passed across his\nmind, he gave a quick interrogative glance at Villiers, who was\nobserving him with much wondering intentness, and his handsome face\nlighted with sudden laughter.\n\n\"Dear old boy!\" he said, with a very tender inflection in his mellow,\nmirthful voice--\"You are the best of good fellows, and I thank you\nheartily for your news, which, if it seems satisfactory to you, ought\ncertainly to be satisfactory to me! But tell me frankly, if I am as\nfamous as you say, how did I become so? ... how was it worked up?\"\n\n\"Worked up!\" Villiers was completely taken back by the oddity of this\nquestion.\n\n\"Come!\" continued Alwyn persuasively, his fine eyes sparkling with\nmischievous good-humor.. \"You can't make me believe that 'All England'\ntook to me suddenly of its own accord,--it is not so romantic, so\npoetry-loving, so independent, or so generous as THAT! How was my\n'celebrity' first started? If my book,--which has all the disadvantage\nof being a poem instead of a novel,--has so suddenly leaped into high\nfavor and renown, why, then, some leading critic or other must have\nthought that I myself was dead!\"\n\nThe whimsical merriment of his face seemed to reflect itself on that of\nVilliers.\n\n\"You're too quick-witted, Alwyn, positively you are!\" he remonstrated\nwith a frankly humorous smile.. \"But as it happens, you're perfectly\nright! Not ONE critic, but THREE,--three of our most influential men,\ntoo--thought you WERE dead!--and that 'Nourhalma' was a posthumous work\nof PERISHED GENIUS!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nZABASTESISM AND PAULISM.\n\n\nThe delighted air of triumphant conviction with which Alwyn received\nthis candid statement was irresistible, and Villiers's attempt at\nequanimity entirely gave way before it. He broke into a roar of\nlaughter,--laughter in which his friend joined,--and for a minute or\ntwo the room rang with the echoes of their mutual mirth.\n\n\"It wasn't MY doing,\" said Villiers at last, when he could control\nhimself a little,--\"and even now I don't in the least know how the\nmisconception arose! 'Nourhalma' was published, according to your\ninstructions, as rapidly as it could be got through the press, and I\nhad no preliminary 'puffs' or announcements of any kind circulated in\nthe papers. I merely advertised it with a notable simplicity, thus:\n'Nourhalma. A Love-Legend of the Past. A Poem. By Theos Alwyn.' That\nwas all. Well, when it came out, copies of it were sent, according to\ncustom, round to all the leading newspaper offices, and for about three\nweeks after its publication I saw not a word concerning it anywhere.\nMeanwhile I went on advertising. One day at the Constitutional Club,\nwhile glancing over the Parthenon, I suddenly spied in it a long\nreview, occupying four columns, and headed 'A Wonder-Poem'; and just\nout of curiosity, I began to read it. I remember--in fact I shall never\nforget,--its opening sentence, . . it was so original!\" and he laughed\nagain. \"It commenced thus: 'It has been truly said that those whom the\ngods love die young!' and then on it went, dragging in memories of\nChatterton and Shelley and Keats, till I found myself yawning and\nwondering what the deuce the writer was driving at. Presently, about\nthe end of the second column, I came to the assertion that 'the\nposthumous poem of \"Nourhalma\" must be admitted as one of the most\nglorious productions in the English language.' This woke me up\nconsiderably, and I read on, groping my way through all sorts of wordy\nphrases and used-up arguments, till my mind gradually grasped the fact\nthat the critic of the Parthenon had evidently never heard of Theos\nAlwyn before, and being astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the\noriginal beauty and glowing style of 'Nourhalma,' had jumped, without\nwarrant, to the conclusion that its author must be dead. The wind-up of\nhis lengthy dissertation was, as far as I can recollect, as follows:\n\n\"'It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more. Splendid as the\nwork of his youthful genius is, there is no doubt but that, had he\nlived, he would have endowed the world anew with an inheritance of\nthought worthy of the grandest master-minds.' Well, when I had fully\nrealized the situation, I began to think to myself, Shall I enlighten\nthis Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell him the 'DEAD' author he so\nenthusiastically eulogizes, is alive and well, or was so, at any rate,\nthe last time I heard from him? I debated the question seriously, and,\nafter much cogitation, decided to leave him, for the present, in\nignorance. First of all, because critics like to consider themselves\nthe wisest men in the world, and hate to be told anything,--secondly,\nbecause I rather enjoyed the fun. The publisher of 'Nourhalma'--a very\nexcellent fellow--sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether it\nwas true that the author of the poem was really dead, and if not,\nwhether he should contradict the report. I waited a bit before\nanswering that letter, and while I waited two more critiques appeared\nin two of the most assertively pompous and dictatorial journals of the\nday, echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon, declaring 'this dead poet'\nworthy 'to rank with the highest of the Immortals,' and a number of\nother similar grandiose declarations. One reviewer took an infinite\ndeal of pains to prove 'that if the genius of Theos Alwyn had only been\nspared to England, he must have infallibly been elected Poet Laureate\nas soon as the post became vacant, and that too, without a single\ndissentient voice, save such as were raised in envy or malice. But,\nbeing dead '--continued this estimable scribe--'all we can say is that\nhe yet speaketh, and that \"Nourhalma\" is a poem of which the literary\nworld cannot be otherwise than justly proud. Let the tears that we shed\nfor this gifted singer's untimely decease be mingled with gratitude for\nthe priceless value of the work his creative genius has bequeathed to\nus!'\"\n\nHere Villiers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with inward amusement,\nand looked at Alwyn, whose face, though perfectly serene, had now the\nfaintest, softest shadow of a grave pathos hovering about it.\n\n\"By this time,\" he continued.. \"I thought we had had about enough\nsport, so I wrote off to the publisher to at once contradict the\nerroneous rumor. But now that publisher had HIS story to tell. He\ncalled upon me, and with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as\n'Nourhalma' was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while to\ndeny the statement of your death just yet? ... He was very anxious, . .\nbut I was firm, . . and lest he should waver, I wrote several letters\nmyself to the leading journals, to establish the certainty, so far as I\nwas aware, of your being in the land of the living. And then what do\nyou think happened?\"\n\nAlwyn met his bright, satirical glance with a look that was\nhalf-questioning, half-wistful, but said nothing.\n\n\"It was the most laughable, and at the same time the most beautifully\ninstructive, lesson ever taught by the whole annals of journalism! The\nPress turned round like a weathercock with the wind, and exhausted\nevery epithet of abuse they could find in the dictionaries. 'Nourhalma'\nwas a 'poor, ill-conceived work,'--'an outrage to intellectual\nperception,'--'a good idea, spoilt in the treatment; an amazingly\nobscure attempt at sublimity'--et cetera, . . but there! you can\nyourself peruse all the criticisms, both favorable and adverse, for I\nhave acted the part of the fond granny to you in the careful cutting\nout and pasting of everything I could find written concerning you and\nyour work in a book devoted to the purpose, . . and I believe I've\nmissed nothing. Mark you, however, the Parthenon never reversed its\njudgment, nor did the other two leading journals of literary\nopinion,--it wouldn't do for such bigwigs to confess they had\nblundered, you know! ... and the vituperation of the smaller fry was\njust the other weight in the balance which made the thing equal. The\nsale of 'Nourhalma' grew fast and furious; all expenses were cleared\nthree times over, and at the present moment the publisher is getting\nconscientiously anxious (for some publishers are more conscientious\nthan some authors will admit!) to hand you over a nice little check for\nan amount which is not to be despised in this workaday world, I assure\nyou!\"\n\n\"I did not write for money,\"--interrupted Alwyn quietly.. \"Nor shall I\never do so.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" assented Villiers promptly. \"No poet, and indeed no\nauthor whatsoever, who lays claim to a fraction of conscience, writes\nfor money ONLY. Those with whom money is the first consideration debase\ntheir Art into a coarse huckstering trade, and are no better than\ncontentious bakers and cheesemongers, who jostle each other in a vulgar\nstruggle as to which shall sell perishable goods at the highest profit.\nNone of the lasting works of the world were written so. Nevertheless,\nif the public voluntarily choose to lavish what they can of their best\non the author who imparts to them inspired thoughts and noble\nteachings, then that author must not be churlish, or slow to accept the\ngratitude implied. I think the most appropriate maxim for a poet to\naddress to his readers is, 'Freely ye have received, freely give.'\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence. Alwyn resumed his seat in the chair near\nthe fire, and Villiers, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, still\nstood, looking down upon him.\n\n\"Such, my dear fellow,\" he went on complacently.. \"is the history of\nthe success of 'Nourhalma.' It certainly began with the belief that you\nwere no longer able to benefit by the eulogy received.--but all the\nsame that eulogy has been uttered and cannot be UNuttered. It has led\nall the lovers of the highest literature to get the book for\nthemselves, and to prove your actual worth, independently of press\nopinions,--and the result is an immense and steadily widening verdict\nin your favor. Speaking personally, I have never read anything that\ngave me quite so much artistic pleasure as this poem of yours except\n'Hyperion,'--only 'Hyperion' is distinctly classical, while 'Nourhalma'\ntakes us back into some hitherto unexplored world of antique paganism,\nwhich, though essentially pagan, is wonderfully full of pure and lofty\nsentiment. When did the idea first strike you?\"\n\n\"A long time ago!\" returned Alwyn with a slight, serious smile--\"I\nassure you it is by no means original!\"\n\nVilliers gave him a quick, surprised glance.\n\n\"No? Well, it seems to me singularly original!\" he said.. \"In fact, one\nof your critics says you are TOO original! Mind you, Alwyn, that is a\nvery serious fault in this imitative age!\"\n\nAlwyn laughed a little. His thoughts were very busy. Again in\nimagination he beheld the burning \"Temple of Nagaya\" in his Dream of\nAl-Kyris,--again he saw himself carrying the corpse of his FORMER Self\nthrough fire and flame,--and again he heard the last words of the dying\nZabastes--\"I was the Poet's adverse Critic, and who but I should write\nhis Eulogy? Save me, if only for the sake of Sah-luma's future\nhonor!--thou knowest not how warmly, how generously, how nobly, I can\npraise the dead!\"\n\nTrue! ... How easy to praise the poor, deaf, stirless clay when sense\nand spirit have fled from it forever! No fear to spoil a corpse by\nflattery,--the heavily sealed-up eyes can never more unclose to lighten\nwith glad hope or fond ambition; the quiet heart cannot leap with\ngratitude or joy at that \"word spoken in due season\" which aids its\nnoblest aspirations to become realized! The DEAD poet?--Press the cold\nclods of earth over him, and then rant above his grave,--tell him how\ngreat he was, what infinite possibilities were displayed in his work,\nwhat excellence, what merit, what subtlety of thought, what grace of\nstyle! Rant and rave!--print reams of acclaiming verbosity, pronounce\norations, raise up statues, mark the house he lived and starved in,\nwith a laudatory medallion, and print his once-rejected stanzas in\nevery sort of type and fashion, from the cheap to the costly,--teach\nthe multitude how worthy he was to be loved, and honored,--and never\nfear that he will move from his rigid and chill repose to be happy for\nonce in his life, and to learn with amazement that the world he toiled\nso patiently for is actually learning to be grateful for his existence!\nOnce dead and buried he can be safely made glorious,--he cannot affront\nus either with his superior intelligence, or make us envy the splendors\nof his fame!\n\nSome such thoughts as these passed through Alwyn's mind as he dreamily\ngazed into the red hollows of the fire, and reconsidered all that his\nfriend had told him. He had no personal acquaintances on the press,--no\nliterary club or clique to haul him up into the top-gallant mast of\nrenown by persistent puffery; he was not related, even distantly, to\nany great personage, either statesman, professor, or divine--he had not\nthe mysterious recommendation of being a \"university man\"; none of the\nmany \"wheels\" within wheels which are nowadays so frequently set in\nmotion to make up a momentary literary furore, were his to\ncommand,--and yet--the Parthenon had praised him! ... Wonder of\nwonders! The Parthenon was a singularly obtuse journal, which glanced\nat the whole world of letters merely through the eyes of three or four\nmen of distinctly narrow and egotistical opinions, and these three or\nfour men kept it as much as possible to themselves, using its columns\nchiefly for the purpose of admiring one another. As a consequence of\nthis restricted arrangement, very few outsiders could expect to be\nnoticed for their work, unless they were in the \"set,\" or at least had\noccasionally dined with one of the mystic Three or Four, . . and so it\nhad chanced that Alwyn's first venture into literature had been totally\ndisregarded by the Parthenon. In fact, that first venture, being a\nsmall and unobtrusive book, had, most probably, been thrown into the\nwaste-paper basket, or sold for a few pence to the second-hand dealer.\nAnd now,--now because he had been imagined DEAD,--the Parthenon's\nleading critic had singled him out and held him up for universal\nadmiration!\n\nWell, well! ... after all, Nourhalma WAS a posthumous work,--it had\nbeen written before, ages since, when he, as Sah-luma, had perished ere\nhe had had time to give it to the world! He had merely REMEMBERED it..\ndrawn it forth again, as it were, from the dim, deep vistas of past\ndeeds;--so those who had reviewed it as the production of one dead in\nyouth, were right in their judgment, though they did not know it! ...\nIt was old,--nothing but repetition,--but now he had something new and\ntrue and passionate to say, . . something that, if God pleased, it\nshould be his to utter with the clearness and forcibleness common to\nthe Greek thunderers of yore, who spoke out what was in them, grandly,\nsimply, and with the fearless majesty of thought that reeked nothing of\nopinions. Oh, he would rouse the hearts of men from paltry greed and\ncovetousness, . . from lust, and hatred, and all things evil,--no\nmatter if he lost his own life in the effort, he would still do his\nutmost best to lift, if only in a small degree, the deepening weight of\nself-wrought agony from self-blinded mankind! Yes! ... he must work to\nfulfil the commands and deserve the blessings of Edris!\n\nEdris! ... ah, the memory of her pure angel-loveliness rushed upon him\nlike a flood of invigorating warmth and light, and when he looked up\nfrom his brief reverie, his countenance, beautiful, and kindling with\ninward ardor, affected Villiers strangely,--almost as a very grand and\nperfect strain of music might affect and unsteady one's nerves. The\nattraction he had always felt for his poet-friend deepened to quite a\nfervent intensity of admiration, but he was not the man to betray his\nfeelings outwardly, and to shake off his emotion he rushed into speech\nagain.\n\n\"By the by, Alwyn, your old acquaintance, Professor Moxall, is very\nmuch 'down' on your book. You know he doesn't write reviews, except on\nmatters connected with evolutionary phenomena, but I met him the other\nday, and he was quite upset about you. 'Too transcendental'! he said,\ndismally shaking his bald pate to and fro--'The whole poem is a\nvaporous tissue of absurd impossibilities! Ah dear, dear me! what a\nterrible falling-off in a young man of such hopeful ability! I thought\nhe had done with poetry forever!--I took the greatest pains to prove to\nhim what a ridiculous pastime it was, and how unworthy to be considered\nfor a moment seriously as an ART,--and he seemed to understand my\nreasoning thoroughly. Indeed he promised to be one of our most powerful\nadherents, . . he had an excellent grasp of the material sciences, and\na fine contempt for religion. Why, with such a quick, analytical brain\nas his, he might have carried on Darwin's researches to an extremer\npoint of the origination of species than has yet been reached! All a\nruin, sir! a positive ruin,--a man who will in cold blood write such\nlines as these ...\n\n'\"Grander is Death than Life, and sweeter far The splendors of the\nInfinite Future, than our eyes, Weary with tearful watching, yet can\nsee\"--\n\ncondemns himself as a positive lunatic! And young Alwyn too!--he who\nhad so completely recognized the foolishness and futility of expecting\nany other life than this one! Good heavens! ... \"Nourhalma,\" as I\nunderstand it, is a sort of pagan poem--but with such incredible ideas\nand sentiments as are expressed in it, the author might as well go and\nbe a Christian at once!' And with that he hobbled off, for it was\nSunday afternoon, and he was on his way to St. George's Hall to delight\nthe assembled skeptics, by telling them in an elaborate lecture what\nabsurd animalculae they all were!\"\n\nAlwyn smiled. There was a soft light in his eyes, an expression of\nserene contentment on his face.\n\n\"Poor old Moxall!\" he said gently--\"I am sorry for him! He makes life\nvery desolate, both for himself and others who accept his theories. I'm\nafraid his disappointment in me will have to continue, . . for as it\nhappens I AM a Christian,--that is, so far as I can, in my\nunworthiness, be a follower of a faith so grand, and pure, and TRUE!\"\n\nVilliers started, . . his month opened in sheer astonishment, . . he\ncould scarcely believe his own ears, and he uttered some sound between\na gasp and an exclamation of incredulity. Alwyn met his widely\nwondering gaze with a most sweet and unembarrassed calm.\n\n\"How amazed you look!\" he observed, half playfully,--\"Religion must be\nat a very low ebb, if in a so-called Christian country you are\nsurprised to hear a man openly acknowledge himself a disciple of the\nChristian creed!\"\n\nThere was a brief pause, during which the chiming clock rang out the\nhour musically on the stillness. Then Villiers, still in a state of\nmost profound bewilderment, sat down deliberately in a chair opposite\nAlwyn's, and placed one hand familiarly on his knee.\n\n\"Look here, old fellow,\" he said impressively, \"do you really MEAN it!\n... Are you 'going over' to some Church or other?\"\n\nAlwyn laughed--his friend's anxiety was so genuine.\n\n\"Not I!\"--he responded promptly.. \"Don't be alarmed, Villiers,--I am\nnot a 'convert' to any particular set FORM of faith,--what I care for\nis the faith itself. One can follow and serve Christ without any church\ndogma. He has Himself told us plainly, in words simple enough for a\nchild to understand, what He would have us to do, . . and though I,\nlike many others, must regret the absence of a true Universal Church\nwhere the servants of Christ may meet altogether without a shadow of\ndifference in opinion, and worship Him as He should be worshipped,\nstill that is no reason why I should refrain from endeavoring to\nfulfil, as far as in me lies, my personal duty toward Him. The fact is,\nChristianity has never yet been rightly taught, grasped or\ncomprehended,--moreover, as long as men seek through it their own\nworldly advantage, it never will be,--so that the majority of the\npeople are really as yet ignorant of its true spiritual meaning, thanks\nto the quarrels and differences of sects and preachers. But,\nnotwithstanding the unhappy position of religion at the present day, I\nrepeat, I am a Christian, if love for Christ, and implicit belief in\nHim, can make me so.\"\n\nHe spoke simply, and without the slightest affectation of reserve.\nVilliers was still puzzled.\n\n\"I thought, Alwyn,\" he ventured to say presently with some little\ndiffidence,--\"that you entirely rejected the idea of Christ's Divinity,\nas a mere superstition?\"\n\n\"In dense ignorance of the extent of God's possibilities, I certainly\ndid so,\" returned Alwyn quietly,--\"But I have had good reason to see\nthat my own inability to comprehend supernatural causes was entirely to\nblame for that rejection. Are we able to explain all the numerous and\ncomplex variations and manifestations of Matter? No. Then why do we\ndare to doubt the certainly conceivable variations and manifestations\nof Spirit? ... The doctrine of a purely HUMAN Christ is untenable,--a\nCreed founded on that idea alone would make no way with the immortal\naspirations of the soul, . . what link could there be between a mere\nman like ourselves and heaven? None whatever,--it needs the DIVINE in\nChrist to overleap the darkness of the grave, . . to serve us as the\nSymbol of certain Resurrection, to teach us that this life is not the\nALL, but only ONE loop in the chain of existence, . . only ONE of the\n'many mansions' in the Father's House. Human teachers of high morals\nthere have always been in the world,--Confucius, Buddha, Zoroaster,\nSocrates, Plato, . . there is no end to them, and their teachings have\nbeen valuable so far as they went, but even Plato's majestic arguments\nin favor of the Immortality of the Soul fall short of anything sure and\ngraspable. There were so many prefigurements of what WAS to come, . .\njust as the sign of the Cross was used in the Temple of Serapis, and\nwas held in singular mystic veneration by various tribes of Egyptians,\nArabians, and Indians, ages before Christ came. And now that these\nprefigurements have resolved themselves into an actual Divine Symbol,\nthe doubting world still hesitates, and by this hesitation paralyzes\nboth its Will and Instinct--so that it fails to cut out the core of\nChristianity's true solution, or to learn what Christ really meant when\nHe said 'I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,--no man cometh to the\nFather but by Me.' Have you ever considered the particular weight of\nthat word 'MAN' in that text? It is rightly specified that 'no MAN\ncometh '--for there are hosts of other beings, in other universes, who\nare not of our puny race, and who do not need to be taught either the\nway, truth, or life, as they know all three, and have never lost their\nknowledge from the beginning.\"\n\nHis voice quivered a little, and he paused,--Villiers watched him with\na strange sense of ever-deepening fascination and wonder.\n\n\"I have lately studied the whole thing carefully,\".. he resumed\npresently, . . \"and I see no reason why we, who call ourselves a\nprogressive generation, should revert back to the old theory of\nCorinthus, who, as early as sixty-seven years after Christ, denied His\nDivinity. There is nothing new in the hypothesis--it is no more\noriginal than the doctrine of evolution, which was skilfully enough\nhandled by Democritus, and probably by many another before him.\nVoltaire certainly threshed out the subject exhaustively, . . and I\nthink Carlyle's address to him on the uselessness of his work is one of\nthe finest of its kind. Do you remember it?\"\n\nVilliers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Alwyn rose, and\nglancing along an evidently well-remembered book-shelf, took from\nthence \"Sartor Resartus\"--and turned over the pages quickly.\n\n\"Here it is,\"--and he read out the following passage.. \"'Cease, my\nmuch-respected Herr von Voltaire, . . shut thy sweet voice; for the\ntask appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated\nthis proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the\nChristian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the\neighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty\nthousand other quartos and folios and flying sheets or reams, printed\nbefore and since on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so\nlittle! But what next? Wilt thou help us to embody the Divine Spirit of\nthat Religion in a new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our\nSouls, otherwise too like perishing, may live? What! thou hast no\nfaculty in that kind? Only a torch for burning and no hammer for\nbuilding? Take our thanks then--and thyself away!'\"\n\nVilliers smiled, and straightened himself in military fashion, as was\nhis habit when particularly gratified.\n\n\"Excellent old Teufelsdrockh!\" he murmured sotto-voce--\"He had a rugged\nmethod of explaining himself, but it was decisive enough, in all\nconscience!\"\n\n\"Decisive, and to the point,\".. assented Alwyn, putting the book back\nin its place, and then confronting his friend.--\"And he states\nprecisely what is wanted by the world to-day,--wanted pressingly,\neagerly, . . namely that the 'Divine Spirit' of the Christian Religion\nshould be set forth in a 'new vehicle and vesture' to keep pace with\nthe advancing inquiry and scientific research of man. And truly for\nthis, it need only be expounded according to its old, pure, primal,\nspiritual intention, and then, the more science progresses the more\ntrue will it be proved. Christ distinctly claimed His Divinity, and\neverywhere gave manifestations of it. Of course it can be said that\nthese manifestations rest on TESTIMONY,--and that the 'testimony' was\ndrawn up afterward and is a spurious invention--but we have no more\nproof that it IS spurious than we have of [Footnote: See Chapter XIII.\n\"In Al-Kyris\"--the allusion to \"Oruzel.\"] Homer's Iliad being a\ncompilation of several writers and not the work of a Homer at all.\nNothing--not even the events of the past week--can be safely rested on\nabsolute, undiffering testimony, inasmuch as no two narrators tell the\nsame story alike. But all the same we HAVE the Iliad,--it cannot be\ntaken from us by any amount of argument, . . and we have the FRUITS of\nChrist's gospel, half obscured as it is, visible among us. Everywhere\ncivilization of a high and aspiring order has followed Christianity\neven at the cost of blood and tears, ..slavery has been abolished, and\nwomen lifted from unspeakable degradation to honor and reverence,--and\nhad men been more reasonable and self-controlled, the purifying work\nwould have been done peacefully and without persecution. It was St.\nPaul's preaching that upset all the beautiful, pristine simplicity of\nthe faith,--it is very evident he had no 'calling or election' such as\nhe pretended, . . I wonder Jeremy Bentham's conclusive book on the\nsubject is not more universally known. Paul's sermonizing gave rise to\na thousand different shades of opinion and argument,--and for a mere\nhair's-breadth of needless discussion, nation has fought against\nnation, and man against man, till the very name of religion has been\nmade a ghastly mockery. That, however, is not the fault of\nChristianity, but the fault of those who PROFESS to follow it, like\nPaul, while merely following a scheme of their own personal advantage\nor convenience, . . and the result of it all is that at this very\nmoment, there is not a church in Christendom where Christ's actual\ncommands are really and to the letter fulfilled.\"\n\n\"Strong!\" ejaculated Villiers with a slight smile.. \"Mustn't say that\nbefore a clergyman!\"\n\n\"Why not?\" demanded Alwyn.. \"Why should not clerics be told, once and\nfor all, how ill they perform their sacred mission? Look at the\nwilderness of spreading Atheism to-day! ... and look at the multitudes\nof men and women who are hungering and thirsting for a greater\ncomprehension of spiritual things than they have hitherto had!--and yet\nthe preachers trudge drowsily on in the old ruts they have made for\nthemselves, and give neither sympathy nor heed to the increasing pain,\nfeverish bewilderment, and positive WANT of those they profess to\nguide. Concerning science, too, what is the good of telling a toiling,\nmore or less suffering race, that there are eighteen millions of suns\nin the Milky Way, and that viewed by the immensity of the Universe, man\nis nothing but a small, mean, and perishable insect? Humanity hears the\nstatement with dull, perplexed brain, and its weight of sorrow is\ndoubled,--it demands at once, why, if an insect, its insect life should\nBE at all, if nothing is to come of it but weariness and woe? The\nmarvels of scientific discovery offer no solace to the huge Majority of\nthe Afflicted, unless we point the lesson that the Soul of Man is\ndestined to live through more than these wonders; and that the millions\nof planetary systems in the Milky Way are but the ALPHA BETA of the\nsublime Hereafter which is our natural heritage, if we will but set\nourselves earnestly to win it. Moreover, we should not foolishly\nimagine that we are to lead good lives MERELY for the sake of some\nsuggested reward or wages,--no,--but simply because in practising\nprogressive good we are equalizing ourselves and placing ourselves in\nactive working harmony with the whole progressive good of the Creator's\nplan. We have no more right to do a deliberately evil thing, than a\nmusician has a right to spoil a melody by a false note on his\ninstrument. Why should we willfully JAR God's music, of which we are a\npart? I tell you that religion, as taught to-day, is rather one of\ncustom and fear than love and confidence,--men cower and propitiate,\nwhen they should be full of thankfulness and praise,--and as for any\nreserve on these matters, I have none,--in fact, I fail to see why\ntruth, . . spiritual truth, . . should not be openly proclaimed now,\neven as it is sure to be proclaimed hereafter.\"\n\nHis manner had warmed with his words, and he lifted his head with an\ninvoluntary gesture of eloquent resolve, his eyes flashing splendid\nscorn for all things hypocritical and mean. Villiers looked at him,\nfeeling curiously moved and impressed by his fervent earnestness.\n\n\"Well, I was right in one thing, at any rate, Alwyn\"--he said softly..\n\"you ARE changed,--there's not a doubt about it! But it seems to me the\nchange is distinctly for the better. It does my heart good to hear you\nspeak with such distinct and manly emphasis on a subject, which, though\nit is one of the burning questions of the day, is too often treated\nirreverently, or altogether dismissed with a few sentences of languid\nbanter or cheap sarcasm.\n\n\"As regards myself personally, I must say that a man without faith in\nanything but himself, has always seemed to me exactly in keeping with\nthe description given of an atheist by Lady Ashburton to\nCarlyle,--namely 'a person who robs himself, not only of clothes, but\nof flesh as well, and walks about the world in his bones.' And, oddly\nenough in spite of all the controversies going on about Christianity, I\nhave always really worshipped Christ in my heart of hearts, . . and\nyet.. I CAN'T go to church! I seem to lose the idea of Him altogether\nthere: . . but\".. and his frank face took upon itself a dreamy light of\ndeep feeling--\"there are times when, walking alone in the fields, or\nthrough a very quiet grove of trees, or on the sea-shore, I begin to\nthink of His majestic life and death, and the immense, unfailing\nsympathy He showed for every sort of human suffering, and then I can\nreally believe in him as Divine friend, comrade, Teacher, and King, and\nI am scarcely able to decide which is the deepest emotion in my mind\ntoward Him--love, or reverence.\"\n\nHe paused,--Alwyn's eyes rested upon him with a quick, comprehensive\nfriendliness,--in one exchange of looks the two men became mutually\naware of the strong undercurrents of thought that lay beneath each\nother's individual surface history, and that perhaps had never been so\nclearly recognized before,--and a kind of swift, speechless,\nsatisfactory agreement between their two separate natures seemed\nsuddenly drawn up, ratified, and sealed in a glance.\n\n\"I have often thought,\" continued Villiers more lightly, and smiling as\nhe spoke--\"that we are all angels or devils,--angels in our best\nmoments, devils in our worst. If we could only keep the best moments\nalways uppermost! 'Ah, poor deluded human nature!' as old Moxall\nsays,--while in the same breath he contradicts himself by asserting\nthat human Reason is the only infallible means of ascertaining\nanything! How it can be 'deluded' and 'infallible' at the same time, I\ncan't quite understand! But, Alwyn, you haven't told me how you like\nthe 'get-up' of your book?\"\n\nAnd he handed the volume in question to its author, who turned it over\nwith the most curious air of careless recognition--in his fancy he\nagain saw Zabastes writing each line of it down to Sah-luma's dictation!\n\n\"It's very well printed\"--he said at last,--\"and very tastefully bound.\nYou have superintended the work con amore, Villiers, . . and I am as\nobliged to you as friendship will let me be. You know what that means?\"\n\n\"It means no obligation at all\"--declared Villiers gayly.. \"because\nfriends who are the least worthy the name take delight in furthering\neach other's interests and have no need to be thanked for doing what is\nparticularly agreeable to them. You really like the appearance of it,\nthen? But you've got the sixth edition. This is the first.\"\n\nAnd he took up from a side-table a quaint small quarto, bound is a very\nsuperb imitation of old embossed leather, which Alwyn, beholding, was\nat once struck by the resemblance it bore to the elaborate designs that\nhad adorned the covers of the papyrus volumes possessed by his\nShadow-Self, Sahluma!\n\n\"This is very sumptuous!\" he said with a dreamy smile--\"It looks quite\nantique!\"\n\n\"Doesn't it!\" exclaimed Villiers, delighted--\"I had it copied from a\nfirst edition of Petrarca which happens to be in my collection. This\nspecimen of 'Nourhalma' has become valuable and unique. It was\npublished at ten-and-six, and can't be got anywhere under five or six\nguineas, if for that. Of course a copy of each edition has been set\naside for YOU.\"\n\nAlwyn laid down the book with a gentle indifference.\n\n\"My dear fellow, I've had enough of 'Nourhalma,'\" ... he said ... \"I'll\nkeep a copy of the first edition, if only as a souvenir of your\ngood-will and energy in bringing it out so admirably--but for the rest!\n... the book belongs to me no more, but to the public,--and so let the\npublic do with it what they will!\"\n\nVilliers raised his eyebrows perplexedly.\n\n\"I believe, after all, Alwyn, you don't really care for your fame!\"\n\n\"Not in the least!\" replied Alwyn, laughing. \"Why should I?\"\n\n\"You longed for it once as the utmost good!\"\n\n\"True!--but there are other utmost goods, my friend, that I desire more\nkeenly.\"\n\n\"But are they attainable?\"--queried Villiers. \"Men, and specially\npoets, often hanker after what is not possible to secure.\"\n\n\"Granted!\" responded Alwyn cheerfully--\"But I do not crave for the\nimpossible. I only seek to recover what I have lost.\"\n\n\"And that is?\"\n\n\"What most men have lost, or are insanely doing their best to\nlose\"--said Alwyn meditatively.. \"A grasp of things eternal, through\nthe veil of things temporal.\"\n\nThere was a short silence, during which Villiers eyed his friend\nwistfully.\n\n\"What was that 'adventure' you spoke about in your letter from the\nMonastery on the Pass of Dariel?\" he asked after a while--\"You said you\nwere on the search for a new sensation-did you experience it?\"\n\nAlwyn smiled. \"I certainly DID!\"\n\n\"Did it arise from a contemplation of the site of the Ruins of Babylon?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. Babylon,--or rather the earth-mounds which are now called\nBabylon,--had very little to do with it.\"\n\n\"Don't you want to tell me about it?\" demanded Tilliers abruptly.\n\n\"Not just yet\"--answered Alwyn, with good-humored frankness,--\"Not\nto-night, at any rate! But I WILL tell you, never fear! For the present\nwe've talked enough, . . don't you think bed suggests itself as a\nfitting conclusion to our converse?\"\n\nVilliers laughed and acquiesced, and after pressing his friend to\npartake of something in the way of supper, which refreshment was\ndeclined, he preceded him to a small, pleasantly cosy room,--his\n\"guest-chamber\" as he called it, but which was really almost\nexclusively set apart for Alwyn's use alone, and was always in\nreadiness for him whenever he chose to occupy it. Turning on the pretty\nelectric lamp that lit the whole apartment with a soft and shaded\nlustre, Villiers shook hands heartily with his old school-fellow and\nfavorite comrade, and bidding him a brief but cordial good-night left\nhim to repose.\n\nAs soon as he was alone Alwyn took out from his breast pocket a small\nvelvet letter-case, from which he gently drew forth a slightly pressed\nbut unfaded white flower. Setting this in a glass of water he placed it\nnear his bed, and watched it for a moment. Delicately and gradually its\npressed petals expanded, . . its golden corolla brightened in hue, . .\na subtle, sweet odor permeated the air, . . and soon the angelic\n\"immortelle\" of the Field of Ardath shone wondrously as a white star in\nthe quiet room. And when the lamp was extinguished and the poet slept,\nthat strange, fair blossom seemed to watch him like a soft, luminous\neye in the darkness,--a symbol of things divine and lasting,--a token\nof far and brilliant worlds where even flowers cannot fade!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nREALISM.\n\n\nAt the end of about a week or so, it became very generally known among\nthe mystic \"Upper Ten\" of artistic and literary circles, that Theos\nAlwyn, the famous author of \"Nourhalma\" was, to put it fashionably, \"in\ntown.\" According to the classic phrasing of a leading society journal,\n\"Mr. Theos Alwyn, the poet, whom some of our contemporaries erroneously\nreported as dead, has arrived in London from his tour in the East. He\nis for the present a guest of the Honorable Francis Villiers.\" The\nconsequence of this and other similar announcements was, that the\npostman seemed never to be away from Villiers's door; and every time he\ncame he was laden with letters and cards of invitation, addressed, for\nthe most part, to Villiers himself, who, with something of dismay, saw\nhis study table getting gradually covered with accumulating piles of\nsociety litter, such as is comprised in the various formal\nnotifications of dinners, dances, balls, soirees, \"at homes,\" and all\nthe divers sorts of entertainment with which the English \"s'amusent\nmoult tristement.\" Some of these invitations, less ceremonious, were in\nform of pretty little notes from great ladies, who entreated their\n\"DEAR Mr. Villiers\" to give them the \"EXTREME honor and pleasure\" of\nhis company at certain select and extra brilliant receptions where\nRoyalty itself would be represented, adding, as an earnest\npostscript--\"and DO bring the LION, you know, your VERY interesting\nfriend, Mr. Alwyn, with you!\"--A good many such billets-doux were\naddressed to Alwyn personally, and as he opened and read them he was\nsomewhat amused to see how many who had formerly been mere bowing\nacquaintances were now suddenly, almost magically, transformed into\napparently eager, admiring, and devoted friends.\n\n\"One would think these people really liked me for myself,\"--he said one\nmorning, tossing aside a particularly gushing, pressing note from a\nlady who was celebrated for the motley crowds she managed to squeeze\ninto her rooms, regardless of any one's comfort or convenience,--\"And\nyet, as the matter stands, they actually know nothing of me. I might be\na villain of the deepest dye, a kickable cad, or a coarse ruffian, but\nso long as I have written a 'successful' book and am a 'somebody'--a\nliterary 'notable'--what matter my tastes, my morals, or my\ndisposition! If this sort of thing is Fame, all I can say is, that it\nsavors of very detestable vulgarity!\"\n\n\"Of course it does!\"--assented Villiers-\"But what else do you expect\nfrom modern society? ... What CAN you expect from a community which is\nchiefly ruled by moneyed parvenus, BUT vulgarity? If you go to this\nwoman's place, for instance\"--and he glanced at the note Alwyn had\nthrown on the table,--\"you will share the honors of the evening with\nthe famous man-milliner of Bond Street, an 'artist' in gowns, the\nfemale upholsterer and house decorator, likewise an 'artist,'--the\nladies who 'compose' sonnets in Regent Street, also 'artists,--' and\nchiefest among the motley crowd, perhaps, the so-called new 'Apostle'\nof aestheticism, a ponderous gentleman who says nothing and does\nnothing, and who, by reason of his stupendous inertia and taciturnity,\nis considered the greatest 'gun' of all! ... it's no use YOUR going\namong such people,--in fact, no one who has any reverence left in him\nfor the TRUTH of Art CAN mix with those whose profession of it is a\nmere trade and hypocritical sham. Such dunderheads would see no\nartistic difference between Phidias and the man of to-day who hews out\nand sets up a common marble mantel-piece! I'm not a fellow to moan over\nthe 'good old times,'--no, not a bit of it, for those good old times\nhad much in them that was decidedly bad,--but I wish progress would not\nrob us altogether of refinement.\"\n\n\"But society professes to be growing more and more cultured every day,\"\nobserved Alwyn.\n\n\"Oh, it PROFESSES! ... yes, that's just the mischief of it. Its\nprofessions are not worth a groat. It PROFESSES to be one thing while\nanybody with eyes can see that it actually is another! The old style of\naristocrat and gentleman is dying out,--the new style is the horsey\nlord, the betting Duke, the coal-dealing Earl, the stock-broking\nViscount! Trade is a very excellent thing,--a very necessary and\nimportant thing,--but its influence is distinctly NOT refining. I have\nthe greatest respect for my cheesemonger, for instance (and he has an\nequal respect for me, since he has found that I know the difference\nbetween real butter and butterine), but all the same I don't want to\nsee him in Parliament. I am arrogant enough to believe that I, even I,\nhaving studied somewhat, know more about the country's interest than he\ndoes. I view it by the light of ancient and modern historical\nevidence,--he views it according to the demand it makes on his cheese.\nWe may both be narrow and limited in judgment,--nevertheless, I think,\nwith all due modesty, that HIS judgment is likely to be more limited\nthan mine. But it's no good talking about it,--this dear old land is\ngiven up to a sort of ignorant democracy, which only needs time to\nbecome anarchy, . . and we haven't got a strong man among us who dares\nspeak out the truth of the inevitable disasters looming above us all.\nAnd society is not only vulgar, but demoralized,--moreover, what is\nworse is, that, aided by its preachers and teachers, it is sinking into\ndeeper depths of demoralization with every passing month and year of\ntime.\"\n\nAlwyn leaned hack in his chair thoughtfully, a sorrowful expression\nclouding his face.\n\n\"Surely things are not so bad as they seem, Villiers,\"--he said\ngently--\"Are you not taking a pessimistic view of affairs?\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" and Villiers, warming with his subject, walked up and\ndown the room excitedly ... \"Nor am I judging by the narrow observation\nof any particular 'set' or circle. I look at the expressive visible\noutcome of the whole,--the plainly manifest signs of the threatening\nfuture. Of course there are ever so many good people,--earnest\npeople,--thinking people,--but they are a mere handful compared to the\noverpowering millions opposed to them, and whose motto is 'Evil, be\nthou my good.' Now you, for instance, are full of splendid ideas, and\nlucid plans of check and reform,--you are seized with a passionate\ndesire to do something great for the world, and you are ready to speak\nthe truth fearlessly on all occasions. But just think of the enormous\ntask it would be to stir to even half an inch of aspiring nobleness,\nthe frightful mass of corruption in London to-day! In all trades and\nprofessions it is the same story,--everything is a question of GAIN. To\nbegin with, look at the Church, the 'Pillar of the State!' There, all\nsorts of worthless, incompetent men are hastily thrust into livings by\nwealthy patrons who care not a jot as to whether they are morally or\nintellectually fit for their sacred mission,--and a disgraceful\nuniversal muddle is the result. From this muddle, which resembles a\nsort of stagnant pool, emerge the strangest fungus-growths,--clergymen\nwho take to acting a 'miracle-play,' ostensibly for the purposes of\ncharity, but really to gratify their own tastes and leanings toward the\nmummer's art,--all the time utterly regardless of the effect their\nbehavior is likely to have on the minds of the unthinking populace, who\nare led by the newspapers, and who read therein bantering inquiries as\nto whether the Church is coquetting with the Stage? whether the two are\nlikely to become one? and whether Religion will in the future occupy no\nmore serious consideration than the Drama? What is one to think, when\none sees clerical notabilities seated in the stalls of a theatre\ncomplacently looking on at the representation of a 'society play'\ndegrading in plot, repulsive in detail, and in nearly every case having\nto do with a married woman who indulges in a lover as a matter of\ncourse,--a play full of ambiguous side hits and equivocal jests, which,\nif the men of the Church were staunch to their vocation, they would be\nthe first to condemn. Why, I saw the other day, in a fairly reliable\njournal, that some of these excellent 'divines' were going to start\n'smoking sermons'--a sort of imitation of smoking concerts, I suppose,\nwhich are vile enough, in all conscience,--but to mix up religious\nmatters with the selfish 'smoke mania' is viler still. I say that any\nclergyman who will allow men to smoke in his presence, while he is\npreaching sacred doctrine, is a coarse cad, and ought to be hounded out\nof the Church!\"\n\nHe paused, his face flushing with vigorous, righteous wrath. Alwyn's\neyes grew dark with an infinite pain. His thoughts always fled back to\nhis Dream of Al-Kyris, with a tendency to draw comparisons between the\nPast and the Present. The religion of that long-buried city had been\nmere mummery and splendid outward show,--what was the religion of\nLondon? He moved restlessly.\n\n\"How all the warnings of history repeat themselves!\" he said suddenly..\n\"An age of mockery, sham sentiment, and irreverence has always preceded\na downfall,--can it be possible that we are already receiving hints of\nthe downfall of England?\"\n\n\"Aye, not only of England, but of a good many other nations besides,\"\nsaid Villiers--\"or if not actual downfall, change and terrific\nupheaval. France and England particularly are the prey of the Demon of\nRealism,--and all the writers who SHOULD use their pens to inspire and\nelevate the people, assist in degrading them. When their books are not\nobscene, they are blasphemous. Russia, too, joins in the cry of\nRealism!--Realism! ... Let us have the filth of the gutters, the\nscourgings of dustholes, the corruption of graves, the odors of\nmalaria, the howlings of drunkards, the revellings of sensualists, . .\nthe worst side of the world in its vilest aspect, which is the only\nREAL aspect of those who are voluntarily vile! Let us see to what a\nreeking depth of unutterable shameless brutality man can fall if he\nchooses--not as formerly, when it was shown to what glorious heights of\nnoble supremacy he could rise! For in this age, the heights are called\n'transcendental folly'--and the reeking depths are called Realism!\"\n\n\"And yet what IS Realism really?\" queried Alwyn.--\"Does anybody know?\n... It is supposed to be the actuality of everyday existence, without\nany touch of romance or pathos to soften its frequently hideous\nCommonplace; but the fact is, the Commonplace is not the Real. The\nhighest flights of imagination in the human being fail to grasp the\nReality of the splendors everywhere surrounding him,--and, viewed\nrightly, Realism would become Romance and Romance Realism. We see a\nragged woman in the streets picking up scraps for her daily food, . .\nthat is what we may call realistic,--but we are not looking at the\nACTUAL woman, after all! We cannot see her Inner Self, or form any\ncertain comprehension of the possible romance or tragedy which that\nInner Self HAS experienced, or IS experiencing. We see the outer\nAppearance of the woman, but what of that? ... The REALISM of the\nsuffering creature's hidden history lies beyond us,--so far beyond us\nthat it is called ROMANCE, because it seems so impossible to fathom or\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"True, most absolutely true!\" said Villiers emphatically--\"But it is a\ntruth you will get very few to admit! ... Everything to-day is in a\nstate of substantiality and sham;--we have even sham Realism, as well\nas sham sentiment, sham religion, sham art, sham morality. We have a\nParliament that sits and jabbers lengthy platitudes that lead to\nnothing, while Army and Navy are slowly slipping into a state of\nhelpless desuetude, and the mutterings of discontented millions are\nalmost unregarded; the spectre of Revolution, assuming somewhat of the\nshape in which it appalled the French in 1789, is dimly approaching in\nthe distance, . . even our London County Council hears the far-off,\nfaint shadow of a very prosaic resemblance to the National Assembly of\nthat era, . . and our weak efforts to cure cureless grievances, and to\ndeafen our ears to crying evils, are very similar to the clumsy\nattempts made by Louis XVI. and his partisans to botch up a terribly\nbad business. Oh, the people, the people! ... They are unquestionably\nthe flesh, blood, bone, and sinew of the country,--and the English\npeople, say what sneerers will to the contrary, are a GOOD\npeople,--patient, plodding, forbearing, strong, and, on the whole, most\nequable-tempered,--but their teachers teach them wrongly, and confuse\ntheir brains instead of clearing them, and throw a weight of Compulsory\nEducation at their heads, without caring how they may use it, or how\nsuch a blow from the clenched fist of Knowledge may stupefy and\nbewilder them, . . and the consequence is that now, were a strong man\nto arise, with a lucid brain, an eloquent power of expressing truth, a\ngreat sympathy with his kind, and an immense indifference to his own\nfate in the contest, he could lead this vast, waiting, wandering,\ngrowling, hydra-headed London wheresoever he would!\"\n\n\"What an orator you are, Villiers!\".. said Alwyn, with a half-smile. \"I\nnever heard you come out so strongly before!\"\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" replied Villiers, in a calmer tone--\"it's enough to\nmake any man with warm blood in his veins FEEL! Everywhere signs of\nweakness, cowardice, compromise, hesitation, vacillation, incompetency,\nand everywhere, in thoughtful minds, the keen sense of a Fate advancing\nlike the giant in the seven-leagued boots, at huge strides every day.\nThe ponderous Law and the solid Police hem us in on each side, as\nthough the nation were a helpless infant, toddling between two portly\nnurses,--we dare not denounce a scoundrel and liar, but must needs put\nup with him, lest we should be involved in an action for libel; and we\ndare not knock down a vulgar bully, lest we should be given in charge\nfor assault. Hence, liars, and scoundrels, and vulgar bullies abound,\nand men skulk and grin, and play the double-face, till they lose all\nmanfulness. Society sits smirking foolishly on the top of a smouldering\nvolcano,--and the chief Symbols of greatness among us, Religion, Poesy,\nArt, are burning as feebly as tapers in the catacombs, . . the Church\nresembles a drudge, who, tired of routine, is gradually sinking into\nlaziness and inertia, . . and the Press! ... ye gods! ... the Press!\"\n\nHere speech seemed to fail him,--he threw himself into a chair, and, to\nrelieve his mind, kicked away the advertisement sheet of the morning's\nnewspaper with so much angry vehemence that Alwyn laughed outright.\n\n\"What ails you now, Villiers?\" he demanded mirthfully.. \"You are a\nregular fire-eater--a would-be Crusader against a modern Saracen host!\nWhy are you choked with such seemingly unutterable wrath! ... what of\nthe Press? ... it is at any rate free.\"\n\n\"Free!\" cried Villiers, sitting bolt upright and shooting out the word\nlike a bullet from a gun,--\"Free? ... the Press? It is the veriest\nbound slave that was ever hampered by the chains of party\nprejudice,--and the only attempt at freedom it ever makes in its lower\ngrades is an occasional outbreak into scurrility! And yet think what a\nmajestic power for good the true, REAL Liberty of the Press might wield\nover the destinies of nations! Broadly viewed, the Press should be the\nstrong, practical, helping right hand of civilization, dealing out\nequal justice, equal sympathy, equal instruction,--it should be the\nfosterer of the arts and sciences,--the everyday guide of the morals\nand culture of the people,--it should not specially advocate any cause\nsave Honor,--it should be as far as possible the unanimous voice of the\nNation. It SHOULD be,--but what IS it? Look round and judge for\nyourself. Every daily paper panders more or less to the lowest tastes\nof the mob,--while if the higher sentiments of man are not actually\nsneered at, they are made a subject for feeble surprise, or vapid\n'gush.' An act of heroic unselfishness meets with such a cackling\nchorus of amazed, half-bantering approval from the leading-article\nwriters, that one is forced to accept the suggestion implied,--namely\nthat to BE heroic or unselfish is evidently an outbreak of noble\ninstinct that is entirely unexpected and remarkable,--nay, even\neccentric and inexplicable! The spirit of mockery pervades\neverything,--and while the story of a murder is allowed to occupy three\nand four columns of print, the account of some great scientific\ndiscovery, or the report of some famous literary or artistic\nachievement is squeezed into a few lukewarm and unsatisfactory lines. I\nhave seen a female paragraphist's idiotic description of an actress's\ngown allowed to take more space in a journal than the review of a\nfirst-class book! Moreover, if an honest man, desirous of giving vent\nto an honest opinion on some crying abuse of the day, were to set forth\nthat opinion in letter form and try to get it published in a leading\nand important newspaper, the chances are ten to one that it would never\nhe inserted, unless he happened to know the editor, or one of the\nstaff, and perhaps not even then, because, mark you! his opinion MUST\nbe in accordance with the literary editor's opinion, or it will be\nconsidered of no value to the world! Consider THAT gigantic absurdity!\n... consider, that when we read our newspapers we are not learning the\nviews of Europe on a certain point,--we are absorbing the ideas of the\nEDITOR, to whom everything must be submitted before insertion in the\noracular columns we pin our faith on! Thus it is that\ncriticism,--literary criticism, at any rate,--is a lost art,--YOU know\nthat. A man must either be dead (or considered dead) or in a 'clique'\nto receive any open encouragement at all from the so-called 'crack'\ncritics. And the cliquey men are generally such stupendous bigots for\ntheir own particular and restricted form of 'style.' Anything new they\nhate,--anything daring they treat with ridicule. Some of them have no\nhesitation in saying they prefer Matthew Arnold (remember he's dead!)\nto Tennyson and Swinburne (as yet living).. while, as a fact, if we are\nto go by the high standards of poetical art left us by Shakespeare,\nKeats, Shelley, and Byron, Matthew Arnold is about the very tamest,\nmost unimaginative, bald bard that ever kindled a lucifer match of\nverse and fancied it the fire of Apollo! It's utterly impossible to get\neither a just or broad view of literature out of cliques,--and the\nPress, like many of our other 'magnificent' institutions, is working\nentirely on a wrong system. But who is going to be wise, or strong, or\ndiplomatic enough to reform it? ... No one, at present,--and we shall\njog along, and read up the details of vice in our dailies and weeklies,\ntill we almost lose the savor of virtue, and till the last degraded end\ncomes of it all, and blatant young America thrones herself on the\nshores of Britain and sends her eagle screech of conquest echoing over\nOld World and New.\"\n\n\"Don't think it, Villiers!\" exclaimed Alwyn impetuously.. \"There is a\nmettle in the English that will never be conquered!\"\n\nVilliers shrugged his shoulders. \"We will hope so, my dear boy!\" he\nsaid resignedly. \"But the 'mettle' under bad government, with bad\nweapons, and more or less untried ships, can scarcely be blamed if it\nshould not be able to resist a tremendous force majeure. Besides, all\nthe Parliaments in the world cannot upset the laws of the universe. If\nthings are false and corrupt, they MUST be swept away,--Nature will not\nhave them,--she will transmute and transform them somehow, no matter at\nwhat cost. It is the cry of the old Prophets over again,--'Because ye\nhave not obeyed God's Law, therefore shall ye meet with destruction.'\nEgoism is certainly NOT God's Law, and we shall have to return on our\nimagined progressive steps, and be beaten with rods of affliction, till\nwe understand what His Law IS. It is, for one thing, the wheel that\nkeeps this Universe going--OUR laws are no use whatever in the\nmanagement of His sublime cosmos! Nations, like individuals, are\npunished for their own wilful misdeeds--the punishment may be tardy,\nbut sure as death it comes. And I fancy America will be our 'scourge in\nthe Lord's hand'--as the Bible hath it. That pretty, dollar-crusted\nyoung Republican wants an aristocracy, . . she will engraft it on the\nold roots here,--in fact, she has already begun to engraft it. It is\neven on the cards that she may need a Monarchy--if she does, she will\nplant it.. HERE! Then it will be time for Englishmen to adopt another\ncountry, and forget, if they can, their own disgraced nationality. And\nyet, if, as Shakespeare says, England were to herself but true,--if she\nhad great statesmen as of yore,--intellectual, earnest,\nself-abnegating, fearless, unhesitating workers, who would devote\nthemselves heart and soul to her welfare, she might gather, not only\nher Colonies, but America also, to her knee, as a mother gathers\nchildren, and the most magnificent Christian Empire the world has ever\nseen might rise up, a supreme marvel of civilization and union that\nwould make all other nations wonder and revere. But the selfishness of\nthe day, and the ruling passion of gain, are the fatal obstructions in\nthe path of such a desirable millennium.\"\n\nHe ended abruptly--he had unburdened his mind to one who he knew\nunderstood him and sympathized with him, and he turned to the perusal\nof some letters just received.\n\nThe two friends were sitting that morning in the breakfast-room,--a\ncharming little octagonal apartment, looking out on a small, very small\ngarden, which, despite the London atmosphere, looked just now very\nbright with tastefully arranged parterres of white and yellow crocuses,\nmingled with the soft blue of the dainty hepatica,--that frank-faced\nlittle blossom which seems to express such an honest confidence in the\ngoodness of God's sky. A few sparrows of dissipated appearance were\nbathing their sooty plumes in a pool of equally sooty water left in the\ngarden as a token of last night's rain, and they splashed and twittered\nand debated and fussed with each other concerning their ablutions, with\nalmost as much importance as could have been displayed by the\neffeminate Romans of the Augustan era when disporting themselves in\ntheir sumptuous Thermae. Alwyn's eyes rested on them unseeingly,--his\nthoughts were very far away from all his surroundings. Before his\nimagination rose a Gehenna-like picture of the world in which he had to\nlive,--the world of fashion and form and usage,--the world he was to\ntry and rouse to a sense of better things. A Promethean task indeed! to\nfill human life with new symbols of hope,--to set up a white standard\nof faith amid the swift rushing on and reckless tramping down of\ndesperate battle,--to pour out on all, rich or poor, worthy or\nunworthy, the divine-born balm of Sympathy, which, when given freely\nand sincerely from man to man, serves often as a check to vice--a\nsilent, yet all eloquent, rebuke to crime,--and can more easily instill\ninto refractory intelligences things of God and desires for good, than\nany preacher's argument, no matter how finely worded. To touch the big,\nwayward, BETTER heart of Humanity! ... could he in very truth do it?\n... Or was the work too vast for his ability? Tormented by various\ncross-currents of feeling, he gave vent to a troubled sigh and looked\ndubiously at his friend.\n\n\"In such a state of things as you describe, Villiers,\" he aid, \"what a\nuseless unit _I_ am! A Poet!--who wants me in this age of Sale and\nBarter? ... Is not a producer of poems always considered more or less\nof a fool nowadays, no matter how much his works may be in fashion for\nthe moment? I am sure, in spite of the success of 'Nourhalma,' that the\nera of poetry has passed; and, moreover, it certainly seems to have\ngiven place to the very baldest and most unbeauteous forms of prose!\nAs, for instance, if a book is written which contains what is called\n'poetic prose' the critics are all ready to denounce it as 'turgid,'\n'overladen,' 'strained for effect,' and 'hysterical sublime.' Heine's\nReisebilder, which is one of the most exquisite poems in prose ever\ngiven to the world, is nearly incomprehensible to the majority of\nEnglish minds; so much so, indeed, that the English translators in\ntheir rendering of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its\nfairy-like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points of\nits dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery. It is evident enough that\nthe larger mass of people prefer mediocrity to high excellence, else\nsuch a number of merely mediocre works of art would not, and could not,\nbe tolerated. And as long as mediocrity is permitted to hold ground, it\nis almost an impossibility to do much toward raising the standard of\nliterature. The few who love the best authors are as a mere drop in the\nocean of those who not only choose the worst, but who also fail to see\nany difference between good and bad.\"\n\n\"True enough!\" assented Villiers,--\"Still the 'few' you speak of are\nworth all the rest. For the 'few' Homer wrote,--Plato, Marcus Aurelius,\nEpictetus,--and the 'few' are capable of teaching the majority, if they\nwill only set about it rightly. But at present they are setting about\nit wrongly. All children are taught to read, but no child is guided in\nWHAT to read. This is like giving a loaded gun to a boy and saying,\n'Shoot away! ... No matter in which direction you point your aim, . .\nshoot yourself if you like, and others too,--anyhow, you've GOT the\ngun!' Of course there are a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up\na list of books as suitable for everybody's perusal,--but then these\nlists cannot be taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one\nanother as much as church sects. One would-be instructor in the art of\nreading says we ought all to study 'Tom Jones'--now I don't see the\nnecessity of THAT! And, oddly enough, these lists scarcely ever include\nthe name of a poet,--which is the absurdest mistake ever made. A\nliberal education in the highest works of poesy is absolutely necessary\nto the thinking abilities of man. But, Alwyn, YOU need not trouble\nyourself about what is good for the million and what isn't, . .\nwhatever you write is sure to be read NOW--you've got the ear of the\npublic,--the 'fair, large ear' of the ass's head which disguises Bottom\nthe Weaver, who frankly says of himself, 'I am such a tender ass, if my\nhair do but tickle me, I must scratch!'\"\n\nAlwyn smiled. He was thinking of what his Shadow-Self had said on this\nvery subject--\"A book or poem, to be great, and keep its greatness\nhereafter, must be judged by the natural instinct of PEOPLES. This\nworld-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by\nany amount of written criticism,--it is the responsive beat of the\nenormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all mankind, high and low,\ngentle and simple,--its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured,\nyet if once it answers to a Poet's touch, that Poet's name is made\nglorious forever!\" He.. in the character of Sah-luma.. had seemed to\nutter these sentiments many ages ago,--and now the words repeated\nthemselves in his thoughts with a new and deep intensity of meaning.\n\n\"Of course,\" added Villiers suddenly--\"you must expect plenty of\nadverse criticism now, as it is known beyond all doubt that you are\nalive and able to read what is written concerning you,--but if you once\npay attention to critics, you may as well put aside pen altogether, as\nit is the business of these worthies never to be entirely satisfied\nwith anything. Even Shelley and Byron, in the critical capacity, abused\nKeats, till the poor, suffering youth, who promised to be greater then\neither of them, died of a broken heart as much as disease. This sort of\ninjustice will go on to the end of time, or till men become more\nChristianized than Paul's version of Christianity has ever yet made\nthem.\"\n\nHere a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. The servant\nentered, bringing a note gorgeously crested and coroneted in gold.\nVilliers, to whom it was addressed, opened and read it.\n\n\"What shall we do about this?\" he asked, when his man had retired. \"It\nis an invitation from the Duchess de la Santoisie. She asks us to go\nand dine with her next week,--a party of twenty--reception afterward. I\nthink we'd better accept,--what do you say?\"\n\nAlwyn roused himself from his reverie. \"Anything to please you, my dear\nboy!\" he answered cheerfully--\"But I haven't the faintest idea who the\nDuchess de la Santoisie is!\"\n\n\"No? ... Well, she's an Englishwoman who has married a French Duke. He\nis a delightful old fellow, the pink of courtesy, and the model of\nperfect egotism. A true Parisian, and of course an atheist,--a very\npolished atheist, too, with a most charming reliance on his own\ninfallibility. His wife writes novels which have a SLIGHT leaning\ntoward Zolaism,--she is an extremely witty woman sarcastic, and\ncold-blooded enough to be a female Robespierre, yet, on the whole,\namusing as a study of what curious nondescript forms the feminine\nnature can adopt unto itself, if it chooses. She has an immense respect\nfor GENIUS,--mind, I say genius advisedly, because she really is one of\nthose rare few who cannot endure mediocrity. Everything at her house is\nthe best of its kind, and the people she entertains are the best of\ntheirs. Her welcome of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring\none,--and as I think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will have\nto show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there.\"\n\nAlwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the prospect of\n\"showing himself.\"\n\n\"Your description of her does not strike me as particularly\nattractive,\"--he said--\"I cannot endure that nineteenth-century\nhermaphroditic production, a mannish woman.\"\n\n\"Oh but she isn't altogether mannish,\"--declared Villiers, . .\n\"Besides, I mustn't forget to add, that she is extremely beautiful.\"\n\nAlwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His friend noticed the\ngesture and laughed.\n\n\"Still impervious to beauty, old boy?\"--he said gayly--\"You always\nwere, I remember!\"\n\nAlwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair.\n\n\"Not always,\"--he answered steadily,--\"There have been times in my life\nwhen the beauty of women,--mere physical beauty--has exercised great\ninfluence over me. But I have lately learned how a fair face may\nsometimes mask a foul mind,--and unless I can see the SUBSTANCE of Soul\nlooking through the SEMBLANCE of Body, then I know that the beauty I\nSEEM to behold is mere Appearance, and not Reality. Hence, unless your\nbeautiful Duchess be like the 'King's daughter' of David's psalm, 'all\nglorious WITHIN'--her APPARENT loveliness will have no charm for\nme!--Now\"--and he smiled, and spoke in a less serious tone.. \"if you\nhave no objection, I am off to my room to scribble for an hour or so.\nCome for me if you want me--you know I don't in the least mind being\ndisturbed.\"\n\nBut Villiers detained him a moment, and looked inquisitively at him\nfull in the eyes.\n\n\"You've got some singular new attraction about you, Alwyn,\"--he said,\nwith a strange sense of keen inward excitement as he met his friend's\ncalm yet flashing glance,--\"Something mysterious, . . something that\nCOMPELS! What is it? ... I believe that visit of yours to the Ruins of\nBabylon had a more important motive than you will admit, . . moreover..\nI believe you are in love!\"\n\n\"IN love!\"--Alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the words.. \"What a\nfoolish term that is when you come to think of it! For to be IN love\nsuggests the possibility of getting OUT again,--which, if love be true,\ncan never happen. Say that I LOVE!--and you will be nearer the mark!\nNow don't look so mystified, and don't ask me any more questions just\nnow--to-night, when we are sitting together in the library, I'll tell\nyou the whole story of my Babylonian adventure!\"\n\nAnd with a light parting wave of the hand he left the room, and\nVilliers heard him humming a tune softly to himself as he ascended the\nstairs to his own apartments, where, ever since he arrived, he had made\nit his custom to do two or three hours' steady writing every morning.\nFor a moment or so after he had gone Villiers stood lost in thought,\nwith knitted brows and meditative eyes, then, rousing himself, he went\non to his study, and sitting down at his desk wrote an answer to the\nDuchess de la Santoisie accepting her invitation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nREWARDS OF FAME.\n\n\nAn habitual resident in London who is gifted with a keen faculty of\nhearing and observation, will soon learn to know instinctively the\nvarious characteristics of the people who call upon him, by the\nparticular manner in which each one handles his door-bell or knocker.\nHe will recognize the timid from the bold, the modest from the\narrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of fashion, the\nfamiliar friend from the formal acquaintance. Every individual's method\nof announcing his or her arrival to the household is distinctly\ndifferent,--and Villiers, who studied a little of everything, had not\nfailed to take note of the curiously diversified degrees of single and\ndouble rapping by means of which his visitors sought admittance to his\nabode. In fact, he rather prided himself on being able to guess with\nalmost invariable correctness what special type of man or woman was at\nhis door, provided he could hear the whole diapason of their knock from\nbeginning to end. When he was shut in his \"den,\" however, the sounds\nwere muffled by distance, and he could form no just\njudgment,--sometimes, indeed, he did not hear them at all, especially\nif he happened to be playing his 'cello at the time. So that this\nmorning he was considerably startled, when, having finished his letter\nto the Duchess de la Santoisie, a long and persistent rat-tat-tatting\nechoed noisily through the house, like the smart, quick blows of a\ncarpenter's hammer--a species of knock that was entirely unfamiliar to\nhim, and that, while so emphatic in character, suggested to his mind\nneither friend nor foe. He laid down his pen, listened and waited. In a\nminute or two his servant entered the room.\n\n\"If you please, sir, a lady to see Mr. Alwyn. Shall I show her up?\"\n\nVilliers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing his man in\nblank bewilderment.\n\n\"A LADY! ... To see Mr. Alwyn!\"--he repeated, his thoughts instantly\nreverting to his friend's vaguely hinted love-affair,--\"What name?\"\n\n\"She gives no name, sir. She says it isn't needed,--Mr. Alwyn will know\nwho she is.\"\n\n\"Mr. Alwyn will know who she is, will he?\" murmured Villiers\ndubiously.--\"What is she like? Young and pretty?\"\n\nOver the man-servant's staid countenance came the glimmer of a demure,\nrespectful smile.\n\n\"Oh no, sir,--not young, sir! A person about fifty, I should say.\"\n\nThis was mystifying. A person about fifty! Who could she be? Villiers\nhastily considered,--there must be some mistake, he thought,--at any\nrate, he would see the unknown intruder himself first, and find out\nwhat her business was, before breaking in upon Alwyn's peaceful studies\nupstairs.\n\n\"Show the lady in here\"--he said--\"I can't disturb Mr. Alwyn just now.\"\n\nThe servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in a tall, gaunt,\nblack-robed female, who walked with the stride of a dragoon and the\ndemeanor of a police-inspector, and who, merely nodding briskly in\nresponse to Villiers's amazed bow, selected with one comprehensive\nglance the most comfortable chair in the room, and seated herself at\nease therein. She then put up her veil, displaying a long, narrow face,\ncold, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose inclined to redness at the tip, and a\nthin, close-set mouth lined with little sarcastic wrinkles, which came\ninto prominent and unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which\nshe did almost immediately.\n\n\"I suppose I had better introduce myself to you, Mr. Alwyn\"--she said\nwith a condescending and confident air--\"Though really we know each\nother so well by reputation that there seems scarcely any necessity for\nit! Of course you have heard of 'Tiger-Lily!'\"\n\nVilliers gazed at her helplessly,--he had never felt so uncomfortable\nin all his life. Here was a strange woman, who had actually taken\nbodily possession of his apartment as though it were her own,--who had\nsettled herself down in his particular pet Louis Quatorze chair,--who\nstared at him with the scrutinizing complacency of a professional\nphysiognomist,--and who seemed to think no explanation of her\nextraordinary conduct was necessary, inasmuch as \"of course\" he,\nVilliers, had heard of \"TIGER-LILY!\" It was very singular! ... almost\nlike madness! ... Perhaps she WAS mad! How could he tell? She had a\nremarkably high, knobby brow,--a brow with an unpleasantly bald\nappearance, owing to the uncompromising way in which her hair was\nbrushed well off it--he had seen such brows before in certain\n\"spiritualists\" who believed, or pretended to believe, in the suddenly\nwilled dematerialization of matter, and THEY were mad, he knew, or else\nvery foolishly feigning madness!\n\nEndeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed glass in eye, and\nregarded her through it with an inquiring solemnity,--he would have\nspoken, but before he could utter a word, she went on rapidly:\n\n\"You are not in the least like the person I imagined you to be! ...\nHowever, that doesn't matter. Literary celebrities are always so\ndifferent to what we expect!\"\n\n\"Pardon me, madam,\"--began Villiers politely.. \"You are making a slight\nerror,--my servant probably did not explain. I am not Mr. Alwyn, . . my\nname is Villiers. Mr. Alwyn is my guest,--but he is at present very\nmuch occupied,--and unless your business is extremely urgent...\"\n\n\"Certainly it is urgent\"--said the lady decisively.. \"otherwise I\nshould not have come. And so you are NOT Mr. Alwyn! Well, I thought you\ncouldn't be! Now then, will you have the kindness to tell Mr. Alwyn I\nam here?\"\n\nBy this time Villiers had recovered his customary self-possession, and\nhe met her commanding glance with a somewhat defiant coolness.\n\n\"I am not aware to whom I have the honor of speaking,\" he said\nfrigidly. \"Perhaps you will oblige me with your name?\"\n\n\"My name doesn't in the least matter,\" she replied calmly--\"though I\nwill tell you afterward if you wish. But you don't seem to understand\nI..._I_ am 'Tiger-Lily'!\"\n\nThe situation was becoming ludicrous. Villiers felt strongly disposed\nto laugh.\n\n\"I'm afraid I am very ignorant!\"--he said, with a humorous sparkle in\nhis blue eyes,--\"But really I am quite in the dark as to your meaning.\nWill you explain?\"\n\nThe lady's nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him had\nquite a killing vindictiveness. With evident difficulty she forced a\nsmile.\n\n\"Oh, you MUST have heard of me!\"--she declared, with a ponderous\nattempt at playfulness--\"You read the papers, don't you?\"\n\n\"Some of them,\" returned Villiers cautiously--\"Not all. Not the Sunday\nones, for instance.\"\n\n\"Still, you can't possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of famous\npeople 'At Home,' you know! I write for ever so many journals. I\nthink\"--and she became complacently reflective--\"I think I may say with\nperfect truth that I have interviewed everybody who has ever done\nanything worth noting, from our biggest provision dealer to our latest\nsensational novelist! And all my articles are signed 'Tiger-Lily.' NOW\ndo you remember? Oh, you MUST remember? ... I am so VERY well known!\"\n\nThere was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost\npathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded vanity.\n\n\"I have no recollection whatever of the name,\" he said bluntly--\"But\nthat is easily accounted for, as I never read newspaper descriptions of\ncelebrities. So you are an 'interviewer' for the Press?\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis\nQuatorze fauteuil--\"And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I\nwant...\" here drawing out a business looking note-book from her pocket\nshe opened it and glanced at the different headings therein\nenumerated,--\"I want to describe his personal appearance,--to know when\nhe was born, and where he was educated,--whether his father or mother\nhad literary tastes,--whether he had, or has, brothers or sisters, or\nboth,--whether he is married, or likely to be, and how much money he\nhas made by his book.\" She paused and gave an upward glance at\nVilliers, who returned it with a blank and stony stare.\n\n\"Then,\"--she resumed energetically--\"I wish to know what are his\nmethods of work;--WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates\nthem,--how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an early\nriser,--also what he usually takes for dinner,--whether he drinks wine\nor is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires to rest. All this\nis so INTENSELY interesting to the public! Perhaps he might be inclined\nto give me a few notes of his recent tour in the East, and of course I\nshould be very glad if he will state his opinions on the climate,\ncustoms, and governments of the countries through which he has passed.\nIt's a great pity this is not his own house,--it is a pretty place and\na description of it would read well. Let me see!\"--and she\nmeditated,--\" I think I could manage to insert a few lines about this\napartment, . . it would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the\nhouse of the Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,'\netc.,--Yes! that would do very well!--very well indeed! I should like\nto know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not,\nwhether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter case it\nwould be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished.\nA little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to my\nreaders! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn how the erroneous\nrumor of his death was first started, . . whether in the course of his\ntravels he met with some serious accident, or illness, which gave rise\nto the report. Now,\"--and she shut her note-book and folded her\nhands,--\"I don't mind waiting an hour or more if necessary,--but I am\nsure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I am, and what I have come for, he\nwill be only too delighted to see me with as little delay as possible.\"\n\nShe ceased. Villiers drew a long breath,--his compressed lips parted in\na slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with that peculiar\npugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to those who knew him\nwell that his mind was made up, and that nothing would induce him to\nalter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility:\n\n\"I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! ... but I am compelled to inform\nyou that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my friend\nof the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would not feel so\nmuch flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! Excuse my\nfrankness,--you have spoken plainly,--I must speak plainly too.\nProvision dealers and sensational story writers may find that it serves\ntheir purpose to be interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra\nadvertisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like Theos\nAlwyn is quite above all that sort of thing.\"\n\nThe lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of interrogative\nscorn.\n\n\"ABOVE all that sort of thing!\" she echoed incredulously--\"Dear me! How\nvery extraordinary! I have always found all our celebrities so\nexceedingly pleased to be given a little additional notoriety! ... and\nI should have thought a POET,\" this with much depreciative\nemphasis--\"would have been particularly glad of the chance! Because, of\ncourse you know that unless a very astonishing success is made, as in\nthe case of Mr. Alwyn's 'Nourhalma,' people really take such slight\ninterest in writers of verse, that it is hardly ever worth while\ninterviewing them!\"\n\n\"Precisely!\" agreed Villiers ironically,--\"The private history of a\nprize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!\" He paused,--his\ntemper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that, after all, the\nindignation he felt was not so much against his visitor as against the\nsystem she represented, he resumed quietly, \"May I ask you, madam,\nwhether you have ever 'interviewed' Her Majesty the Queen?\"\n\nHer glance swept slightingly over him.\n\n\"Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!\"\n\n\"Then you have never thought,\" went on Villiers, with a thrill of\nearnestness in his manly, vibrating voice--\"that it might be quite as\nimpossible to 'interview' a great Poet?--who, if great indeed, is in\nevery way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a throne! I do\nnot speak of petty verse-writers,--I say a great Poet, by which term I\nimply a great creative genius who is honestly faithful to his high\nvocation. Such an one could no more tell you his methods of work than a\nrainbow could prattle about the way it shines,--and as for his personal\nhistory, I should like to know by what right society is entitled to pry\ninto the sacred matters of a man's private life, simply because he\nhappens to be famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing\ninto other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the\ntimes,--it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible. Moreover,\nI think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed' condemn themselves\nas literary charlatans, unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully\nadopted. You see I have the courage of my opinions on this matter,--in\nfact, I believe, if every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a\nbetter state of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would\ngradually come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar\nand illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you,\nmadam,\"--this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her\nnote-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her\nchair--\"I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that of\nthe 'interviewer' open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work to be\ncongenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really distinguished\npersonages, she must assuredly meet with many a rebuff! I hope I have\nnot offended you by my bluntness, ... \"--here he trailed off into\ninaudible polite murmurs, while the \"Tiger-Lily\" marched steadily\ntoward the door.\n\n\"Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended!\" she retorted\ncontemptuously,--\"On the contrary, this has been a most amusing\nexperience!--most amusing, I assure you! and quite unique! Why--\" and\nsuddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and gesticulated with\none hand ... \"I have interviewed all the favorite actors and actresses\nin London! The biggest brewers in Great Britain have received me at\ntheir country mansions, and have given me all the particulars of their\nlives from earliest childhood! The author of 'Hugger Mugger's Curse'\ntook the greatest pains to explain to me how he first collected the\nmaterials for his design. The author of that most popular story,\n'Darling's Twins,' gave me a description of all the houses he has ever\nlived in,--he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens,\nand ink! And to think that a POET should be too grand to be\ninterrogated! Oh, the idea is really very funny! ... quite too funny\nfor anything! \"She gave a short laugh,--then relapsing into severity,\nshe added ... \"You will, I hope, tell Mr. Alwyn I called?\"\n\nVilliers bowed. \"Assuredly!\"\n\n\"Thank you! Because it is possible he may have different opinions to\nyours,--in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an appointment, I\nshall be very pleased to call again. I will leave my card,--and if Mr.\nAlwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly hold broader ideas on the\nsubject of 'interviewing' than YOU appear to entertain. You are QUITE\nsure I cannot see him?\"\n\n\"Quite!\"--There was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this reply.\n\n\"Oh, very well!\"--here she opened the door, rattling the handle with\nrather an unnecessary violence,--\"I'm sorry to have taken up any of\nyour time, Mr. Villiers. Good-morning!\"\n\n\"Good-morning!\" ... returned Villiers calmly, touching the bell that\nhis servant might be in readiness to show her out. But the baffled\n\"Tiger-Lily\" was not altogether gone. She looked back, her face\nwrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim\nplayfulness.\n\n\"I've half a mind to make an 'At Home' out of YOU!\" she said, nodding\nat him energetically. \"Only you're not important enough!\"\n\nVilliers burst out laughing. He was not proof against this touch of\nhumor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door and\nshook hands with her.\n\n\"No, indeed, I am not!\" he said, with a charming smile--\"Think of\nit!--I haven't even invented a new biscuit! Come, let me see you into\nthe hall,--I'm really sorry if I've spoken roughly, but I assure you\nAlwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing,--he's far\ntoo modest and noble-hearted. Believe me!--I'm not romancing a\nbit--I'm in earnest. There ARE some few fine, manly, gifted fellows\nleft in the world, who do their work for the love of the work alone,\nand not for the sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. Now I'm not\ncertain, if you were quite candid with me, you'd admit that you\nyourself don't think much of the people who actually LIKE to be\ninterviewed?\"\n\nHis amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by\nsurprise, and threw her quite off her guard. She laughed,--a natural,\nunforced laugh in which there was not a trace of bitterness. He was\nreally a delightful young man, she thought, in spite of his\nold-fashioned, out-of-the-way notions!\n\n\"Well, perhaps I don't!\" she replied frankly--\"But you see it is not my\nbusiness to think about them at all. I simply 'interview' them,--and I\ngenerally find they are very willing, and often eager, to tell me all\nabout themselves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. And,\nof course, each one thinks himself or herself the ONLY or the chief\n'celebrity' in London, or, for that matter, in the world. I have always\nto tone down the egotistical part of it a little, especially with\nauthors, for if I were to write out exactly what THEY separately say of\ntheir contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would be all\nat daggers drawn in no time! I assure you 'interviewing' is often a\nmost delicate and difficult business!\"\n\n\"Would it were altogether impossible!\" said Villiers heartily--\"But as\nlong as there is a plethora of little authors, and a scarcity of great\nones, so long, I suppose, must it continue--for little men love\nnotoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in the same way that\ngood women like flattery, while bad ones court it. I hope you don't\nbear me any grudge because I consider my friend Alwyn both good and\ngreat, and resent the idea of his being placed, no matter with what\nexcellent intention soever, on the level of the small and mean?\"\n\nThe lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her\npale-colored eyes.\n\n\"Not in the least!\" she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor. \"On\nthe contrary, I rather admire your frankness! Still, I think, that as\nmatters stand nowadays, you are very odd,--and I suppose your friend is\nodd too,--but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. At\nthe same time, you should recollect that, in many people's opinion, to\nbe 'interviewed' is one of the chiefest rewards of fame!--\" Villiers\nshrugged his shoulders expressively. \"Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward\nto you, no doubt,\"--she continued smilingly,--\"but there are no end of\nauthors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of it! Now,\nsuppose that, after all, Mr. Alwyn DOES care to submit to the\noperation, you will let me know, won't you?\"\n\n\"Certainly I will!\"--and Villiers, accepting her card, on which was\ninscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once more, and\nbowed her courteously out. No sooner had the door closed upon her than\nhe sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in\nupon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, looked up with\na surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of his entrance. In a few\nminutes he had disburdened himself of the whole story of the\n\"Tiger-Lily's\" visit, telling it in a whimsical way of his own, much to\nthe amusement of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a\nhalf-laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes.\n\n\"Now did I express the proper opinion?\" he demanded in conclusion. \"Was\nI not right in thinking you would never consent to be interviewed?\"\n\n\"Right? Why of course you were!\"--responded Alwyn quickly. \"Can you\nimagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and history\nto a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea\narticle for some society journal! But, Villiers, what an extraordinary\nstate of things we are coming to, if the Press can actually condescend\nto employ a sort of spy, or literary detective, to inquire into the\nprivate experience of each man or woman who comes honorably to the\nfront!\"\n\n\"Honorably or DIShonorably,--it doesn't matter which,\"--said Villiers,\n\"That is just the worst of it. One day it is an author who is\n'interviewed,' the next it is a murderer,--now a statesman,--then a\nballet dancer,--the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct\nnotoriety. And what is so absurd is, that the reading million don't\nseem able to distinguish between 'notoriety' and 'fame.' The two things\nare so widely, utterly apart! Byron's reputation, for instance, was\nmuch more notoriety during his life than fame--while Keats had actually\nlaid hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It's curious,\nbut true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least\nof themselves during their lifetime have become the most universally\nrenowned after their deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say, had no very\nexaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays,--he seems to have\nwritten just the best that was in him, without caring what anybody\nthought of it. And I believe that is the only way to succeed in the\nend.\"\n\n\"In the end!\" repeated Alwyn dreamily--\"In the end, no worldly success\nis worth attaining,--a few thousand years and the greatest are\nforgotten!\"\n\n\"Not the GREATEST,\"--said Villiers warmly--\"The greatest must always be\nremembered.\"\n\n\"No, my friend!--Not even the greatest! Do you not think there must\nhave been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage,\nin Babylon?--There are five men mentioned in Scripture, as being 'ready\nto write swiftly'--Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus, and Ariel--where is\nthe no doubt admirable work done by these? Perhaps ... who knows? ...\none of them was as great as Homer in genius,--we cannot tell!\"\n\n\"True,--we cannot tell!\" responded Villiers meditatively--\"But, Alwyn,\nif you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of\ntime, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is\nthe use of anything?\"\n\n\"There IS no use in anything, except in the making of a strong,\npersistent, steady effort after good,\" said Alwyn earnestly ... \"We men\nare cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong and\nRight,--Self and God,--and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and\ndrift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim,\ndespite all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once take the\nlatter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least\nfatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry\nothers with us,--we raise our race,--we bear it onward,--upward! And\nthe true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in\nwinning brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to\npronounce one of God's lightning messages of inspired Truth plainly to\nthem, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. This momentary\nhearing from the people is, as I take it, the sole reward any writer\ncan dare to hope for,--and when he obtains it, he should remember that\nhis audience remains with him but a very short while,--so that it is\nhis duty to see that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for\nhimself, but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more\nnoble fulfilment.\"\n\nVilliers regarded him wistfully.\n\n\"Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this\nera?--You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward,--moreover,\nit will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush\nyou!\"\n\n\"How can it crush me?\" asked his friend with a serene smile. \"My heart\ncannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but\ndie,--and death comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the\nstone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and\ndoing nothing!\"\n\n\"Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know\" ... and Villiers\nshook his head dubiously--\"What man can be certain of his own destiny?\"\n\n\"Everyman can WILL his own destiny,\"--returned Alwyn firmly. \"That is\njust it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and I had\ndetermined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night.\"\n\n\"And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I\nsuppose?\"--inquired Villiers with a quick look. \"To-night, my dear boy,\nyou will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane,\" said\nAlwyn cheerfully--\"I shall tell you truths that seem like romances--and\nfacts that sound like fables,--moreover, I shall have to assure you\nthat miracles DO happen whenever God chooses, in spite of all human\ndenial of their possibility. Do you remember Whately's clever\nskit--'Historical Doubts of Napoleon I'?--showing how easy it was to\nlogically prove that Napoleon never existed?--That ought to enlighten\npeople as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if\nwe choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus\ndo skeptics deny miracles--yet we live surrounded by miracles! ... do\nyou think me crazed for saying so?\"\n\nVilliers laughed. \"Crazed! No, indeed!--I wish every man in London were\nas sane and sound as you are!\"\n\n\"Ah, but wait till to-night!\" and Alwyn's eyes sparkled\nmirthfully--\"Perhaps you will alter your opinion then!\"--Here,\ncollecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them by--\"I've done work\nfor the present,\"--he said--\"Shall we go for a walk somewhere?\"\n\nVilliers assented, and they left the room together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nONE AGAINST MANY.\n\n\nThe beautiful and socially popular Duchess de la Santoisie sat her at\nbrilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes\ncomprehensively round the board,--her party was complete. She had\nsecured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all\nLondon, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result attained.\nOne dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the lustre out of\nall the rest,--one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth haughty, yet\nsweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of little worth in\nher own estimation. She was very fair to look upon, very witty, very\nworldly-wise,--but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and\npowerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she\nwas always accustomed to wear would not adapt itself to her manner\ntonight so well as usual. The author of \"Nourhalma\" the successful poet\nwhose acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all\nthe kind of man she had expected,--and now, when he was beside her as\nher guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.\n\nShe had met plenty of poets, so called, before,--and had, for the most\npart, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous opinion of\nthemselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all others of their\ncraft; but this being,--this stately, kingly creature with the noble\nhead, and far-gazing, luminous eyes,--this man, whose every gesture was\ngraceful, whose demeanor was more royal than that of many a crowned\nmonarch,--whose voice had such a singular soft thrill of music in its\ntone,--he was a personage for whom she had not been prepared,--and in\nwhose presence she felt curiously embarrassed and almost ill at ease.\nAnd she was not the only one present who experienced these odd\nsensations. Alwyn's appearance, when, with his friend Villiers, he had\nfirst entered the Duchess's drawing-room that evening, and had there\nbeen introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the\nlanguid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were\nexchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general type of\nthe nervous, fagged, dyspeptic \"literary\" man!\n\nAnd now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression\nremained on all,--an impression that was to some disagreeable and\nhumiliating, and that yet could not be got over,--namely, that this\n\"poet,\" whom, in a way, the Duchess and her friends had intended to\npatronize, was distinctly superior to them all. Nature, as though proud\nof her handiwork, proclaimed him as such,--while he, quite unconscious\nof the effect he produced, wondered why this bevy of human beings, most\nof whom were more or less distinguished in the world of art and\nliterature, had so little to say for themselves. Their conversation was\nBANAL,--tame,--ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly\ndressed peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The\nweather,--the parks,--the theatres,--the newest actress, and the newest\nremedies for indigestion,--these sort of subjects were bandied about\nfrom one to the other with a vaguely tame persistence that was really\nirritating,--the question of remedies for indigestion seemed to hold\nground longest, owing to the variety of opinions expressed thereon.\n\nThe Duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot beat\nan impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with careless\nbrevity to a few of the commonplace observations addressed to her, and\ncast an occasional annoyed glance at her lord, M le Duc, a thin,\nmilitary-looking individual, with a well waxed and pointed mustache,\nwhose countenance suggested an admirably executed mask. It was a face\nthat said absolutely nothing,--yet beneath its cold impassiveness\nlinked the satyr-like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of\nthe born and bred Parisian,--the goblin-creature with whom pure\nvirtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a\nmonkey. The suave charm of a polished civility sat on M le Due's smooth\nbrow, and beamed in his urbane smile,--his manners were exquisite, his\ncourtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise and\nelegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding his calm and\nperfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough, the frequent\nprey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable passions; there were\ntimes when he became impossible to himself,--and when, to escape from\nhis own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into an orgie of\nwild riot and debauchery, such as might have made the hair of his\nrespectable English acquaintances stand on end, had they known to what\nan extent he carried his excesses. But at these seasons of moral\nattack, he \"went abroad for his health,\" as he said, delicately\ntouching his chest in order to suggest some interesting latent weakness\nthere, and in these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied\nhim, nor did she complain of his absence. When he returned, after two\nor three months, he looked more the \"chevalier sans peur et sans\nreproche\" than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys\nand sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire\ninto each other's doings during the time of their separation. So they\njogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward show of\nwedded harmony to the world,--and only a few were found to hazard the\nremark, that the \"racy\" novels Madame la Duchesse wrote to wile away\nher duller hours were singularly \"bitter\" in tone, for a woman whose\nlot in life was so extremely enviable!\n\nOn this particular evening, the Duke affected to be utterly unconscious\nof the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him every now and\nthen,--looks which plainly said--\"Why don't you start some interesting\nsubject of conversation, and stop these people from talking such\nevery-day twaddle?\" He was a clever man in his way, and his present\nmood was malign and mischievous; therefore he went on eating daintily,\nand discussing mild platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner\nimaginable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of\nhis guests,--confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was\nthe psychological result of their having one in their midst whose life\nand character were totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from,\ntheir own. As Emerson truly says, \"Let the world beware when a Thinker\ncomes into it!\".. and here WAS this Thinker,--this type of the Godlike\nin Man,--this uncomfortably sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of\nfalsehood, whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society\nby assault, and who, therefore, was entitled to receive every attention\nand consideration.\n\nEverybody had desired to see him, and here he was,--the great man, the\nnew \"celebrity\"--and now that he was actually present, no one knew what\nto say to him; moreover, there was a very general tendency in the\ncompany to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted on their chairs and\nlooked aside or downward, whenever his glance accidentally fell on\nthem,--and to the analytical Voltairean mind of M. le Duc there was\nsomething grimly humorous in the whole situation. He was a great\nadmirer of physical strength and beauty, and Alwyn's noble face and\nfine figure had won his respect, though of the genius of the poet he\nknew nothing, and cared less. It was enough for all the purposes of\nsocial usage that the author of \"Nourhalma\" was CONSIDERED\nillustrious,--no matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. And\nso the Duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarrassment of the\nother \"notabilities\" assembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to\nlighten the conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that\nAlwyn, who had been compelled, for politeness' sake, to appear\ninterested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very\nmasculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his own,\nbegan to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long this\n\"feast of reason and flow of soul\" was going to last.\n\nVilliers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally gave\nsome sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering, was\nto-night unusually taciturn:--he was bored by his partner, a\nmiddle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his\nthoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered on\nAlwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain wistful\nwonder and reverence. He had heard the whole story of the Field of\nArdath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true, or how much\nto set down to his friend's ardent imagination. He had come to a fairly\nlogical explanation of the whole matter,--namely, that as the City of\nAl-Kyris had been proved a dream, so surely the visit of the\nAngel-maiden Edris must have been a dream likewise,--that the trance at\nthe Monastery of Dariel, followed by the constant reading of the\npassages from Esdras, and the treatise of Algazzali, had produced a\nvivid impression on Alwyn's susceptible brain, which had resolved\nitself into the visionary result narrated.\n\nHe found in this the most practical and probable view of what must\notherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank and\nhonest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend what he\nthought. Alwyn had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness\nand equanimity,--but, all the same, had remained unchanged in his\nopinion as to the REALITY of his betrothal to his Angel-love in Heaven.\nAnd one or two points had certainly baffled Villiers, and perplexed him\nin his would-be precise analysis of the circumstances: first, there was\nthe remarkable change in Alwyn's own nature. From an embittered,\nsarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious man, he had become\nsoftened, gracious, kindly,--showing the greatest tenderness and\nforethought for others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for\nhimself he took no care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might\nwear a flower, just plucked and soon to fade,--his intelligence seemed\nto expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of the\nwants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new poem, of\nwhich Villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their\ngrandeur of conception and clear passion of utterance. Thus it was\nevident there was no morbidness in him,--no obscurity,--nothing\neccentric,--nothing that removed him in any way from his fellows,\nexcept that royal personality of his,--that strong, beautiful,\nwell-balanced Spirit in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell\non all who came within its influence, He believed himself loved by an\nAngel! Well,--if there WERE angels, why not? Villiers argued the\nproposition thus:\n\n\"Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or Mahometans, we are\nsupposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our Faith.\nIf we are nothing,--then, of course, we believe in nothing. But granted\nwe are SOMETHING, then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to\nacknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. And if, as we are\nassured by Holy Writ, such loftier beings DO exist, why should they not\ncommunicate with, and even love, human creatures, provided those human\ncreatures are worthy of their tenderness? Certainly, viewed by all the\nchief religions of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the\nidea of an angel descending to the help of man.\"\n\nSuch thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon\nglanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights and\nflowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back in his\nchair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed expression on\nhis handsome features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he\ncaught Villiers's look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely perceptible\nshrug, as who should say, \"Is this your brilliant Duchess?--your witty\nand cultured society?\"\n\nVilliers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then\nconscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible\nfeminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he said to\nhimself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins. After a while\nthere came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that\noften occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,--a galloping race of\ntongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, but in which each\ntalks to the other as though moved by an impulse of sheer desperation.\nThis burst of noise was a relief after the strained murmurs of trite\ncommonplaces that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair\nDuchess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to Alwyn, with\ngreater grace and gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.\n\n\"I am afraid,\" she said smilingly, \"you must find us all very stupid\nafter your travels abroad? In England we ARE dull,--our tristesse\ncannot be denied. But, really, the climate is responsible,--we want\nmore sunshine. I suppose in the East, where the sun is so warm and\nbright, the people are always cheerful?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I have found them rather serious and contemplative\nthan otherwise,\" returned Alwyn,--\"yet their gravity is certainly of a\npleasant, and not of a forbidding type. I don't myself think the sun\nhas much to do with the disposition of man, after all,--I fancy his\ntemperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. In the East, for\ninstance, men accept their existence as a sort of divine command, which\nthey obey cheerfully, yet with a consciousness of high\nresponsibility:--on the Continent they take it as a bagatelle, lightly\nwon, lightly lost, hence their indifferent, almost childish,\ngayety;--but in Great Britain\"--and he smiled,--\"it looks nowadays as\nif it were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore,--a kind\nof title bestowed without the necessary money to keep it up! And this\nmoney people set themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt\nand groan, while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything\nelse life may have to offer.\"\n\n\"But what IS life without plenty of money?\" inquired the Duchess\ncarelessly--\"Surely, not worth the trouble of living!\"\n\nAlwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored her smooth\ncheek. She toyed with the magnificent diamond spray at her breast, and\nwondered what strange spell was in this man's brilliant gray-black\neyes!--did he guess that she--even she--had sold herself to the Duc de\nla Santoisie for the sake of his money and title as easily and\nunresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable animal?\n\n\"That is an argument I would rather not enter into,\" he said\ngently--\"It would lead us too far. But I am convinced, that whether\ndire poverty or great riches be our portion, life, considered apart\nfrom its worldly appendages, is always worth living, if lived WELL.\"\n\n\"Pray, how can you separate life from its worldly\nappendages?\"--inquired a satirical-looking gentleman opposite--\"Life IS\nthe world, and the things of the world; when we lose sight of the\nworld, we lose ourselves,--in short, we die,--and the world is at an\nend, and we with it. That's plain practical philosophy.\"\n\n\"Possibly it may be called philosophy\"--returned Alwyn--\"It is not\nChristianity.\"\n\n\"Oh, Christianity!\"--and the gentleman gave a portentous sniff of\ncontempt--\"That is a system of faith that is rapidly dying out; fast\nfalling into contempt!--In fact, with the scientific and cultured\nclasses, it is already an exploded doctrine.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"--Alwyn's glance swept over him with a faint, cold scorn\n--\"And what religion do the scientific and cultured classes propose to\ninvent as a substitute?\"\n\n\"There's no necessity for any substitute,\"--said the gentleman rather\nimpatiently.. For those who want to believe in something supernatural,\nthere are plenty of different ideas afloat, Esoteric Buddhism for\nexample,--and what is called Scientific Religion and Natural\nReligion,--any, or all, of these are sufficient to gratify the\nimaginative cravings of the majority, till they have been educated out\nof imagination altogether:--but, for advanced thinkers, religion is\nreally not required at all.\" [Footnote: The world is indebted to Mr.\nAndrew Lang for the newest \"logical\" explanation of the Religious\nInstinct in Man:--namely, that the very idea of God first arose from\nthe terror and amazement of an ape at the sound of the thunder! So\nchoice and soul-moving a definition of Deity needs no comment!]\n\n\"Nay, I think we must worship SOMETHING!\" retorted Alwyn, a fine satire\nin his rich voice, \"if it be only SELF!--Self is an excellent\ndeity!--accommodating, and always ready to excuse sin,--why should we\nnot build temples, raise altars, and institute services to the glory\nand honor of SELF?--Perhaps the time is ripe for a public proclamation\nof this creed?--It will be easily propagated, for the beginnings of it\nare in the heart of every man, and need very little fostering!\"\n\nHis thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical\npersuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down the table. Every\none turned eagerly toward him,--some amused, some wondering, some\nadmiring, while Villiers felt his heart beating with uncomfortable\nquickness,--he hated religious discussions, and always avoided them,\nand now here was Alwyn beginning one, and he the centre of a company of\npersons who were for the most part avowed agnostics, to whose opinions\nhis must necessarily be in direct and absolute opposition! At the same\ntime, he remembered that those who were sure of their faith never lost\ntheir temper about it,--and as he glanced at his friend's perfectly\nserene and coldly smiling countenance, he saw there was no danger of\nhis letting slip, even for a moment, his admirable power of\nself-command. The Duc de la Santoisie, meanwhile, settling his\nmustache, and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a large\ndiamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous, deprecatory\ngesture.\n\n\"I think\"--he said, in soft, purring accents,--\"that my friend, Dr.\nMudley\"--here he bowed toward the saturnine looking individual who had\nentered into conversation with Alwyn--\"takes a very proper, and indeed\na very lofty, view of the whole question. The moral sense\"--and he laid\na severely weighty emphasis on these words,--\"the moral sense of each\nman, if properly trained, is quite sufficient to guide him through\nexistence, without any such weakness as reliance on a merely\nsupposititious Deity.\"\n\nThe Duke's French way of speaking English was charming; he gave an\nexpressive roll to his r's, especially when he said \"the moral sense,\"\nthat of itself almost carried conviction. His wife smiled as she heard\nhim, and her smile was not altogether pleasant. Perhaps she wondered by\nwhat criterion of excellence he measured his own \"moral sense,\" or\nwhether, despite his education and culture, he had any \"moral sense\" at\nall, higher than that of the pig, who eats to be eaten! But Alwyn\nspoke, and she listened intently, finding a singular fascination in the\nsoft and quiet modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely delicious\nsuggestion of music underlying speech.\n\n\"To guide people by their moral sense alone\"--he said--\"you must first\nprove plainly to them that the moral sense exists, together with moral\nresponsibility. You will find this difficult,--as the virtue implied is\nintangible, unseeable;--one cannot say of it, lo here!--or lo\nthere!--it is as complicated and subtle as any other of the\nmanifestations of pure Spirit. Then you must decide on one universal\nstandard, or reasonable conception of what 'morality' is. Again, you\nare met by a crowd of perplexities,--as every nation, and every tribe,\nhas a totally different idea of the same thing. In some countries it is\n'moral' to have many wives; in others, to drown female children; in\nothers, to solemnly roast one's grandparents for dinner! Supposing,\nhowever, that you succeed, with the aid of all the philosophers,\nteachers, and scientists, in drawing up a practical Code of\nMorality--do you not think an enormous majority will be found to ask\nyou by whose authority you set forth this Code?--and by what right you\ndeem it necessary to enforce it? You may say, 'By the authority of\nKnowledge and by the right of Morality'--but since you admit to there\nbeing no spiritual or divine inspiration for your law, you will be\nconfronted by a legion of opponents who will assure you, and probably\nwith perfect justice, that their idea of morality is as good as yours,\nand their knowledge as excellent,--that your Code appears to them\nfaulty in many respects, and that, therefore, they purpose making\nanother one, more suited to their liking. Thus, out of your one famous\nMoral System would spring thousands of others, formed to gratify the\nvarious tastes of different individuals, precisely in the same manner\nas sects have sprung out of the wholly unnecessary and foolish human\narguments on Christianity;--only that there would lack the one\nindestructible, pure Selfless Example that even the most quarrelsome\nbigot must inwardly respect,--namely, Christ Himself. And 'morality'\nwould remain exactly where it is:--neither better nor worse for all the\ntrouble taken concerning it. It needs something more than the 'moral'\nsense to rightly ennoble man,--it needs the SPIRITUAL sense;--the\nfostering of the INSTINCTIVE IMMORTAL ASPIRATION OF THE CREATURE, to\nmake him comprehend the responsibility of his present life, as a\npreparation for his higher and better destiny. The cultured, the\nscholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and uprightly by their\n'moral sense,'--if they so choose, provided they have some great ideal\nto measure themselves by,--but even these, without faith in God, may\nsometimes slip, and fall into deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed\nof, when self-centred on those heights of virtue where they fancied\nthemselves exempt from danger.\"\n\nHe paused,--there was a curious stillness in the room,--many eyes were\nlowered, and M. le Duc's composure was evidently not quite so absolute\nas usual.\n\n\"Taken at its best\"--he continued--\"the world alone is certainly not\nworth fighting for;--we see the fact exemplified every day in the cases\nof those who, surrounded by all that a fair fortune can bestow upon\nthem, deliberately hurl themselves out of existence by their own free\nwill and act,--indeed, suicide is a very general accompaniment of\nAgnosticism. And self-slaughter, though it may be called madness, is\nfar more often the result of intellectual misery.\"\n\n\"Of course, too much learning breeds brain disease\"--remarked Dr.\nMudley sententiously--\"but only in weak subjects,--and in my opinion\nthe weak are better out of the world. We've no room for them nowadays.\"\n\n\"You say truly, sir,\"--replied Alwyn--\"we have no room for them, and no\npatience! They show themselves feeble, and forthwith the strong oppress\nthem;--they can hope for little comfort here, and less help. It is\nwell, therefore, that some of these 'weak' should still believe in God,\nsince they can certainly pin no faith on the justice of their\nfellow-man! But I cannot agree with you that much learning breeds brain\ndisease. Provided the learning be accompanied by a belief in the\nSupreme Wisdom,--provided every step of study be taken upward toward\nthat Source of all Knowledge,--one cannot learn too much, since hope\nincreases with discernment, and on such food the brain grows stronger,\nhealthier, and more capable of high effort. But dispense with the\nSpirit of the Whole, and every movement, though it SEEM forward, is in\ntruth BACKWARD;--study involves bewilderment,--science becomes a\nreeling infinitude of atoms, madly whirling together for no purpose\nsave death, or, at the best, incessant Change, in which mortal life is\ncounted as nothing:--and Nature frowns at us, a vast Question, to which\nthere is no Answer,--an incomprehensible Force, against which wretched\nMan, gifted with all manner of splendid and Godlike capacities, battles\nforever and forever in vain! This is the terrible material lesson you\nwould have us learn to-day, the lesson that maddens pupil and teacher\nalike, and has not a glimmer of consolation to offer to any living\nsoul! What a howling wilderness this world would be if given over\nentirely to Materialism!--Scarce a line of division could be drawn\nbetween men and the brute beasts of the field! I consider,--though\npossibly I am only one among many of widely differing opinion,--that if\nyou take the hope of an after-joy and blessedness away from the weary,\nperpetually toiling Million, you destroy at one wanton blow their best,\npurest, and noblest aspirations. As for the Christian Religion, I\ncannot believe that so grand and holy a Symbol is perishing among\nus,--we have a monarch whose title is 'Defender of the Faith,'--we live\nin an age of civilization which is primarily the result of that\nfaith,--and if, as this gentleman assures me,\"--and he made a slight,\ncourteous inclination toward his opposite neighbor--\"Christianity is\nexploded,--then certainly the greatness of this hitherto great nation\nis exploding with it! But I do not think that because a few skeptics\nuplift their wailing 'All is vanity' from their self-created desert of\nAgnosticism, THEREFORE the majority of men and women are turning\nrenegades from the simplest, most humane, most unselfish Creed that\never the world has known. It may be so,--but, at present, I prefer to\ntrust in the higher spiritual instincts of man at his best, rather than\naccept the testimony of the lesser Unbelieving against the greater\nMany, whose strength, comfort, patience, and endurance, if these\nvirtues come not from God, come not at all.\"\n\nHis forcible, incisive manner of speaking, together with his perfect\nequanimity and concise clearness of argument, had an evident effect on\nthose who listened. Here was no rampant fanatic for particular forms of\ndoctrine or pietism,--here was a man who stated his opinions calmly,\nfrankly, and with an absolute setting-forth of facts which could\nscarcely be denied,--a man, who firmly grounded himself, made no\nattempt to force any one's belief, but who simply took a large view of\nthe whole, and saw, as it were in a glance, what the world might become\nwithout faith in a Divine Cause and Principle of Creation. And once\nGRANT this Divine Cause and Principle to be actually existent, then all\nother divine and spiritual things become possible, no matter how\nIMPOSSIBLE they seem to dull mortal comprehension.\n\nA brief pause followed his words,--a pause of vague embarrassment. The\nDuchess was the first to break it.\n\n\"You have very noble ideas, Mr. Alwyn,\"--she said with a faint,\nwavering smile--\"But I am afraid your conception of things, both human\nand divine, is too exalted, and poetically imaginative, to be applied\nto our every-day life. We cannot close our ears to the thunders of\nscience,--we cannot fail to perceive that we mortals are of as small\naccount in the plan of the Universe as grains of sand on the seashore.\nIt is very sad that so it should be, and yet so it is! And concerning\nChristianity, the poor system has been so belabored of late with hard\nblows, that it is almost a wonder it still breathes. There is no end to\nthe books that have been written disproving and denouncing\nit,--moreover, we have had the subject recently treated in a novel\nwhich excites our sympathies in behalf of a clergyman, who, overwhelmed\nby scholarship, finds he can no longer believe in the religion he is\nrequired to teach, and who renounces his living in consequence. The\nstory is in parts pathetic,--it has had a large circulation,--and\nnumbers of people who never doubted their Creed before, certainly doubt\nit now.\"\n\nAlwyn shrugged his shoulders. \"Faith uprooted by a novel!\" he\nsaid--\"Alas, poor faith! It could never have been well established at\nany time, to be so easy of destruction! No book in the world, whether\nof fact or fiction, could persuade me either TO or FROM the\nconsciousness of what my own individual Spirit instinctively KNOWS.\nFaith cannot be taught or forced,--neither, if TRUE, can it be really\ndestroyed,--it is a God-born, God-fostered INTUITION, immortal as God\nHimself. The ephemeral theories set forth in books should not be able\nto influence it by so much as a hair's breadth.\"\n\n\"Truth is, however, often conveyed through the medium of\nfiction,\"--observed Dr. Mudley--\"and the novel alluded to was\ncalculated to disturb the mind, and arouse trouble in the heart of many\nan ardent believer. It was written by a woman.\"\n\n\"Nay, then\"--said Alwyn quickly, with a darkening flash in his\neyes,--\"if women give up faith, let the world prepare for strange\ndisaster! Good, God-loving women,--women who pray,--women who\nhope,--women who inspire men to do the best that is in them,--these are\nthe safety and glory of nations! When women forget to kneel,--when\nwomen cease to teach their children the 'Our Father,' by whose grandly\nsimple plea Humanity claims Divinity as its origin,--then shall we\nlearn what is meant by 'men's hearts failing them for fear and for\nlooking after those things which are coming on the earth.' A woman who\ndenies Christ repudiates Him, who, above all others, made her sex as\nfree and honored as everywhere in Christendom it IS. He never refused\nwoman's prayer,--He had patience for her weakness,--pardon for her\nsins,--and any book written by woman's hand that does Him the smallest\nshadow of wrong is to me as gross an act, as that of one who, loaded\nwith benefits, scruples not to murder his benefactor!\"\n\nThe Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,--there was a vibration in\nAlwyn's voice that went to her very heart. Strange thoughts swept\ncloud-like across her mind,--again she saw in fancy a little fair, dead\nchild that she had loved,--her only one, on whom she had spent all the\ntenderness of which her nature was capable. It had died at the\nprettiest age of children,--the age of lisping speech and softly\ntottering feet, when a journey from the protecting background of a wall\nto outstretched maternal arms seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny\nadventurer, and is only undertaken with the help of much coaxing, sweet\nlaughter, and still sweeter kisses. She remembered how, in spite of her\n\"free\" opinions, she had found it impossible not to teach her little\none a prayer;--and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as she\nrecollected the child's last words,--words uttered plaintively in the\ndeath grasp of a cruel fever, \"Suffer me.. to come to Thee!\"--A quick\nsigh escaped her lips,--the diamonds on her breast heaved\nrestlessly,--lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she\nencountered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, could he read\nher thoughts? His steadfast gaze seemed to encompass her, and absorb in\na grave, compassionate earnestness the entire comprehension of her\nlife. Her husband's polite, mellifluous accents roused her from this\nhalf-reverie.\n\n\"I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,\"--he was saying--\"that you, a man\nof such genius and ability, should be still in the leading strings of\nthe Church!\"\n\n\"There is NO Church\"--returned Alwyn quietly,--\"The world is waiting\nfor one! The Alpha Beta of Christianity has been learned and recited\nmore or less badly by the children of men for nearly two thousand\nyears,--the actual grammar and meaning of the whole Language has yet to\nbe deciphered. There have been, and are, what are CALLED Churches,--one\nespecially, which, if it would bravely discard mere vulgar\nsuperstition, and accept, absorb, and use the discoveries of Science\ninstead, might, and possibly WILL, blossom into the true, universal,\nand pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in the shaking to and fro of\nthings,--the troublous sifting of the wheat from the chaff,--we must be\ncontent to follow by the Way of the Cross as best we can. Christianity\nhas fallen into disrepute, probably because of the Self-Renunciation it\ndemands,--for, in this age, the primal object of each individual is\nmanifestly to serve Self only. It is a wrong road,--a side-lane that\nleads nowhere,--and we shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and\nrecover the right path--if not now, why then hereafter!\"\n\nHis voice had a tremor of pain within it;--he was thinking of the\nmillions of men and women who were voluntarily wandering astray into a\ndarkness they did not dream of,--and his heart, the great, true heart\nof the Poet, became filled with an indescribable passion of yearning.\n\n\"No wonder,\" he mused--\"no wonder that Christ came hither for the sake\nof Love! To rescue, to redeem, to save, to bless! ... O Divine sympathy\nfor sorrow! If I--a man--can feel such aching pity for the woes of\nothers, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must be the pity of God!\"\n\nAnd his eyes softened,--he almost forgot his surroundings. He was\nentirely unaware of the various deep and wistful emotions he had\nwakened in the hearts of his hearers. There was a great attractiveness\nin him that he was not conscious of,--and while all present certainly\nfelt that he, though among them, was not of them, they were at the same\ntime curiously moved by an impression that notwithstanding his being,\nas it were, set apart from their ways of existence, his sympathetic\ninfluence surrounded them as resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in which\nthey drew long refreshing breaths of healthier life.\n\n\"I should like,\"--suddenly said a bearded individual who was seated\nhalf-way down the table, and who had listened attentively to\neverything--\"I should like to tell you a few things about Esoteric\nBuddhism!--I am sure it is a faith that would suit you admirably!\"\n\nAlwyn smiled, courteously enough. \"I shall be happy to hear your views\non the subject, sir,\" he answered gently--\"But I must tell you that\nbefore I left England for the East, I had studied that theory, together\nwith many others that were offered as substitutes for Christianity, and\nI found it totally inadequate to meet the highest demands of the\nspiritual intelligence. I may also add, that I have read carefully all\nthe principal works against Religion,--from the treatises of the\nearliest skeptics down to Voltaire and others of our own day. Moreover,\nI had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now\naccept and adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or\nattainment,--but simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and\nsingularly happy fortune.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn\"--said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet\nsmile--\"By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there! Your\nfame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,--since true\nhappiness never comes to the undeserving.\"\n\nAlwyn made no reply,--inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of personal\nmerit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays, suggestive of\nmore conceit than modesty. He skilfully changed the conversation, and\nit glided off by degrees into various other channels,--music, art,\nscience, and the political situation of the hour. The men and women\nassembled, as though stimulated and inspired by some new interest, now\nstrove to appear at their very best--and the friction of intellect with\nintellect resulted in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once,\nwas totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually\npervaded the Santoisie social circle. On all the subjects that came up\nfor discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home--and M. le Duc,\nsitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became filled\nwith amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities and\nintellectual abilities, should be actually a CHRISTIAN!--The thing was\nquite incongruous, or seemed so to the ironical wit of the born and\nbred Parisian,--he tried to consider it absurd,--even laughable,--but\nhis efforts merely resulted in a sense of uneasy personal shame. This\npoet was, at any rate, a MAN,--he might have posed for a Coriolanus or\nMarc Antony;--and there was something supreme about him that could not\nbe SNEERED DOWN.\n\nThe dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and the Duchess\nrose, giving the customary departing signal to her lady-guests. Alwyn\nhastened to open the door for her, and she passed out, followed by a\ntrain of women in rich and rustling costumes, all of whom, as they\nswept past the kingly figure that with slightly bent head and courteous\nmien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were conscious of very\nunusual emotions of respect and reverence. How would it be, some of\nthem thought, if they were more frequently brought into contact with\nsuch royal and gracious manhood? Would not love then become indeed a\nhallowed glory, and marriage a true sacrament! Was it not possible for\nmen to be the gods of this world, rather than the devils they so often\nare? Such were a few of the questions that flitted dimly through the\nminds of the society-fagged fair ones that clustered round the Duchess\nde la Santoisie, and eagerly discussed Alwyn's personal beauty and\nextraordinary charm of manner.\n\nThe gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and with their appearance\nfrom the dining-room the reception of the evening began. Crowds of\npeople arrived and crammed up the stairs, filling every corridor and\ncorner, and Alwyn, growing tired of the various introductions and\nshaking of hands to which he was submitted, managed presently to slip\naway into a conservatory adjoining the great drawing-room,--a cool,\nsoftly lighted place full of flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he\nsat for a while among the red and white blossoms, listening to the\nincessant hum of voices, and wondering what enjoyment human beings\ncould find in thus herding together en masse, and chattering all at\nonce as though life depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman's\ndress disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw his\nfair hostess approaching him.\n\n\"Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!\" she said with a slight\nsmile--\"I do not wonder at it. These receptions are the bane of one's\nsocial existence.\"\n\n\"Then why do you give them?\"--asked Alwyn, half laughingly.\n\n\"Why? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose!\" she answered\nlanguidly, leaning against a marble column that supported the towering\nfrondage of a tropical fern, and toying with her fan,--\"And I, like\nothers, am a slave to fashion. I have escaped for one moment, but I\nmust go back directly. Mr. Alwyn ...\" She hesitated,--then came\nstraight up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm--\"I want to thank\nyou!\"\n\n\"To thank me?\" he repeated in surprised accents.\n\n\"Yes!\"--she said steadily--\"To thank you for what you have said\nto-night. We live in a dreary age, when no one has much faith or hope,\nand still less charity,--death is set before us as the final end of\nall,--and life as lived by most, people is not only not worth living,\nbut utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed opinions have made me\nthink it is possible to do better,\"--her lips quivered a little, and\nher breath came and went quickly,--\"and I shall begin to try and find\nout how this 'better' can be consummated! Pray do not think me\nfoolish--\"\n\n\"_I_ think you foolish!\" and with gravest courtesy Alwyn raised her\nhand, and touched it gently with his lips, then as gently released it.\nHis action was full of grace,--it implied reverence, trust, honor,--and\nthe Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes in which a smile still\nlingered.\n\n\"If there were more men like you,\"--she said suddenly--\"what a\ndifference it would make to us women! We should be proud to share the\nburdens of life with those on whose absolute integrity and strength we\ncould rely,--but, in these days, we do not rely, so much as we\ndespise,--we cannot love, so much as we condemn! You are a Poet,--and\nfor you the world takes ideal colors,--for you perchance the very\nheavens have opened;--but remember that the millions, who, in the\npresent era, are ground down under the heels of the grimmest necessity,\nhave no such glimpses of God as are vouchsafed to YOU! They are truly\nin the darkness and shadow of death,--they hear no angel music,--they\nsit in dungeons, howled at by preachers and teachers who make no actual\nattempt to lead them into light and liberty,--while we, the so-called\n'upper' classes, are imprisoned as closely as they, and crushed by\nintolerable weights of learning, such as many of us are not fitted to\nbear. Those who aspire heavenwards are hurled to earth,--those who of\ntheir own choice cling to death, become so fastened to it, that even if\nthey wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will be sorely\ndisheartened in your efforts toward the highest good,--you will find\nmost people callous, careless, ignorant, and forever scoffing at what\nthey do not, and will not, understand,--you had better leave us to our\ndust and ashes,\"--and a little mirthless laugh escaped her lips,--\"for\nto pluck us from thence now will almost need a second visitation of\nChrist, in whom, if He came, we should probably not believe! Moreover,\nyou must not forget that we have read Darwin,--and we are so charmed\nwith our monkey ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them\nin every possible way,--in the hope that, with time and patience, we\nmay resolve ourselves back into the original species!\"\n\nWith which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, half in good\nearnest, she left him and returned to her guests. Not very long\nafterward, he having sought and found Villiers, and suggested to him\nthat it was time to make a move homeward, approached her in company\nwith his friend, and bade her farewell.\n\n\"I don't think we shall see you often in society, Mr. Alwyn\"--she said,\nrather wistfully, as she gave him her hand,--\"You are too much of a\nTitan among pigmies!\"\n\nHe flushed and waved aside the remark with a few playful words; unlike\nhis Former Self, if there was anything in the world he shrank from, it\nwas flattery, or what seemed like flattery. Once outside the house he\ndrew a long breath of relief, and glanced gratefully up at the sky,\nbright with the glistening multitude of stars. Thank God, there were\nworlds in that glorious expanse of ether peopled with loftier types of\nbeing than what is called Humanity! Villiers looked at him\nquestioningly:\n\n\"Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn?\" he asked, taking him by the\narm,--\"Are the pleasures of Fame already exhausted?\"\n\nAlwyn smiled,--he thought of the fame of Sah-luma, Laureate bard of\nAl-kyris!\n\n\"Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning at all\"--he\nreplied--\"then I enjoyed and exhausted those pleasures long ago!\nPerhaps that is the reason why my 'celebrity' seems such a poor and\ntame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself,--I was\nwondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can be\nof much use to others. I am only one against many.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero makes a\nthousand\"--said Villiers quietly--\"And it is an undeniable fact that\nthe vastest number ever counted, begins at the very beginning with ONE!\"\n\nAlwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light in\nhis own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nHELIOBAS.\n\n\nSome few days after the Duchess's dinner-party, Alwyn was strolling one\nmorning through the Park, enjoying to the full the keen, fresh odors of\nthe Spring,--odors that even in London cannot altogether lose their\nsweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and\nalmond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious murkiness of\ncity skies. It had been raining, but now the clouds had rolled off, and\nthe sun shone as brightly as it ever CAN shine on the English capital,\nsending sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the\nlittle crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass,\nlike a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent\nshower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious memories\ndrawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively\nimprovisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the brown\nshining buds were just bursting into leaf,--and Alwyn, whose every\nsense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as great, harmonies\nof nature, paused for a moment to listen to the luscious piping of the\nfeathered minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as excellent\nan idea of musical variation as any Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against\none of the park benches, with his back turned to the main thoroughfare,\nhe did not observe the approach of a man's tall, stately figure, that,\nwith something of his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him\nrapidly along for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly\nwithin a pace or two of where he stood,--a man whose fine face and\nsingular distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at\nhim in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking\npersonage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought, saw\nno one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as\nthough moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply around, and\nin so doing confronted the stranger, who straightway advanced, lifting\nhis hat and smiling. One amazed glance,--and then with an ejaculation\nof wonder, recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped\nhis extended hand.\n\n\"HELIOBAS!\" he exclaimed. \"Is it possible YOU are in London!--YOU, of\nall men in the world!\"\n\n\"Even so!\"--replied Heliobas gayly--\"And why not? Am I incongruous, and\nout of keeping with the march of modern civilization?\"\n\nAlwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous,--he could hardly\nbelieve his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing thing to\nmeet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of\nthe Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the world's\nbusiness, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well have expected to\nfind a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival masquerade! Incongruous?\nOut of keeping?--Yes, certainly he was,--for though clad in the plain,\nconventional garb to which the men of the present day are doomed by the\nfiat of commerce and custom, the splendid dignity and picturesqueness\nof his fine personal appearance was by no means abated, and it was just\nthis that marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in\nLondon as though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a\nwilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures.\n\n\"But how and when did you come?\"--asked Alwyn presently, recovering\nfrom his first glad shock of surprise--\"You see how genuine is my\nastonishment,--why, I thought you were a perpetually vowed\nrecluse,--that you never went into the world at all, ...\"\n\n\"Neither I do\"--rejoined Heliobas--\"save when strong necessity demands.\nBut our Order is not so 'inclosed' that, if Duty calls, we cannot\nadvance to its beckoning, and there are certain times when both I and\nthose of my fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished from\nthe ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, customs, or\nmanners,--as you see!\"--and he laughingly touched his overcoat, the\ndark rough cloth of which was relieved by a broad collar and revers of\nrich sealskin,--\"Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer,\npar example, conscious that his prowess in the making of beer has\nentitled him, not only to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to\na Dukedom in prospective?\"\n\nAlwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison,--and\nHeliobas cheerfully continued--\"I am on the wing just now,--bound for\nMexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two days since,--two\ndays more will see me again en voyage. I am glad to have met you thus\nby chance, for I did not know your address, and though I might have\nobtained that through your publishers, I hesitated about it, not being\nquite certain as to whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome.\"\n\n\"Surely,\"--began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his brow\nas he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected this\nman's good faith and intention toward him, and how he had even received\nhis farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than gratitude.\n\n\"Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,\"--went on Heliobas\ngently, taking no notice of his embarrassment--\"Your fame is now indeed\nunquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long\nlife and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius!\"\n\nAlwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the\nspeaker.\n\n\"I thank you!\" he said simply,--\"But, ... you, who have such a quick\ninstinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of men,--judge\nfor yourself whether I attach any value to the poor renown I have\nwon,--renown that I once would have given my very life to possess!\"\n\nAs he spoke, he stopped,--they were walking down a quiet side-path\nunder the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright\nshaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his\nserene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen,\nobservant glance,--in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had\nbeen wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him,\na wreck of wasted life,--a wreck that was not only ready, but willing,\nto drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless,\nblank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was\ntransformed!--Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes;\nhealth, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile,\nand that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,--while the\nsupreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him\nwith the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness\nthat distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who\nhave in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation\nof their individual mystery of being. One steady, flashing look,--and\nthen Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped\nit,--and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an\nend,--and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening\ngreen branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost\nequal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and\nsympathy.\n\n\"Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether\nwithout results!\" said Heliobas softly--\"Your appearance indicates\nhappiness,--is your life at last complete?\"\n\n\"Complete?--No!\"--and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently--\"It cannot be\ncomplete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is,\nas you can guess, a mere ephemera,--a small vanishing point, in\ncomparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,--you\nknow nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath,--I should\nhave written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak--I will tell you\nall as briefly as I can.\"\n\nAnd talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his\ncompanion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of\nEdris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet's Field at\nsunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ.\nHeliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing\nwith what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of\nthe narrative.\n\n\"And now,\" said Alwyn in conclusion,--\"I always try to remember for my\nown comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream\nbuilt city of the past,--or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel\nsometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still! I look in the\nmirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal\nattributes of the slain Sah-luma,--occasionally these are so strong and\ndistinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I\nloved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved\nmyself to my own utter undoing!--I admired his work with such\nextravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own\nthus manifest conceit!--In truth there is only one thing in that\npictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free\nfrom,--namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,--the\nwanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata's, whose fair\nchild-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,--and the\nevil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as\nher beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this\nwilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self--it was the one\ncircumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the\npositive Me in its application,--but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning\nof the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF,\nOR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as\nmatters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides\nby difficulties,--for since the modern success of that very anciently\ncomposed poem, 'Nourhalma'\"--and he smiled--\"my friends and\nacquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself\nas if I were,--well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am\nstill an egoist,--nay, I am sure of it,--for even as regards my\nheavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!\"\n\n\"How so?\" asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the\nthoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once\nbitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that\nnot all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again.\n\n\"I want her!\"--he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning\nin his voice--\"I long for her every moment of the day and night! It\nseems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this craving in\nme,--this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere\nof joy,--down to my arms, my heart, my life! See!\"--and he stopped by a\nbed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze--\"Even those\nflowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the\nradiance of her eyes,--they were the heaven's own color,--when I see\nlight clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they\nseem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,--the birds\nsing, only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,--and\nat night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are\nworlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living\ncreatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes find it\nhard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that love, serve,\nand praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,--only this one\nangel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! Yes!--I am\nselfish to the heart's core, my friend!\"--and his eyes darkened with a\nvague wistfulness and trouble,--\"Moreover, I have weakly striven to\nexcuse my selfishness to my own conscience thus:--I have thought that\nif SHE were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, I might then\nindeed do lasting good, and leave lasting consolation to the\nworld,--such work might be performed as would stir the most callous\nsouls to life and energy and aspiration,--with HER sweet Presence near\nme, visibly close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I\nwould not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater\nglory! But ALONE!\"--and he gave a slight, hopeless\ngesture--\"Nay,--Christ knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the\nsolitary ways of life are hard!\"\n\nHeliobas regarded him fixedly.\n\n\"You SEEM to be alone\"--he said presently, after a pause,--\"but truly\nyou are not so. You think you are set apart to do your work in\nsolitude,--nevertheless, she whom you love may be near you even while\nyou speak! Still I understand what you mean,--you long to SEE her\nagain,--to realize her tangible form and presence,--well!--this cannot\nbe until you pass from this earth and adopt HER nature, . .\nunless,--unless SHE descends hither, and adopts YOURS!\"\n\nThe last words were uttered slowly and impressively, and Alwyn's\ncountenance brightened with a sudden irresistible rapture.\n\n\"That would be impossible!\" he said, but his voice trembled, and there\nwas more interrogativeness than assertion in his tone.\n\n\"Impossible in most cases,--yes\"--agreed Heliobas--\"but in your\nspecially chosen and privileged estate, I cannot positively say that\nsuch a thing might not be.\"\n\nFor one moment a strange, eager brilliancy shone in Alwyn's eyes,--the\nnext, he set his lips hard, and made a firm gesture of denial.\n\n\"Do not tempt me, good Heliobas,\" he said, with a faint smile--\"Or,\nrather, do not let me tempt myself! I bear in constant mind what she,\nmy Edris, told me when she left me,--that we should not meet again till\nafter death, unless the longing of my love COMPELLED. Now, if it be\ntrue, as I have often thought, that I COULD compel,--by what right dare\nI use such power, if power I have upon her? She loves me,--I love\nher,--and by the force of love, such love as ours, . . who knows!--I\nmight perchance persuade her to adopt a while this mean, uneasy vesture\nof mere mortal life,--and the very innate perception that I MIGHT do\nso, is the sharpest trial I have to endure. Because if I would\nthoroughly conquer myself, I must resist this feeling;--nay, I WILL\nresist it,--for let it cost me what it may, I have sworn that the\nselfishness of my own personal desire shall never cross or cloud the\nradiance of her perfect happiness!\"\n\n\"But suppose\"--suggested Heliobas quietly, \"suppose she were to find an\neven more complete happiness in making YOU happy?\"\n\nAlwyn shook his head. \"My friend do not let us talk of it!\"--he\nanswered--\"No joy can be more complete than the joy of Heaven,--and\nthat in its full blessedness is hers.\"\n\n\"That in its full blessedness is NOT hers,\"--declared Heliobas with\nemphasis--\"And, moreover, it can never be hers, while YOU are still an\nexile and a wanderer! Friend Poet, do you think that even Heaven is\nwholly happy to one who loves, and whose Beloved is absent?\"\n\nA tremor shook Alwyn's nerves,--his eyes glowed as though the inward\nfire of his soul had lightened them, but his face grew very pale.\n\n\"No more of this, for God's sake!\" he said passionately. \"I must not\ndream of it,--I dare not! I become the slave of my own imagined\nrapture,--the coward who falls conquered and trembling before his own\ndesire of delight! Rather let me strive to be glad that she, my\nangel-love, is so far removed from my unworthiness,--let her, if she be\nnear me now, read my thoughts, and see in them how dear, how sacred is\nher fair and glorious memory,--how I would rather endure an eternity of\nanguish, than make her sad for one brief hour of mortal-counted time!\"\n\nHe was greatly moved,--his voice trembled with the fervor of its own\nmusic, and Heliobas looked at him with a grave and very tender smile.\n\n\"Enough!\"--he said gently--\"I will speak no further on this subject,\nwhich I see affects you deeply. Nevertheless, I would have you remember\nhow, when the Master whom we serve passed through His Agony at\nGethsemane, and with all the knowledge of His own power and glory\nstrong upon Him, still in His vast self-abnegation said, 'Not My will,\nbut Thine be done!' that then 'there appeared an Angel unto Him from\nheaven strengthening Him!' Think of this,--for every incident in that\nDivine-Human Life is a hint for ours,--and often it chances that when\nwe reject happiness for the sake of goodness, happiness is suddenly\nbestowed upon us. God's miracles are endless,--God's blessings\nexhaustless, . . and the marvels of this wondrous Universe are as\nnothing, compared to the working of His Sovereign Will for good on the\nlives of those who serve Him faithfully.\"\n\nAlwyn flashed upon him a quick, half-questioning glance, but was\nsilent,--and they walked on together for some minutes without\nexchanging a word. A few people passed and repassed them,--some little\nchildren were playing hide-and-seek behind the trunks of the largest\ntrees,--the air was fresh and invigorating, and the incessant roar of\nbusy traffic outside the Park palings offered a perpetual noisy\nreminder of the great world that surged around them,--the world of\npetty aims and transitory pleasures, with which they, filled full of\nthe knowledge of higher and eternal things, had so little in common\nsave sympathy,--sympathy for the wilful wrong-doing of man, and pity\nfor his self-imposed blindness. Presently Heliobas spoke again in his\ncustomary light and cheerful tone:\n\n\"Are you writing anything new just now?\" he asked. \"Or are you resting\nfrom literary labor?\"\n\n\"Well, rest and work are with me very nearly one and the same\"--replied\nAlwyn,--\"I think the most absolutely tiring and exhausting thing in the\nworld would be to have nothing to do. Then I can imagine life becoming\nindeed a weighty burden! Yes, I am engaged on a new poem, . . it gives\nme intense pleasure to write it--but whether it will give any one equal\npleasure to read it is quite another question.\"\n\n\"Does 'Zabastes' still loom on your horizon?\" inquired his companion\nmirthfully--\"Or are you still inclined--as in the Past--to treat him,\nwhether he comes singly or in numbers, as the Poet's court-jester, and\npaid fool?\"\n\nAlwyn laughed lightly. \"Perhaps!\" he answered, with a sparkle of\namusement in his eyes,--\"But, really, so far as the wind of criticism\ngoes, I don't think any author nowadays particularly cares whether it\nblows fair weather or foul. You see, we all know how it is done,--we\ncan name the clubs and cliques from whence it emanates, and we are\nfully aware that if one leading man of a 'set' gives the starting\nsignal of praise or blame, the rest follow like sheep, without either\nthought or personal discrimination. Moreover, some of us have met and\ntalked with certain of these magazine and newspaper oracles, and have\ntested for ourselves the limited extent of their knowledge and the\nshallowness of their wit. I assure you it often happens that a great\nauthor is tried, judged, and condemned by a little casual press-man\nwho, in his very criticism, proves himself ignorant of grammar. Of\ncourse, if the public choose to accept such a verdict, why, then, all\nthe worse for the public,--but luckily the majority of men are\nbeginning to learn the ins and outs of the modern critic's\nbusiness,--they see his or HER methods (it is a notable fact that women\ndo a great deal of criticism now, they being willing to scribble\noracular commonplaces at a cheaper rate of pay than men), so that if a\nbook is condemned, people are dubious, and straight way read it for\nthemselves to see what is in it that excites aversion,--if it is\npraised, they are still dubious, and generally decide that the critical\neulogist must have some personal interest in its sale. It is difficult\nfor an author to WIN his public,--but WHEN won, the critics may applaud\nor deride as suits their humor, it makes no appreciable difference to\nhis popularity. Now I consider my own present fame was won by chance,\n--a misconception that, as _I_ know, had its ancient foundation in\ntruth, but that, as far as everybody else is concerned, remains a\nmisconception,--so that I estimate my success at its right value, or\nrather, let me say, at its proper worthlessness.\"\n\nAnd in a few words he related how the leaders of English journalism had\njudged him dead, and had praised his work chiefly because it was\nposthumous. \"I believe\"--he added good-humoredly--\"that if this mistake\nhad not arisen, I should scarcely have been heard of, since I advocate\nno particular 'cult' and belong to no Mutual Admiration Alliance,\noffensive or defensive. But my supposed untimely decease served me\nbetter than the Browning Society serves Browning!\"\n\nAgain he laughed,--Heliobas had listened with a keen and sarcastic\nenjoyment of the whole story.\n\n\"Undoubtedly your 'Zabastes' was no phantom!\"--he observed\nemphatically--\"His was evidently a very real existence, and he must\nhave divided himself from one into several, to sit in judgment again\nupon you in this present day! History repeats itself,--and unhappily\nall the injustice, hypocrisy, and inconsistency of man is repeated\ntoo,--and out of the multitudes that inhabit the earth, how few will\nsucceed in fulfilling their highest destinies! This is the one bitter\ndrop in the cup of our knowledge,--we can, if we choose, save\nourselves,--but we can seldom, if ever, save others!\"\n\nAlwyn stopped short, his eyes darkening with a swift intensity of\nfeeling.\n\n\"Why not?\"--he asked earnestly--\"Must we look on, and see men rushing\ntoward certain misery, without making an effort to turn them hack?--to\nwarn them of the darkness whither they are bound?--to rescue them\nbefore it is too late?\"\n\n\"My friend, we can make the effort, certainly,--and we are bound to\nmake it, because it is our duty,--but in ninety-nine cases out of a\nhundred we shall fail of our persuasion. What can I, or you, or any\none, do against the iron force of Free-Will? God Himself will not\nconstrain it,--how then shall we? In the Books of Esdras, which have\nalready been of such use to you, you will find the following\nsignificant words: 'The Most High hath made this world for many, but\nthe world to come for few. As when thou askest the earth, it shall say\nunto thee that it giveth much mold wherein earthen vessels are made,\nand but little dust that gold cometh of, even so is the course of this\npresent world. There be many created but FEW shall be saved.'--God\nelects to be served by CHOICE--and NOT by compulsion; it is His Law\nthat Man shall work out his own immortal destiny,--and nothing can\nalter this overwhelming Fact. The sublime Example of Christ was given\nus as a means to assist us in forming our own conclusions,--but there\nis no coercion in it,--only a Divine Love. You, for instance, were, and\nare, still perfectly free to reject the whole of your experience on the\nField of Ardath as a delusion,--nothing would be easier, and, from the\nworld's point of view, nothing more natural. Faith and Doubt are\nequally voluntary acts,--the one is the instinct of the immortal Soul,\nthe other the tendency of the perishable Body,--and the Will decides\nwhich of the two shall conquer in the end. I know that you are firm in\nyour high and true conviction,--I know also what thoughts are at work\nin your brain,--you are bending all your energies on the task of trying\nto instil into the minds of your fellow-men some comprehension of the\nenlightenment and hope you yourself possess. Ah, you must prepare for\ndisappointment!--for though the times are tending toward strange\nupheavals and terrors, when the trumpet-voice of an inspired Poet may\ndo enormous good,--still the name of the wilfully ignorant is\nLegion,--the age is one of the grossest Mammon worship, and coarsest\nAtheism,--and the noblest teachings of the noblest teacher, were he\neven another Shakespeare, must of necessity be but a casting of pearls\nbefore swine. Still\"--and his rare sweet smile brightened the serene\ndignity of his features--\"fling out the pearls freely all the\nsame,--the swine may grunt at, but cannot rend you,--and a poet's\ngenius should be like the sunlight, that falls on rich and poor, good\nand bad, with glorious impartiality! If you can comfort one sorrow,\ncheck one sin, or rescue one soul from the widening quicksand of the\nAtheist world, you have sufficient reason to be devoutly thankful.\"\n\nBy this time their walk had led them imperceptibly to one of the gates\nof egress from the Park, and Heliobas, pointing to a huge square\nbuilding opposite, said:\n\n\"There is the hotel at which I am staying--one of the Americanized\nmonster fabrics in which tired travellers find much splendid show, and\nlittle rest! Will you lunch with me?--I am quite alone.\"\n\nAlwyn gladly assented,--he was most unwilling to part at once from this\nman, to whom in a measure he felt he owed his present happy and\ntranquil condition of body and mind; besides, he was curious to find\nout more about him--to obtain from him, if possible, an entire\nexplanation of the actual tenets and chief characteristics of the\nsystem of religious worship he himself practiced and followed. Heliobas\nseemed to guess his thoughts, for suddenly turning upon him with a\nquick glance, he observed:\n\n\"You want to 'pluck out the heart of my mystery,' as Hamlet says, do\nyou not, my friend?\"--and he smiled--\"Well, so you shall, if you can\ndiscover aught in me that is not already in yourself! I assure you\nthere is nothing preternatural about me,--my peculiar 'eccentricity'\nconsists in steadily adapting myself to the scientific spiritual, as\nwell as scientific material, laws of the Universe. The two sets of laws\nunited make harmony,--hence I find my life harmonious and\nsatisfactory,--this is my 'abnormal' condition of mind,--and you are\nnow fully as 'abnormal' as I am. Come, we will discuss our mutual\nstrange non-conformity to the wild world's custom or caprice over a\nglass of good wine,--observe, please, that I am neither a 'total\nabstainer' nor a 'vegetarian,' and that I have a curious fashion of\nbeing TEMPERATE, and of using all the gifts of beneficent Nature\nequally, and without prejudice!' While he spoke, they had crossed the\nroad, and they now entered the vestibule of the hotel, where, declining\nthe hall-porter's offer of the \"lift,\" Heliobas ascended the stairs\nleisurely to the second floor, and ushered his companion into a\ncomfortable private sitting-room.\n\n\"Fancy men consenting to be drawn up to their apartments like babes in\na basket!\" he said laughingly, alluding to the \"lift\" process--\"Upon my\nword, when I think of the strong people of a past age and compare them\nwith the enervated race of to-day, I feel not only pity, but shame, for\nthe visible degeneration of mankind. Frail nerves, weak hearts,\nuncertain limbs,--these are common characteristics of the young,\nnowadays, instead of being as formerly the natural failings of the old.\nWear and tear and worry of modern existence?--Oh yes, I know!--but why\nthe wear tear and worry at all? What is it for? Simply for the\nOVER-GETTING of money. One must live? ... certainly,--but one is not\nbound to live in foolish luxury for the sake of out-flaunting one's\nneighbors. Better to live simply and preserve health, than gain a\nfortune and be a moping dyspeptic for life. But unless one toils and\nmoils like a beast of burden, one cannot even live simply, some will\nsay! I don't believe that assertion. The peasants of France live\nsimply, and save,--the peasants of England live wretchedly, and waste!\nVoila la difference! As with nations, so with individuals,--it is all\na question of Will. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' is a\ndreadfully trite copybook maxim, but it's amazingly true all the same.\nNow let us to the acceptation of these good things,\"--this, as a\npallid, boyish-looking waiter just then entered the room with the\nluncheon, and in his bustling to and fro manifested unusual eagerness\nto make himself agreeable--\"I have made excellent friends with this\nyoung Ganymede,--he has sworn never to palm off raisin-wine upon me for\nChambertin!\"\n\nThe waiter blushed and chuckled as though he were conscious of having\ngained special new dignity and importance,--and having laid the table,\nand set the chairs, he departed with a flourishing bow worthy of a\nprince's maitre-d'hotel.\n\n\"Your name must seem a curious one to these fellows\"--observed Alwyn,\nwhen he had gone,--\"Unusual and even mysterious?\"\n\n\"Why, yes!\"--returned Heliobas with a laugh--\"It would be judged so, I\nsuppose, if I ever gave it,--but I don't. It was only in England, and\nby an Englishman, that I was once, to my utter amazement, addressed as\n'He-ly-oh-bas'--and I was quite alarmed at the sound of it! One would\nthink that most people in these educational days knew the Greek word\nhelios,--and one would also imagine it as easy to say Heliobas as\nheliograph. But now to avoid mistakes, whenever I touch British\nterritory and come into contact with British tongues, I give my\nChristian name only, Cassimir--the result of which arrangement is, that\nI am known in this hotel as Mr. Kasmer! Oh, I don't mind in the\nleast--why should I?--neither the English nor the Americans ever\npronounce foreign names properly. Why I met a newly established young\npublisher yesterday, who assured me that most of his authors, the\nfemale ones especially, are so ignorant of foreign literature that he\ndoubts whether any of them know whether Cervantes was a writer or an\nointment!\"\n\nAlwyn laughed. \"I dare say the young publisher may be perfectly\nright,\"--he said--\"But all the same he has no business to publish the\nliterary emanations of such ignorance.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not!--but what is he to do, if nothing else is offered to him?\nHe has to keep his occupation going somehow,--from bad he must select\nthe best. He cannot create a great genius--he has to wait till Nature,\nin the course of events, evolves one from the elements. And in the\npresent general dearth of high ability the publishers are really more\nsinned against than sinning. They spend large sums, and incur large\nrisks, in launching new ventures on the fickle sea of popular favor,\nand often their trouble is taken all in vain. It is really the stupid\negotism of authors that is the stumbling-block in the way of true\nliterature,--each little scribbler that produces a shilling sensational\nthinks his or her own work a marvel of genius, and nothing can shake\nthem from their obstinate conviction. If every man or woman, before\nputting pen to paper, would be sure they had something new, suggestive,\nsymbolical, or beautiful to say, how greatly Art might gain by their\nlabors! Authors who take up arms against publishers en masse, and in\nevery transaction expect to be cheated, are doing themselves\nirreparable injury--they betray the cloven hoof,--namely a greed for\nmoney--and when once that passion dominates them, down goes their\nreputation and they with it. It is the old story over again--'ye cannot\nserve God and Mammon,'--and all Art is a portion of God,--a descending\nof the Divine into Humanity.\"\n\nAlwyn sat for a minute silent and thoughtful. \"A descending of the\nDivine into Humanity!\" he repeated slowly--\"It seems to me that\n'miracle' is forever being enacted--and yet ... we doubt!\"\n\n\"WE do not doubt--\" said Heliobas--\"WE know,--we have touched Reality!\nBut see yonder!\"--and he pointed through the window to the crowded\nthoroughfare below--\"There are the flying phantoms of life,--the men\nand women who are God-oblivious, and who are therefore no more actually\nLIVING than the shadows of Al-Kyris! They shall pass as a breath and be\nno more,--and this roaring, trafficking metropolis, this immediate\ncentre of civilization, shall ere long disappear off the surface of the\nearth, and leave not a stone to mark the spot where once it stood! So\nhave thousands of such cities fallen since this planet was flung into\nspace,--and even so shall thousands still fall. Learning, civilization,\nscience, progress,--these things exist merely for the training and\neducation of a chosen few--and out of many earth centuries and\ngenerations of men, shall be won only a very small company of angels!\nBe glad that you have fathomed the mystery of your own life's\npurpose,--for you are now as much a Positive Identity among vanishing\nspectres, as you were when, on the Field of Ardath, you witnessed and\ntook part in the Mirage of your Past.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nA MISSING RECORD.\n\n\nHe spoke the last words with deep feeling and earnestness, and Alwyn,\nmeeting his clear, grave, brilliant eyes, was more than ever impressed\nby the singular dignity and overpowering magnetism of his presence.\nRemembering how insufficiently he had realized this man's true worth,\nwhen he had first sought him out in his monastic retreat, he was struck\nby a sudden sense of remorse, and leaning across the table, gently\ntouched his hand.\n\n\"How greatly I wronged you once, Heliobas!\" he said penitently, with a\ntremor of appeal in his voice--\"Forgive me, will you?--though I shall\nnever forgive myself!\"\n\nHeliobas smiled, and cordially pressed the extended hand in his own.\n\n\"Nay, there is nothing to forgive, my friend,\" he answered\ncheerfully--\"and nothing to regret. Your doubts of me were very\nnatural,--indeed, viewed by the world's standard of opinion, much more\nnatural than your present faith, for faith is always a SUPER-natural\ninstinct. Would you be practically sensible according to modern social\ntheories?--then learn to suspect everybody and everything, even your\nbest friend's good intentions!\"\n\nHe laughed, and the luncheon being concluded, he rose from the table,\nand taking an easy-chair nearer the window, motioned Alwyn to do the\nsame.\n\n\"I want to talk to you\"--he continued, \"We may not meet again for\nyears,--you are entering on a difficult career, and a few hints from\none who knows and thoroughly understands your position may possibly be\nof use to you. In the first place, then, let me ask you, have you told\nany one, save me, the story of your Ardath adventure?\"\n\n\"One friend only,--my old school comrade, Frank Villiers\"--replied\nAlwyn.\n\n\"And what does he say about it?\"\n\n\"Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end,\"--and Alwyn smiled\na little,--\"He believes that I set out on my journey with my brain\nalready heated to an imaginative excess, and that the whole thing, even\nmy Angel's presence, was a pure delusion of my own overwrought\nfancy,--a curious and wonderful delusion, but always a delusion.\"\n\n\"He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently\"--observed\nHeliobas composedly, \"Most people would call you mad.\"\n\n\"Mad!\" exclaimed Alwyn hotly--\"Why, I am as sane as any man in London!\"\n\n\"Saner, I should say,\"--replied Heliobas, smiling,--\"Compared with some\nof the eminently 'practical' speculating maniacs that howl and struggle\namong the fluctuating currents of the Stock Exchange, for instance, you\nare indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome mental capability! But let\nus view the matter coolly. You must not expect such an exceptional\nexperience as yours to be believed in by ordinary persons. Because the\nmajority of people, being utterly UNspiritual and worldly, have NO such\nexperiences, and they therefore deem them impossible;--they are the\ngold-fish born in a bowl, who have no consciousness of the existence of\nan ocean. Moreover, you have no proofs of the truth of your narrative,\nbeyond the change in your own life and disposition,--and that can be\neasily referred to various other causes. You spoke of having gathered\none of the miracle-flowers on the Prophet's field,--may I see it?\"\n\nSilently Alwyn drew from his breast-pocket the velvet case in which he\nalways kept the cherished blossom, and taking it tenderly out, placed\nit in his companion's hand.\n\n\"An immortelle\"--said Heliobas softly, while the flower, uncurling its\nsilvery petals in the warmth of his palm, opened star-like and white as\nsnow. \"An immortelle, rare and possibly unique!--that is all the world\nwould say of it! It cannot be matched,--it will not fade,--true! but\nyou will get no one to believe that! Frown not, good Poet!--I want you\nto consider me for the moment a practical worldling, bent on driving\nyou from the spiritual position yon have taken up,--and you will see\nhow necessary it is for you to keep the secret of your own\nenlightenment to yourself, or at least only hint at it through the\nparables of poesy.\"\n\nHe gave back the Ardath blossom to its owner with reverent care,--and\nwhen Alwyn had as reverently put it by, he resumed:\n\n\"Your friend Villiers has offered you a perfectly logical and\ncommon-sense solution of the mystery of Ardath,--one which, if you\nchose to accept it, would drive you back into skepticism as easily as a\nstrong wind blows a straw. Only see how simple the intricate problem is\nunravelled by this means! You, a man of ardent and imaginative\ntemperament, made more or less unhappy by the doctrines of materialism,\ncome to me, Heliobas, a Chaldean student of the Higher Philosophies, an\nindividual whose supposed mysterious power and inexplicably studious\nway of life entitle him to be considered by the world at large an\nIMPOSTER!--Now don't look so indignant!\"--and he laughed,--\"I am merely\ndiscussing the question from the point of view that would be sure to be\nadopted by 'wise' modern society! Thus--I, Heliobas, the impostor, take\nadvantage of your state of mind to throw you into a trance, in which,\nby occult means, you see the vision of an Angel, who bids you meet her\nat a place called Ardath,--and you, also, in your hypnotized condition,\nwrite a poem which you entitle 'Nourhalma.' Then I,--always playing my\nown little underhand game!--read you portions of 'Esdras,' and prove to\nyou that 'Ardath' exists, while I delicately SUGGEST, if I do not\nabsolutely COMMAND, your going thither. You go,--but I, still by\nmagnetic power, retain my influence over you. You visit Elzear, a\nhermit, whom we will, for the sake of the present argument, call my\naccomplice,--he reads between the lines of the letter you deliver to\nhim from me, and he understands its secret import. He continues, no\nmatter how, your delusion. You broke your fast with him,--and surely it\nwas easy for him to place some potent drug in the wine he gave you,\nwhich made you DREAM the rest;--nay, viewed from this standpoint, it is\nopen to question whether you ever went to the Field of Ardath at all,\nbut merely DREAMED you did! You see how admirably I can, with little\ntrouble, disprove the whole story, and make myself out to be the\nveriest charlatan and trickster that ever duped his credulous\nfellow-man! How do you like my practical dissection of your new-found\njoys?\"\n\nAlwyn was gazing at him with puzzled and anxious eyes.\n\n\"I do not like it at all\"--he murmured, in a pained tone--\"It is an\ninsidious SEMBLANCE of truth;--but I know it is not the Truth itself!\"\n\n\"Why, how obstinate you are!\" said Heliobas, good-humoredly, with a\nquick, flashing glance at him. \"You insist on seeing things in a\ndirectly reverse way to that in which the world sees them! How can you\nbe so foolish! To the world your Ardath adventure is the SEMBLANCE of\ntruth,--and only man's opinion thereon is worth trusting as the Truth\nitself!\"\n\nOver the wistful, brooding thoughtfulness of Alwyn's countenance swept\na sudden light of magnificent resolution.\n\n\"Heliobas, do not jest with me!\" he cried passionately--\"I know, better\nperhaps than most men, how divine things can be argued away by the\njargon of tongues, till heart and brain grow weary,--I know, God help\nme!--how the noblest ideals of the soul can be swept down and dispersed\ninto blank ruin, by the specious arguments of cold-blooded\ncasuists,--but I also know, by a supreme INNER knowledge beyond all\nhuman proving, that GOD EXISTS, and with His Being exist likewise all\nsplendors, great and small, spiritual and material,--splendors vaster\nthan our intelligence can reach,--ideals loftier than imagination can\ndepict! I want no proof of this save those that burn in my own\nindividual consciousness,--I do not need a miserable taper of human\nreason to help me to discern the Sun! I, OF MY OWN CHOICE, PRAYER, AND\nHOPE, voluntarily believe in God, in Christ, in angels, in all things\nbeautiful and pure and grand!--let the world and its ephemeral opinions\nwither, I will NOT be shaken down from the first step of the ladder\nwhereon one climbs to Heaven!\"\n\nHis features were radiant with fervor and feeling,--his eyes brilliant\nwith the kindling inward light of noblest aspiration,--and Heliobas,\nwho had watched him intently, now bent toward him with a grave gesture\nof the gentlest homage.\n\n\"How strong is he whom an Angel's love makes glorious!\" he said--\"We\nare partners in the same destiny, my friend,--and I have but spoken to\nyou as the world might speak, to prepare you for opposition. The\nspecious arguments of men confront us at every turn, in every book, in\nevery society,--and it is not always that we are ready to meet them. As\na rule, silence on all matters of personal faith is best,--let your\nlife bear witness for you;--it shall thunder loud oracles when your\nmortal limbs are dumb.\"\n\nHe paused a moment--then went on: \"You have desired to know the secret\nof the active and often miraculous power of the special form of\nreligion I and my brethren follow; well, it is all contained in Christ,\nand Christ only. His is the only true Spiritualism in the world--there\nwas never any before He came. We obey Christ in the simple rules he\npreached,--Christ according to His own enunciated wish and will.\nMoreover, we,--that is, our Fraternity,--received our commission from\nChrist Himself in person.\"\n\nAlwyn started,--his eyes dilated with amazement and awe.\n\n\"From Christ Himself in person?\"--he echoed incredulously.\n\n\"Even so\"--returned Heliobas calmly. \"What do you suppose our Divine\nMaster was about during the years between His appearance among the\nRabbis of the Temple and the commencement of His public preaching? Do\nyou, can you, imagine with the rest of the purblind world, that he\nwould have left His marvellous Gospel in the charge of a few fishermen\nand common folk ONLY.\"\n\n\"I never thought,--I never inquired--\" began Alwyn hurriedly.\n\n\"No!\"--and Heliobas smiled rather sadly, \"Few men do think or inquire\nvery far on sacred subjects! Listen,--for what I have to say to you\nwill but strengthen you in your faith,--and you will need more than all\nthe strength of the Four Evangelists to bear you stiffly up against the\nsuicidal Negation of this present disastrous epoch. Ages ago,--ay, more\nthan six or seven thousand years ago, there were certain communities of\nmen in the East,--scholars, sages, poets, astronomers, and scientists,\nwho, desiring to give themselves up entirely to study and research,\nwithdrew from the world, and formed themselves into Fraternities,\ndividing whatever goods they had in common, and living together under\none roof as the brotherhoods of the Catholic Church do to this day. The\nprimal object of these men's investigations was a search after the\nDivine Cause of Creation; and as it was undertaken with prayer,\npenance, humility, and reverence, much enlightenment was vouchsafed to\nthem, and secrets of science, both spiritual and material, were\ndiscovered by them,--secrets which the wisest of modern sages know\nnothing of as yet. Out of these Fraternities came many of the prophets\nand preachers of the Old Testament,--Esdras for one,--Isaiah for\nanother. They were the chroniclers of many now forgotten events,--they\nkept the history of the times, as far is it was possible,--and in their\nancient records your city of Al-Kyris is mentioned as a great and\npopulous place, which was suddenly destroyed by the bursting out of a\nvolcano beneath its foundations--Yes!\"--this as Alwyn uttered an eager\nexclamation,--\"Your vision was a perfectly faithful reflection of the\nmanner in which it perished. I must tell you, however, that nothing\nconcerning its kings or great men has been preserved,--only a few\nallusions to one Hyspiros, a writer of tragedies, whose genius seems to\nhave corresponded to that of our Shakespeare of to-day. The name of\nSah-luma is nowhere extant.\"\n\nA burning wave of color flushed Alwyn's face, but he was silent.\nHeliobas went on gently:\n\n\"At a very early period of their formation, these Fraternities I tell\nyou of were in possession of most of the MATERIAL scientific facts of\nthe present day,--such things as the electric wire and battery, the\nphonograph, the telephone, and other 'new' discoveries, being perfectly\nfamiliar to them. The SPIRITUAL manifestations of Nature were more\nintricate and difficult to penetrate,--and though they knew that\nmaterial effects could only be produced by spiritual causes, they\nworked in the dark, as it were, only groping toward the light. However,\nthe wisdom and purity of the lives they led was not without its\neffect,--emperors and kings sought their advice, and gave them great\nstores of wealth, which they divided, according to rule, into equal\nportions, and used for the benefit of those in need, willing the\nremainder to their successors; so that, at the present time, the few\nbrotherhoods that are left hold immense treasures accumulated through\nmany centuries,--treasures which are theirs to share with one another\nin prosecution of discoveries and the carrying on of good works in\nsecret. Ages before the coming of Christ, one Aselzion, a man of\naustere and strict life, belonging to a Fraternity stationed in Syria,\nwas engaged in working out a calculation of the average quantity of\nheat and light provided per minute by the sun's rays, when, glancing\nupward at the sky, the hour being clear noonday, he beheld a Cross of\ncrimson hue suspended in the sky, whereon hung the cloudy semblance of\na human figure. Believing himself to be the victim of some optical\ndelusion, he hastened to fetch some of his brethren, who at a glance\nperceived the self-same marvel,--which presently was viewed with\nreverent wonder by the whole assembled community. For one entire hour\nthe Symbol stayed--then vanished suddenly, a noise like thunder\naccompanying its departure. Within a few months of its appearance,\nmessages came from all the other Fraternities stationed in Egypt, in\nSpain, in Greece, in Etruria, stating that they also had seen this\nsingular sight, and suggesting that from henceforth the Cross should be\nadopted by the united Brotherhoods as a holy sign of some Deity\nunrevealed,--a proposition that was at once agreed to. This happened\nsome five thousand years before Christ,--and hence the Sign of the\nCross became known in all, or nearly all, the ancient rites of worship,\nthe multitude considering that because it was the emblem of the\nPhilosophical Fraternities, it must have some sacred meaning. So it was\nused in the service of Serapis and the adoration of the Nile-god,--it\nhas been found carved on Egyptian disks and obelisks, and it was\nincluded among the numerous symbols of Saturn.\"\n\nHe paused. Alwyn was listening with eager, almost breathless, attention.\n\n\"After this\"--went on Heliobas--\"came a long period of prefigurements;\ntypes and suggestions, that, running through all the various religions\nthat sprang up swiftly and as swiftly decayed, hinted vaguely at the\nbirth of a child,--offspring of a pure Virgin--a miraculously generated\nGod-in-Man--an absolutely Sinless One, who should be sent to remind\nHumanity of its intended final high destiny, and who should, by precept\nand example, draw the Earth nearer to Heaven. I would here ask you to\nnote what most people seem to forget,--namely, that since Christ came,\nall these shadowy types and prefigurements have CEASED; a notable fact,\neven to skeptical minds. The world waited dimly for something, it knew\nnot what,--the various Fraternities of the Cross waited also, feeling\nconscious that some great era of hope and happiness was about to dawn\nfor all men. When the Star in the East arose announcing the Redeemer's\nbirth, there were some forty or fifty of these Fraternities existing,\nthree in the ancient province of Chaldea, from whence a company of the\nwisest seers and sages were sent to acknowledge by their immediate\nhomage the Divinity born in Bethlehem. These were the 'wise men out of\nthe East' mentioned in the Gospel. We knew--I say WE, because I am\ndescended directly from one of these men, and have always belonged to\ntheir Brotherhood--we knew it was DIVINITY that had come amongst\nus,--and in our parchment chronicles there is a long account of how the\ndeserts of Arabia rang with music that holy night--what wealth of\nflowers sprang up in places that had hither to lain waste and dry--how\nthe sky blazed with rings of roseate radiance,--how fair and wondrous\nshapes were seen flitting across the heavens,--the road of\ncommunication between men and Angels being opened at a touch by the\nSaviour's advent.\"\n\nAgain he paused,--and after a little silence resumed:\n\n\"Then we added the Star to our existing Symbol, the Cross, and became\nthe Brotherhood of the Cross and Star. As such, after the Redeemer's\nbirth, we put all other matters from us, and set ourselves to chronicle\nHis life and actions, to pray and wait, unknowing what might be the\ncourse of His work or will. One Day He came to us,--ah! happy those\nwhom He found watching, and whose privilege it was to receive their\nDivine Guest!\"\n\nHis voice had a passionate thrill within it, as of tears,--and Alwyn's\nheart beat fast,--what a wonderful new chapter was here revealed of the\nold, old story of the Only Perfect Life on earth!\n\n\"One of the Fraternities,\" went on Heliobas, \"had its habitation in the\nwilderness where, some years later, the Master wandered fasting forty\ndays and forty nights. To that solitary abode of prayerful men He came,\nwhen He was about twenty-three earthly years of age; the record of His\nvisit has been reverently penned and preserved, and from it we know how\nfair and strong He was,--how stately and like a King--how gracious and\nnoble in bearing--how far exceeding in beauty all the sons of men! His\nspeech was music that thrilled to the heart,--the wondrous glory of His\neyes gave life to those who knelt and worshipped Him--His touch was\npardon--His smile was peace! From His own lips a store of wisdom was\nset down,--and prophecies concerning the fate of His own teaching,\nwhich then He uttered, are only now, at this very day, being fulfilled.\nTherefore we know the time has come--\" he broke off, and sighed deeply.\n\n\"The time has come for what?\" demanded Alwyn eagerly.\n\n\"For certain secrets to be made known to the world which till now have\nbeen kept sacred,\" returned Heliobas,--\"You must understand that the\nchief vow of the Fraternity of the Cross and Star is SECRECY,--a\npromise never to divulge the mysteries of God and Nature to those who\nare unfitted to receive such high instruction. It is Christ's own\nsaying--'A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no\nsign shall be given.' You surely are aware how, even in the simplest\ndiscoveries of material science, the world's attitude is at first one\nof jeering incredulity,--how much more so, then, in things which\npertain solely to the spiritual side of existence! But God will not be\nmocked,--and it behooves us to think long, and pray much, before we\nunveil even one of the lesser mysteries to the eyes of the vulgar.\nChrist knew the immutable condition of Free-Will,--He knew that faith,\nhumility, and obedience are the hardest of all hard virtues to the\nself-sufficient arrogance of man; and we learned from Him that His\nGospel, simple though it is, would be denied, disputed, quarrelled\nover, shamefully distorted, and almost lost sight of in a multitude of\n'free' opinions,--that His life-giving Truth would be obscured and\nrendered incomprehensible by the WILFUL obstinacy of human arguments\nconcerning it. Christ has no part whatever in the distinctly human\natrocities that have been perpetrated under cover of His Name,--such as\nthe Inquisition, the Wars of the Crusades, the slaughter of martyrs,\nand the degrading bitterness of SECTS; in all these things Christ's\nteaching is entirely set aside and lost. He knew how the proud of this\nworld would misread His words--that is why He came to men who for\nthousands of years in succession had steadily practised the qualities\nHe most desired,--namely, faith, humility, and obedience,--and finding\nthem ready to carry out His will, He left with them the mystic secrets\nof His doctrine, which He forbade them to give to the multitude till\nmen's quarrels and disputations had called His very existence into\ndoubt. Then,--through pure channels and by slow degrees--we were to\nproclaim to the world His last message.\"\n\nAlwyn's eyes rested on the speaker in reverent yet anxious inquiry.\n\n\"Surely\"--he said--\"you will begin to proclaim it now?\"\n\n\"Yes, we shall begin,\" answered Heliobas, his brow darkening as with a\ncloud of troubled thought--\"But we are in a certain difficulty,--for we\nmay not speak in public ourselves, nor write for publication,--our\nancient vow binds us to this, and may not be broken. Moreover, the\nMaster gave us a strange command,--namely, that when the hour came for\nthe gradual declaration of the Secret of His Doctrine, we should\nintrust it, in the first place, to the hands of one who should be\nyoung,--IN the world, yet not OF it,--simple as a child, yet wise with\nthe wisdom of faith,--of little or no estimation among men,--and who\nshould have the distinctive quality of loving NOTHING in earth or\nHeaven more dearly than His Name and Honor. For this unique being we\nhave searched, and are searching still,--we can find many who are young\nand both wise and innocent, but, alas! one who loves the unseen Christ\nactually more than all things,--this is indeed a perplexity! I have\nfancied of late that I have discovered in my own circle,--that is,\namong those who have been DRAWN to study God and Nature according to my\nviews,--one who makes swift and steady progress in the higher sciences,\nand who, so far as I have been able to trace, really loves our Master\nwith singular adoration above all joys on earth and hopes of Heaven;\nbut I cannot be sure--and there are many tests and trials to be gone\nthrough before we dare bid this little human lamp of love shine forth\nupon the raging storm.\"\n\nHe was silent a moment,--then went on in a low tone, as though speaking\nto himself:\n\n\"WHEN THE MECHANISM OF THIS UNIVERSE IS EXPLAINED IN SUCH WISE THAT NO\nDISCOVERY OF SCIENCE CAN EVER DISPROVE, BUT MUST RATHER SUPPORT IT, . .\nWHEN THE ESSENCE OF THE IMMORTAL SOUL IN MAN IS DESCRIBED IN CLEAR AND\nCONCISE LANGUAGE,--AND WHEN THE MARVELLOUS ACTION OF SPIRIT ON MATTER\nIS SHOWN TO BE ACTUALLY EXISTENT AND NEVER IDLE,--then, if the world\nstill doubts and denies God, it will only have itself to blame!--But to\nyou\"--and he resumed his ordinary tone--\"all things, through your\nAngel's love, are made more or less plain,--and I have told you the\nhistory of our Fraternity merely that you may understand how it is we\nknow so much that the outer world is ignorant of. There are very few of\nus left nowadays,--only a dozen Brotherhoods scattered far apart on\ndifferent portions of the earth,--but, such as we are, we are all\nUNITED, and have never, through these eighteen hundred years, had a\nshade of difference in opinion concerning the Divinity of Christ.\nThrough Him we have learned TRUE Spiritualism, and all the miraculous\npower which is the result of it; and as there is a great deal of FALSE\nspiritualism rampant just now, I may as well give you a few hints\nwhereby you may distinguish it at once,--Imprimis: if a so-called\nSpiritualist tells you that he can summon spirits who will remove\ntables and chairs, write letters, play the piano, and rap on the walls,\nhe is a CHARLATAN. FOR SPIRITS CAN TOUCH NOTHING CORPOREAL UNLESS THEY\nTAKE CORPOREAL SHAPE FOR THE MOMENT, as in the case of your angelic\nEdris. But in this condition, they are only seen by the one person whom\nthey visit,--never by several persons at once--remember that! Nor can\nthey keep their corporeal state long,--except, by their express wish\nand will, they should seek to enter absolutely into the life of\nhumanity, which, I must tell you, HAS BEEN DONE, but so seldom, that in\nall the history of Christian Spirituality there are only about four\nexamples. Here are six tests for all the 'spiritualists' you may chance\nto meet:\n\n\"First. Do they serve themselves more than others? If so, they are\nentirely lacking in spiritual attributes.\n\n\"Secondly. Will they take money for their professed knowledge? If so,\nthey condemn themselves as paid tricksters.\n\n\"Thirdly. Are they men and women of commonplace and thoroughly material\nlife? Then, it is plain they cannot influence others to strive for a\nhigher existence.\n\n\"Fourthly. Do they love notoriety? If they do, the gates of the unseen\nworld are shut upon them.\n\n\"Fifthly. Do they disagree among themselves, and speak against one\nanother? If so, they contradict by their own behavior all the laws of\nspiritual force and harmony.\n\n\"Sixthly and lastly.--Do they reject Christ! If they do, they know\nnothing whatever about Spiritualism, there being NONE without Him.\nAgain, when you observe professing psychists living in any eccentric\nway, so as to cause their trifling every-day actions to be remarked and\ncommented upon, you may be sure the real power is not in them,--as, for\ninstance, people who become vegetarians because they imagine that by so\ndoing they will see spirits--people who adopt a singular mode of dress\nin order to appear different from their fellow-creatures--people who\nare lachrymose, dissatisfied, or in any way morbid. Never forget that\nTRUE Spiritualism engenders HEALTH OF BODY AND MIND, serenity and\nbrightness of aspect, cheerfulness and perfect contentment,--and that\nits influence on those who are brought within its radius is distinctly\nMARKED and BENEFICIAL. The chief characteristic of a true, that is,\nCHRISTIAN, spiritualist is, that he or she CANNOT be shaken from faith,\nor thrown into despair by any earthly misfortune whatsoever. And while\non this subject, I will show you where the existing forms of\nChristianity depart from the teachings of Christ: first, in LACK OF\nSELF ABNEGATION,--secondly, in LACK OF UNITY,--thirdly, in failing to\nprove to the multitude that Death is is not DESTRUCTION, but simply\nCHANGE. Nothing really DIES; and the priests should make use of Science\nto illustrate this fact to the people. Each of these virtues has its\nMiracle Effect: Unity is strength; Self abnegation attracts the Divine\nInfluences, and Death, viewed as a glorious transformation, which it\nIS, inspires the soul with a sense of larger life. Sects are\nUNChristian,--there should be only ONE vast, UNITED Church for all the\nChristian world--a Church, whose pure doctrines should include all the\nhints received from Nature and the scientific working of the\nUniverse,--the marvels of the stars and the planetary systems,--the\nwonders of plants and minerals,--the magic of light and color and\nmusic; and the TRUE MIRACLES of Spirit and Matter should be inquired\ninto reverently, prayerfully, and always with the deepest\nHUMILITY;--while the first act of worship performed every holy Morn and\nEve should be Gratitude! Gratitude--gratitude! Ay, even for a sorrow we\nshould be thankful,--it may conceal a blessing we wot not of! For\nsight, for sense, for touch, for the natural beauty of this present\nworld,--for the smile on a face we love--for the dignity and\nresponsibility of our lives, and the immortality with which we are\nendowed,--Oh my friend! would that every breath we drew could in some\nway express to the All Loving Creator our adoring recognition of His\ncountless benefits!\"\n\nCarried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed with extraordinary\nbrilliancy,--his countenance was grand, inspired, and beautiful, and\nAlwyn gazed at him in wondering, fascinated silence. Here was a man who\nhad indeed made the best of his manhood!--what a life was his! how\nsatisfying and serene! Master of himself, he was, as it were, master of\nthe world,--all Nature ministered to him, and the pageant of passing\nhistory was as a mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction,--a\npicture on which he, looking, learned all that it was needful for him\nto know. And concerning this mystic Brotherhood of the Cross and Star,\nwhat treasures of wisdom they must have secreted in their chronicles\nthrough so many thousands of years! What a privilege it would be to\nexplore such world-forgotten tracks of time! Yielding to a sudden\nimpulse, Alwyn spoke his thought aloud:\n\n\"Heliobas,\" he said, \"tell me, could not I, too, become a member of\nyour Fraternity?\"\n\nHeliobas smiled kindly. \"You could, assuredly\"--he replied--\"if you\nchose to submit to fifteen years' severe trial and study. But I think a\ndifferent sphere of duty is designed for you. Wait and see! The rules\nof our Order forbid the disclosure of knowledge attained, save through\nthe medium of others not connected with us; and we may not write out\nour discoveries for open publication. Such a vow would be the\ndeath-blow to your poetical labors,--and the command your Angel gave\nyou points distinctly to a life lived IN the world of men,--not out of\nit.\"\n\n\"But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment\"--argued\nAlwyn--\"And you are free; did you not tell me you were bound for\nMexico?\"\n\n\"Does going to Mexico constitute liberty?\" laughed Heliobas. \"I assure\nyou I am closely constrained by my vows wherever I am,--as closely as\nthough I were shut in our turret among the heights of Caucasus! I am\ngoing to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts from one of our\nbrethren, who is dying there. He has lived as a recluse, like Elzear of\nMelyana, and to him have been confided certain important chronicles,\nwhich must be taken into trustworthy hands for preservation. Such is\nthe object of my journey. But now, tell me, have you thoroughly\nunderstood all I have said to you?\"\n\n\"Perfectly!\" rejoined Alwyn. \"My way seems very clear before me,--a\nhappy way enough, too, if it were not quite so lonely!\" And he sighed a\nlittle.\n\nHeliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder. \"Courage!\"...he\nsaid softly. \"Bear with the loneliness a while, IT MAY NOT LAST LONG!\"\n\nA slight thrill ran through Alwyn's nerves,--he felt as though he were\non the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy,--his heart beat\nquickly and his eyes grew dim. Mastering the strange emotion with an\neffort, he was reluctantly beginning to think it was time to take his\nleave, when Heliobas, who had been watching him intently, spoke in a\ncheerful, friendly tone:\n\n\"Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you come\nwith me and hear the Ange-Demon of music at St. James's Hall? Will you?\nHe can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound,--a\nbenediction not to be despised in this workaday world of clamor,--and\nout of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven offered to us on earth,\nMusic, I think, is the grandest and best.\"\n\n\"I will go with you wherever you please,\" replied Alwyn, glad of any\nexcuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean's company,--\"But\nwhat Ange-Demon are you speaking of?\"\n\n\"Sarasate,--or 'Sarah Sayty,' as some of the clear Britishers call\nhim--\" laughed Heliobas, putting on his overcoat as he spoke; \"the\n'Spanish fiddler,' as the crabbed musical critics define him when they\nwant to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often. These, together\nwith the literary 'oracles,' have their special cliques,--their little\nchalked out circles, in which they, like tranced geese, stand cackling,\nunable to move beyond the marked narrow limit. As there are fools to be\nfound who have the ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare\nthat the obfuscated, ill-expressed, and ephemeral productions of\nBrowning are equal, if not superior, to the clear, majestic, matchless,\nand immortal utterances of Shakespeare,--ye gods! the force of asinine\nbraying can no further go than this! ... even so there are similar\nfools who say that the cold, correct, student-like playing of Joachim\nis superior to that of Sarasate. But come and judge for yourself,--if\nyou have never heard him, it will be a sort of musical revelation to\nyou,--he is not so much a violinist, as a human violin played by some\ninvisible sprite of song. London listens to him, but doesn't know quite\nwhat to make of him,--he is a riddle that only poets can read. If we\nstart now, we shall be just in time,--I have two stalls. Shall we go?\"\n\nAlwyn needed no second invitation,--he was passionately fond of\nmusic,--his interest was aroused, his curiosity excited,--moreover,\nwhatever the fine taste of Heliobas pronounced as good must, he felt\nsure, be super-excellent. In a few minutes they had left the hotel\ntogether, and were walking briskly toward Piccadilly, their singularly\nhandsome faces and stately figures causing many a passer-by to glance\nafter them admiringly, and murmur sotto voce, \"Splendid-looking\nfellows! ... not English!\" For though Englishmen are second to none in\nmere muscular strength and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting,\nthat if any one possessing poetic distinction of look, or picturesque\nand animated grace of bearing, be seen suddenly among the more or less\nmonotonously uniform crowd in the streets of London, he or she is\npretty sure to be set down, rightly or wrongly, as \"NOT English.\" Is\nnot this rather a pity?--for England!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nTHE WIZARD OF THE BOW.\n\n\nWhen they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had already begun the\nprogramme of the day with Mendelssohn's \"Italian\" Symphony. The house\nwas crowded to excess; numbers of people were standing, apparently\nwilling to endure a whole afternoon's fatigue, rather than miss hearing\nthe Orpheus of Andalusia,--the \"Endymion out of Spain,\" as one of our\nlatest and best poets has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant\ninterest was shown in the orchestral performance,--the \"Italian\"\nSymphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and this is probably\nthe reason why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For, be\nit understood by the critical elect, that the heart-whole appreciation\nof the million is by no means so \"vulgar\" as it is frequently\nconsidered,--it is the impulsive response of those who, not being bound\nhand and foot by any special fetters of thought or prejudice, express\nwhat they instinctively FEEL to be true. You cannot force these\n\"vulgar,\" by any amount of \"societies,\" to adopt Browning as a\nhousehold god,--but they will appropriate Shakespeare, and glory in\nhim, too, without any one's compulsion. If authors, painters, and\nmusicians would probe more earnestly than they do to the core of this\nINSTINCTIVE HIGHER ASPIRATION OF PEOPLES, it would be all the better\nfor their future fame. For each human unit in a nation has its great,\nas well as base passions,--and it is the clear duty of all the votaries\nof art to appeal to and support the noblest side of nature\nonly--moreover, to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic eloquence\nof meaning that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble\nand exalted.\n\n\"It is not in the least Italian\"--said Heliobas, alluding to the\nSymphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation surged\nthrough the hall like the noise that might be made by thousands of\nswarming bees,--\"There is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of\nItalian light about it. The dreamy warmth of the South,--the radiant\ncolor that lies all day and all night on the lakes and mountains of\nDante's land,--the fragrance of flowers--the snatches of peasants' and\nfishermen's songs--the tunefulness of nightingales in the\nmoonlight,--the tinkle of passing mandolins,--all these things should\nbe hinted at in an 'Italian' Symphony--and all these are lacking.\nMendelssohn tried to do what was not in him,--I do not believe the\nhalf-phlegmatic, half-philosophical nature of a German could ever\nunderstand the impetuously passionate soul of Italy.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were almost black,\nglanced round at him inquiringly,--a faint blush flitted over her\ncheeks, and she seemed about to speak, but, as though restrained by\ntimidity, she looked away again and said nothing. Heliobas smiled.\n\n\"That pretty child is Italian,\" he whispered to Alwyn. \"Patriotism\nsparkled in those bright eyes of hers--love for the land of lilies,\nfrom which she is at present one transplanted!\"\n\nAlwyn smiled also, assentingly, and thought how gracious, kindly, and\ngentle were the look and voice of the speaker. He found it difficult to\nrealize that this man, who now sat beside him in the stalls of a\nfashionable London concert-room, was precisely the same one who, clad\nin the long flowing white robes of his Order, had stood before the\nAltar in the chapel at Dariel, a stately embodiment of evangelical\nauthority, intoning the Seven Glorias! It seemed strange, and yet not\nstrange, for Heliobas was a personage who might be imagined\nanywhere,--by the bedside of a dying child, among the parliaments of\nthe learned, in the most brilliant social assemblies, at the head of a\nchurch,--anything he chose to do would equally become him, inasmuch as\nit was utterly impossible to depict him engaged in otherwise than good\nand noble deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamor of applause broke\nout on all sides,--applause that was joined in by the members of the\norchestra as well as the audience,--a figure emerged from a side door\non the left and ascended the platform--a slight, agile creature, with\nrough, dark hair and eager, passionate eyes--no other than the hero of\nthe occasion, Sarasate himself. Sarasate e il suo Violino!--there they\nwere, the two companions; master and servant--king and subject. The\none, a lithe, active looking man of handsome, somewhat serious\ncountenance and absorbed expression,--the other, a mere frame of wood\nwith four strings deftly knotted across it, in which cunningly\ncontrived little bit of mechanism was imprisoned the intangible, yet\nliving Spirit of Sound. A miracle in its way!--that out of such common\nand even vile materials as wood, catgut, and horsehair, the divinest\nmusic can be drawn forth by the hand of the master who knows how to use\nthese rough implements! Suggestive, too, is it not, my friends?--for if\nman can by his own poor skill and limited intelligence so invoke\nspiritual melody by material means,--shall not God contrive some\nwondrous tunefulness for Himself even out of our common earthly\ndiscord? .... Hush!--A sound sweet and far as the chime of angelic\nbells in some vast sky-tower, rang clearly through the hall over the\nheads of the now hushed and attentive audience--and Alwyn, hearing the\npenetrating silveriness of those first notes that fell from Sarasate's\nbow, gave a quick sigh of amazement and ecstasy,--such marvellous\npurity of tone was intoxicating to his senses, and set his nerves\nquivering for sheer delight in sympathetic tune. He glanced at the\nprogramme,--\"Concerto--Beethoven\"--and swift as a flash there came to\nhis mind some lines he had lately read and learned to love:\n\n    \"It was the Kaiser of the Land of Song,\n    The giant singer who did storm the gates\n    Of Heaven and Hell--a man to whom the Fates\n    Were fierce as furies,--and who suffered wrong,\n    And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong\n    And grand as ocean when its rage abates.\"\n\nBeethoven! ... Musical fullness of divine light! how the glorious\nnightingale notes of his unworded poesy came dropping through the air\nlike pearls, rolling off the magic wand of the Violin Wizard, whose\ndelicate dark face, now slightly flushed with the glow of inspiration,\nseemed to reflect by its very expression the various phases of the\nmighty composer's thought! Alwyn half closed his eyes and listened\nentranced, allowing his soul to drift like an oarless boat on the\nsweeping waves of the music's will. He was under the supreme sway of\ntwo Emperors of Art,--Beethoven and Sarasate,--and he was content to\nfollow such leaders through whatever sweet tangles and tall growths of\nmelody they might devise for his wandering. At one mad passage of\ndancing semitones he started,--it was as though a sudden wind, dreaming\nan enraged dream, had leaped up to shake tall trees to and fro,--and\nthe Pass of Dariel, with its frozen mountain-peaks, its tottering\npines, and howling hurricanes, loomed back upon his imagination as he\nhad seen it first on the night he had arrived at the Monastery--but\nsoon these wild notes sank and slept again in the dulcet harmony of an\nAdagio softer than a lover's song at midnight. Many strange suggestions\nbegan to glimmer ghost-like through this same Adagio,--the fair, dead\nface of Niphrata flitted past him, as a wandering moonbeam flits\nathwart a cloud,--then came flashing reflections of light and\ncolor,--the bewildering dazzlement of Lysia's beauty shone before the\neyes of his memory with a blinding lustre as of flame, . . the\nphantasmagoria of the city of Al-Kyris seemed to float in the air like\na faintly discovered mirage ascending from the sea,--again he saw its\npicturesque streets, its domes and bell-towers, its courts and\ngardens.. again he heard the dreamy melody of the dance that had\nfollowed the death of Nir-jalis, and saw the cruel Lysia's wondrous\ngarden lying white in the radiance of the moon; anon he beheld the\ngreat Square, with its fallen Obelisk and the prostrate, lifeless form\nof the Prophet Khosrul.. and... Oh, most sad and dear remembrance of\nall! ... the cherished Shadow of Himself, the brilliant, the joyous\nSah-luma appeared to beckon him from the other side of some vast gulf\nof mist and darkness, with a smile that was sorrowful, yet persuasive;\na smile that seemed to say--\"O friend, why hast thou left me as though\nI were a dead thing and unworthy of regard?--Lo, I have never died,\n--_I am_ here, an abandoned part of THEE, ready to become thine\ninseparable comrade once more if thou make but the slightest\nsign!\"--Then it seemed as though voices whispered in his\near--\"Sah-luma! beloved Sah-luma!\"--and \"Theos! Theos, my\nbeloved!\"--till, moved by a vague tremor of anxiety, he lifted his\ndrooping eyelids and gazed full in a sort of half-incredulous,\nhalf-reproachful amaze at the musical necromancer who had conjured up\nall these apparitions,--what did this wonderful Sarasate know of his\nPast?\n\nNothing, indeed,--he had ceased, and was gravely bowing to the audience\nin response to the thunder of applause, that, like a sudden whirlwind,\nseemed to shake the building. But he had not quite finished his\nincantations,--the last part of the Concerto was yet to come,--and as\nsoon as the hubbub of excitement had calmed down, he dashed into it\nwith the delicious speed and joy of a lark soaring into the springtide\nair. And now on all sides what clear showers and sparkling coruscations\nof melody!--what a broad, blue sky above!--what a fair, green earth\nbelow!--how warm and odorous this radiating space, made resonant with\nthe ring of sweet bird-harmonies!--wild thrills of ecstasy and\nlover-like tenderness--snatches of song caught up from the\nflower-filled meadows and set to float in echoing liberty through the\nazure dome of heaven!--and in all and above all, the light and heat and\nlustre of the unclouded sun!--Here there was no dreaming possible, . .\nnothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love! With an ambrosial rush of\ntune, like the lark descending, the dancing bow cast forth the final\nchord from the violin as though it were a diamond flung from the hand\nof a king, a flawless jewel of pure sound,--and the Minstrel monarch of\nAndalusia, serenely saluting the now wildly enthusiastic audience, left\nthe platform. But he was not allowed to escape so soon,--again and\nagain, and yet again, the enormous crowd summoned him before them, for\nthe mere satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, poetic\nface, and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, as though\nanxious to convince themselves that he was indeed human, and not a\nsupernatural being, as his marvellous genius seemed to indicate. When\nat last he had retired for a breathing-while, Heliobas turned to Alwyn\nwith the question:\n\n\"What do you think of him?\"\n\n\"Think of him!\" echoed Alwyn--\"Why, what CAN one think,--what CAN one\nsay of such an artist!--He is like a grand sunrise,--baffling all\ndescription and all criticism!\"\n\nHeliobas smiled,--there was a little touch of satire in his smile.\n\n\"Do you see that gentleman?\" he said, in a low tone, pointing out by a\ngesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly in\na stall not very far from where they themselves sat,--\"He is the\nmusical critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He has not\nstirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate's\nperformance,--and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly\ndistasteful to him! He has merely written one line down in his\nnote-book,--it is most probably to the effect that the 'Spanish fiddler\nmet with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating\npublic!'\"\n\nAlwyn laughed. \"Not possible!\"--and he eyed the impassive individual in\nquestion with a certain compassionate amusement,--\"Why, if he cannot\nadmire such a magnificent artist as Sarasate, what is there in the\nworld that WILL rouse his admiration!\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling humorously as he\nspoke--\"Nothing,--unless it is his own perspicuity! Nil admirari is the\ncritic's motto. The modern 'Zabastes' must always be careful to impress\nhis readers in the first place with his personal superiority to all men\nand all things,--and the musical Oracle yonder will no doubt be clever\nenough to make his report of Sarasate in such a manner as to suggest\nthe idea that he could play the violin much better himself, if he only\ncared to try!\"\n\n\"Ass!\" said Alwyn under his breath--\"One would like to shake him out of\nhis absurd self-complacency!\"\n\nHeliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively:\n\n\"My dear fellow, he would only bray!--and the braying of an ass is not\neuphonious! No!--you might as well shake a dry clothes-prop and expect\nit to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic,\nand expect him to be enthusiastic! The worst of it is, these men are\nnot REALLY musical,--they perhaps know a little of the grammar and\ntechnique of the thing, but they cannot understand its full eloquence.\nIn the presence of a genius like Pablo de Sarasate they are more or\nless perplexed,--it is as though you ask them to describe in set, cold\nterms the counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind's symphony to the\ntrees,--the great ocean's sonata to the shore, or the delicate\nmadrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell-blossoms to the tinkling\nfall of April rain. The man is too great for them--he is a blazing star\nthat dazzles and confounds their sight--and, after the manner of their\ncraft, they abuse what they can't understand. Music is distinctly the\nlanguage of the emotions,--and they have no emotion. They therefore\ngenerally prefer Joachim,--the good, stolid Joachim, who so delights\nall the dreary old spinsters and dowagers who nod over their\nknitting-needles at the 'Monday Popular' concerts, and fancy themselves\nlovers of the 'classical' in music. Sarasate appeals to those who have\nloved, and thought, and suffered--those who have climbed the heights of\npassion and wrung out the depths of pain,--and therefore the PEOPLE,\ntaken en masse, as, for instance, in this crowded hall, instinctively\nrespond to his magic touch. And why?--Because the greater majority of\nhuman beings are full of the deepest and most passionate feelings, not\nas yet having been 'educated' OUT of them!\"\n\nHere the orchestra commenced Liszt's \"Preludes\"--and all conversation\nceased. Afterwards Sarasate came again to bestow upon his eager\nadmirers another saving grace of sound, in the shape of the famous\nMendelssohn Concerto, which he performed with such fiery ardor,\ntenderness, purity of tone, and marvellous execution that many\nlisteners held their breath for sheer amazement and delighted awe.\nAnything approaching the beauty of his rendering of the final \"Allegro\"\nAlwyn had never heard,--and indeed it is probable none WILL ever hear a\nmore poetical, more exquisite SINGING OF THOUGHT than this matchless\nexample of Sarasate's genius and power. Who would not warm to the\nbrightness and delicacy of those delicious rippling tones, that seemed\nto leap from the strings alive like sparks of fire--the dainty,\ntripping ease of the arpeggi, that float from the bow with the grace of\nrainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air,--the brilliant runs, that\nglide and glitter up and down like chattering brooks sparkling among\nviolets and meadow-sweet,--the lovely softer notes, that here and there\nsigh between the varied harmonies with the dreamy passion of lovers who\npart, only to meet again in a rush of eager joy!--Alwyn sat absorbed\nand spellbound; he forgot the passing of time,--he forgot even the\npresence of Heliobas,--he could only listen, and gratefully drink in\nevery drop of sweetness that was so lavishly poured upon him from such\na glorious sky of sunlit sound.\n\nPresently, toward the end of the performance, a curious thing happened.\nSarasate had appeared to play the last piece set down for him,--a\ncomposition of his own, entitled \"Zigeunerweisen.\" A gypsy song, or\nmedley of gypsy songs, it would be, thought Alwyn, glancing at his\nprogramme,--then, looking towards the artist, who stood with lifted bow\nlike another Prospero, prepared to summon forth the Ariel of music at a\ntouch, he saw that the dark Spanish eyes of the maestro were fixed full\nupon him, with, as he then fancied, a strange, penetrating smile in\ntheir fiery depths. One instant.. and a weird lament came sobbing from\nthe smitten violin,--a wildly beautiful despair was wordlessly\nproclaimed, . . a melody that went straight to the heart and made it\nache, and burn, and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion\nand desire! The solemn, yet unfettered, grace of its rhythmic\nrespiration suggested to Alwyn, first darkness,--then twilight--then\nthe gradual far-glimmering of a silvery dawn,--till out of the\nshuddering notes there seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool\nwhiteness, splendid and mystical,--a whiteness that from shapeless,\nfleecy mist took gradual form and substance, ... the great\nconcert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people, appeared to\nfade away like vanishing smoke,--and lo!--before the poet's entranced\ngaze there rose up a wondrous vision of stately architectural\ngrandeur,--a vision of snowy columns and lofty arches, upon which fell\na shimmering play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun\nthrough stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise,--a tremulous sound\nof voices floated aloft, singing, \"Kyrie Eleison!--Kyrie Eleison!\"--and\nthe murmuring undertone of the organ shook the still air with deep\nvibrations of holy tune. Everywhere peace,--everywhere purity!\neverywhere that spacious whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal\npurple, gold, and ardent crimson,--and in the midst of all,--O dearest\ntenderness!--O fairest glory!--a face, shining forth like a star in a\ncloud!--a face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet,--a golden head, above\nwhich the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant\nring!\n\n\"EDRIS!\"--The chaste name breathed itself silently in Alwyn's\nthoughts,--silently and yet with all the passion of a lover's prayer!\nHow was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus distinctly\nNOW,--now, when the violin-music wept its wildest tears--now when love,\nlove, love, seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the\nlow, pulsating melody of the marvellous \"Zigeunerweisen,\" a melody\nwhich, despite its name, had revealed to one listener, at any rate,\nnothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over forest and\nmoorland,--but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral\narches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was\nhis life! How had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of\nfrozen snow?--what was his mission there?--and why, when the picture\nslowly faded, did it still haunt his memory\ninvitingly,--persuasively,--nay, almost commandingly?\n\nHe could not tell,--but his mind was entirely ravished and possessed by\nan absorbing impression of white, sculptured calm,--and he was as\nstartled as though he had been brusquely awakened from a deep sleep,\nwhen the loud plaudits of the people made him aware that Sarasate had\nfinished his programme, and was departing from the scene of his\ntriumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores, however brought him once\nmore before the excited public, to play a set of Spanish dances,\nfanciful and delicate as the gamboling of a light breeze over\nrose-gardens and dashing fountains,--and when this wonder-music ceased,\nAlwyn woke from tranced rapture into enthusiasm, and joined in the\nthunders of applause with fervent warmth and zeal. Eight several times\ndid the wearied, but ever affable, maestro ascend the platform to bow\nand smile his graceful acknowledgments, till the audience, satisfied\nwith having thoroughly emphasized their hearty appreciation of his\ngenius, permitted him to finally retire. Then the people flocked out of\nthe hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and delightedly commenting upon\nthe afternoon's enjoyment, the brief remarks exchanged by two Americans\nwho were sauntering on immediately in front of Heliobas and Alwyn being\nperhaps the very pith and essence of the universal opinion concerning\nthe great artist they had just heard.\n\n\"I tell you what he is,\" said one, \"he's a demi-god!\"\n\n\"Oh, don't halve it!\" rejoined the other wittily, \"he's the whole thing\nanyway!\"\n\nOnce outside the hall and in the busy street, now rendered doubly\nbrilliant by the deep saffron light of a gloriously setting sun,\nHeliobas prepared to take leave of his somewhat silent and preoccupied\ncompanion.\n\n\"I see you are still under the sway of the Ange-Demon,\" he remarked\ncheerfully, as he shook hands, \"Is he not an amazing fellow? That bow\nof his is a veritable divining-rod, it finds out the fountain of\nElusidis [Footnote: A miraculous fountain spoken of in old chronicles,\nwhose waters rose to the sound of music, and, the music ceasing, sank\nagain.] in each human heart,--it has but to pronounce a note, and\nstraightway the hidden waters begin to bubble. But don't forget to read\nthe newspaper accounts of this concert! You will see that the critics\nwill make no allusion whatever to the enthusiasm of the audience, and\nthat the numerous encores will not even be mentioned!\"\n\n\"That is unfair,\" said Alwyn quickly. \"The expression of the people's\nappreciation should always be chronicled.\"\n\n\"Of course!--but it never is, unless it suits the immediate taste of\nthe cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Literature, clique-Criticism, keep all\nthree things on a low ground that slopes daily more and more toward\ndecadence. And the pity of it is, that the English get judged abroad\nchiefly by what their own journalists say of them,--thus, if Sarasate\nis coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at the 'UNmusical English,'\nwhereas, the fact is that the nation itself is NOT unmusical, but its\nmusical critics mostly are. They are very often picked out of the rank\nand file of the dullest Academy students and contrapuntists, who are\nincapable of understanding anything original, and therefore are the\npersons most unfitted to form a correct estimate of genius. However, it\nhas always been so, and I suppose it always will be so,--don't you\nremember that when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain\ncritic-ass-ter wrote of him, 'The absurdity of his effort is only\nequalled by the hideousness of its result'.\"\n\nHe laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while Alwyn, looking at\nhim wistfully, said:\n\n\"I wonder when we shall meet again?\"\n\n\"Oh, very soon, I dare say,\" he rejoined. \"The world is a wonderfully\nsmall place, after all, as men find when they jostle up against each\nother unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of far countries. You\nmay, if you choose, correspond with me, and that is a privilege I\naccord to few, I assure you!\" He smiled, and then went on in a more\nserious tone, \"You are, of course, welcome at our monastery whenever\nyou wish to come, but, take my advice, do not wilfully step out of the\nsphere in which you are placed. Live IN society, it needs men of your\nstamp and intellectual calibre; show it a high and consistent\nexample--let no eccentricity mar your daily actions--work at your\ndestiny steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest to God,\nand--the angels!\"\n\nThere was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the last\nwords,--and Alwyn gave him a quick, searching glance. But his blue,\npenetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous\nsoftness and pathos, and there was nothing expressed in them but the\ngentlest friendliness.\n\n\"Well! I'm glad I may write to you, at any rate,\" said Alwyn at last,\nreluctantly releasing his hand. \"It is possible I may not remain long\nin London; I want to finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the\ntumult of daily life in town.\"\n\n\"Then will you go abroad again?\" inquired Heliobas.\n\n\"Perhaps. I may. Bonn, where I was once a student for a time. It is a\npeaceful, sleepy little place,--I shall probably complete my work\neasily there. Moreover, it will be like going back to a bit of my\nyouth. I remember I first began to entertain all my dreams of poesy at\nBonn.\"\n\n\"Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachenfels!\" laughed\nHeliobas. \"No wonder you recalled the lost 'Sah-luma' period in the\nsight of the entrancing Rhine! Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your fill of\nfame! and I fear the plaudits of London will never be like those of\nAl-Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather despise! for the\nkings and queens of this age prefer financiers to Laureates! Now,\nwherever you wander, let me hear of your well-being and progress in\ncontentment; when you write, address to our Dariel retreat, for though\non my return from Mexico I shall probably visit Lemnos, my letters will\nalways be forwarded. Adieu!\"\n\n\"Adieu!\" and their eyes met. A grave sweet smile brightened the\nChaldean's handsome features.\n\n\"God remain with you, my friend!\" he said, in a low, thrillingly\nearnest tone. \"Believe me, you are elected to a strangely happy\nfate!--far happier than you at present know!\"\n\nWith these words he turned and was gone,--lost to sight in the surging\nthrong of passers-by. Alwyn looked eagerly after him, but saw him no\nmore. His tall figure had vanished as utterly as any of the phantom\nshapes in Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre-like, he had\nseemed more actually a living personality than any of the people in the\nstreets who were hurrying to and fro on their various errands of\nbusiness or pleasure.\n\nThat same night when Alwyn related his day's adventure to Villiers, who\nheard it with the most absorbed interest, he was describing the effect\nof Sarasate's violin-playing, when all at once he was seized by the\nsame curious, overpowering impression of white, lofty arches, stained\nwindows, and jewel-like glimmerings of color, and he suddenly stopped\nshort in the midst of his narrative.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" asked Villiers, astonished. \"Go on!--you were\nsaying,--\"\n\n\"That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God's wandering melodies,\"\nwent on Alwyn, slowly and with a faint smile. \"And that though, as a\nrule, musicians are forgotten when their music ceases, this Andalusian\nOrpheus in Thrace will be remembered long after his violin is laid\naside, and he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land than Spain! But I\nam not master of my thoughts to-night, Villiers; my Chaldean friend has\nperhaps mesmerized me--who knows! and I have an odd fancy upon me. I\nshould like to spend an hour in some great and beautiful cathedral, and\nsee the light of the rising sun flashing through the stained windows\nacross the altar!\"\n\n\"Poet and dreamer!\" laughed Villiers. \"You can't gratify that whim in\nLondon; there's no 'great and beautiful' edifice of the kind\nhere,--only the unfinished Oratory, Westminster Abbey, broken up into\nugly pews and vile monuments, and the repellently grimy St. Paul's--so\ngo to bed, old boy, and indulge yourself in some more 'visions,' for I\nassure you you'll never find any reality come up to your ideal of\nthings in general.\"\n\n\"No?\" and Alwyn smiled. \"Strange that I see it in quite the reverse\nway! It seems to me, no ideal will ever come up to the splendor of\nreality!\"\n\n\"But remember,\" said Villiers quickly, \"YOUR reality is heaven,--a\n'reality' that is every one else's myth!\"\n\n\"True! terribly true!\".. and Alwyn's eyes darkened sorrowfully. \"Yet\nthe world's myth is the only Eternal Real, and for the shadows of this\npresent Seeming we barter our immortal Substance!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nBY THE RHINE.\n\n\nIn the two or three weeks that followed his meeting with Heliobas,\nAlwyn made up his mind to leave London for a while. He was tired and\nrestless,--tired of the routine society more or less imposed upon\nhim,--restless because he had come to a standstill in his work--an\ninvisible barrier, over which his creative fancy was unable to take its\nusual sweeping flight. He had an idea of seeking some quiet spot among\nmountains, as far remote as possible from the travelling world of\nmen,--a peaceful place, where, with the majestic silence of Nature all\nabout him, he might plead in lover-like retirement with his refractory\nMuse, and strive to coax her into a sweeter and more indulgent humor.\nIt was not that thoughts were lacking to him,--what he complained of\nwas the monotony of language and the difficulty of finding new, true,\nand choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into the brain\nlike a lightning flash; there it is, an indescribable mystery, warming\nthe soul and pervading the intellect, but the proper expression of that\nthought is a matter of the deepest anxiety to the true poet, who, if he\nbe worthy of his vocation, is bound not only to proclaim it to the\nworld CLEARLY, but also clad in such a perfection of wording that it\nshall chime on men's ears with a musical sound as of purest golden\nbells. There are very few faultless examples of this felicitous\nutterance in English or in any literature, so few, indeed, that they\ncould almost all be included in one newspaper column of ordinary print.\nKeats's exquisite line:\n\n    \"AEea's Isle was wondering at the moon\"..\n\nin which the word \"wondering\" paints a whole landscape of dreamy\nenchantment, and the couplet in the \"Ode to a Nightingale,\" that speaks\nwith a delicious vagueness of\n\n \"Magic casements opening on the foam\n  Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,\"--\n\nare absolutely unique and unrivalled, as is the exquisite alliteration\ntaken from a poet of our own day:\n\n    \"The holy lark,\n     With fire from heaven and sunlight on his wing,\n     Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark,\n     Renewed in rapture in the reddening air!\"\n\nAgain from the same:\n\n    \"The chords of the lute are entranced\n     With the weight of the wonder of things\";\n\nand\n\n     \"his skyward notes\n     Have drenched the summer with the dews of song! ...\"\n\nthis last line being certainly one of the most suggestive and beautiful\nin all poetical literature. Such expressions have the intrinsic quality\nof COMPLETENESS,--once said, we feel that they can never be said\nagain;--they belong to the centuries, rather than the seasons, and any\nimitation of them we immediately and instinctively resent as an outrage.\n\nAnd Theos Alwyn was essentially, and above all things, faithful to the\nlofty purpose of his calling,--he dealt with his art reverently, and\nnot in rough haste and scrambling carelessness,--if he worked out any\nidea in rhyme, the idea was distinct and the rhyme was perfect,--he was\nnot content, like Browning, to jumble together such hideous and\nludicrous combinations as \"high;--Humph!\" and \"triumph,\"--moreover, he\nknew that what he had to tell his public must be told comprehensively,\nyet grandly, with all the authority and persuasiveness of incisive\nrhetoric, yet also with all the sweetness and fascination of a\npassioned love-song. Occupied with such work as this, London, with its\nmyriad mad noises and vulgar distractions, became impossible to\nhim,--and Villiers, his fidus Achates, who had read portions of his\ngreat poem and was impatient to see it finished, knowing, as he did,\nwhat an enormous sensation it would create when published, warmly\nseconded his own desire to gain a couple of months complete seclusion\nand tranquillity.\n\nHe left town, therefore, about the middle of May and started across the\nChannel, resolving to make for Switzerland by the leisurely and\ndelightful way of the Rhine, in order to visit Bonn, the scene of his\nold student days. What days they had been!--days of dreaming, more than\naction, for he had always regarded learning as a pastime rather than a\ndrudgery, and so had easily distanced his comrades in the race for\nknowledge. While they were flirting with the Lischen or Gretchen of the\nhour, he had willingly absorbed himself in study--thus he had attained\nthe head of his classes with scarce an effort, and, in fact, had often\nfound time hanging heavily on his hands for want of something more to\ndo. He had astonished the university professors--but he had not\nastonished himself, inasmuch as no special branch of learning presented\nany difficulties to him, and the more he mastered the more dissatisfied\nhe became. It had seemed such a little thing to win the honors of\nscholarship! for at that time his ambition was always climbing up the\napparently inaccessible heights of fame,--fame, that he then imagined\nwas the greatest glory any human being could aspire to. He smiled as he\nrecollected this, and thought how changed he was since then! What a\ndifference between the former discontented mutability of his nature,\nand the deep, unswerving calm of patience that characterized it now!\nLearning and scholarship? these were the mere child's alphabet of\nthings,--and fame was a passing breath that ruffled for one brief\nmoment the on-rushing flood of time--a bubble blown in the air to break\ninto nothingness. Thus much wisdom he had acquired,--and what more? A\ngreat deal more! he had won the difficult comprehension of HIMSELF; he\nhad grasped the priceless knowledge that man has no enemy save THAT\nWHICH IS WITHIN HIM, and that the pride of a rebellious Will is the\nparent Sin from which all others are generated. The old Scriptural\nsaying is true for all time, that through pride the angels fell; and it\nis only through humility that they will ever rise again. Pride! the\nproud Will that is left FREE by Divine Law, to work for itself and\nanswer for itself, and wreak upon its own head the punishment of its\nown errors,--the Will that once voluntarily crushed down, in the dust\nat the Cross of Christ, with these words truly drawn from the depths of\npenitence, \"Lord, not as I will, but as Thou wilt!\" is straightway\nlifted up from its humiliation, a supreme, stately Force, resistless,\nmiraculous, world-commanding;--smoothing the way for all greatness and\nall goodness, and guiding the happy Soul from joy to joy, from glory to\nglory, till Heaven itself is reached and the perfection of all love and\nlife begins. For true humility is not slavish, as some people imagine,\nbut rather royal, since, while acknowledging the supremacy of God, it\nclaims close kindred with Him, and is at once invested with all the\ndiviner virtues. Fame and wealth, the two perishable prizes for which\nmen struggle with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no\nabsolute satisfaction in the end--they are toys that please for a time\nand then grow wearisome. But the conquering of Self is a battle in\nwhich each fresh victory bestows a deeper content, a larger happiness,\na more perfect peace,--and neither poverty, sickness, nor misfortune\ncan quench the courage, or abate the ardor, of the warrior who is\nabsorbed in a crusade against his own worser passions. Egotism is the\nvice of this age,--the maxim of modern society is \"each man for\nhimself, and no one for his neighbor\"--and in such a state of things,\nwhen personal interest or advantage is the chief boon desired, we\ncannot look for honesty in either religion, politics, or commerce. Nor\ncan we expect any grand work to be done in art or literature. When\npictures are painted and books are written for money only,--when\nlaborers take no pleasure in labor save for the wage it brings,--when\nno real enthusiasm is shown in anything except the accumulation of\nwealth,--and when all the finer sentiments and nobler instincts of men\nare made subject to Mammon worship, is any one so mad and blind as to\nthink that good can come of it? Nothing but evil upon evil can accrue\nfrom such a system,--and those who have prophetic eyes to see through\nthe veil of events can perceive, even now, the not far distant\nend--namely, the ruin of the country that has permitted itself to\ndegenerate into a mere nation of shopkeepers,--and something worse\nthan ruin,--degradation!\n\nIt was past eight in the evening when Alwyn, after having spent a\ncouple of days in bright little Brussels, arrived at Cologne. Most\ntravelers know to their cost how noisy, narrow, and unattractive are\nthe streets of this ancient Colonia Agrippina of the Romans,--how\npersistent and wearying is the rattle of the vehicles over the rough,\ncobbly stones--how irritating to the nerves is the incessant shrieking\nwhistle and clank of the Rhine steamboats as they glide in, or glide\nout, from the cheerless and dirty pier. But at night, when these\nunpleasant sounds have partially subsided, and the lights twinkle in\nthe shop-windows, and the majestic mass of the Cathedral casts its\nbroad shadow on the moonlit Dom-Platz, and a few soldiers, with\nclanking swords and glittering spurs, come marching out from some dark\nstone archway, and the green gleam of the river sparkles along in\nluminous ripples,--then it is that a something weird and mystical\ncreeps over the town, and the glamour of ancient historical memories\nbegins to cling about its irregular buildings,--one thinks of the\nlegendary Three Kings, and believes in them, too,--of St. Ursula and\nher company of virgins; of Marie de Medicis dying alone in that\ntumbled-down house in the Stern-gasse,--of Rubens, who, it is said,\nhere first saw the light of this world,--of an angry Satan flinging his\nTeufelstein from the Seven Mountains in an impotent attempt to destroy\nthe Dom; and gradually, the indestructible romantic spell of the Rhine\nsteals into the spirit of common things that were unlovely by day, and\nmakes the old city beautiful under the sacred glory of the stars.\n\nAlwyn dined at his hotel, and then, finding it still too early to\nretire to rest, strolled slowly across the Platz, looking up at the\nsublime God's Temple above him, the stately Cathedral, with its\nwondrously delicate carvings and flying buttresses, on which the\nmoonlight glittered like little points of pale flame. He knew it of\nold; many and many a time had he taken train from Bonn, for the sole\npleasure of spending an hour in gazing on that splendid \"sermon in\nstone,\"--one of the grandest testimonies in the world of man's\ninstinctive desire to acknowledge and honor, by his noblest design and\nwork, the unseen but felt majesty of the Creator. He had a great\nlonging to enter it now, and ascended the steps with that intention;\nbut, much to his vexation, the doors were shut. He walked from the side\nto the principal entrance; that superb western frontage which is so\ncruelly blocked in by a dwarfish street of the commonest shops and\nmeanest houses,--and found that also closed against him. Disappointed\nand sorry, he went back again to the side of the colossal structure,\nand stood on the top of the steps, close to the central barred doors,\nstudying the sculptured saints in the niches, and feeling a sudden,\nsingular impression of extreme LONELINESS,--a sense of being shut out,\nas it were, from some high festival in which he would gladly have taken\npart.\n\nNot a cloud was in the sky, ... the evening was one of the most\nabsolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded the air,--the warmth of\na fully declared and balmy spring. The Platz was almost deserted,--only\na few persons crossed it now and then, like flitting shadows,--and\nsomewhere down in one of the opposite streets a long way off, there was\na sound of men's voices singing a part-song. Presently, however, this\ndistant music ceased, and a deep silence followed. Alwyn still remained\nin the sombre shade of the cathedral archway, arguing with himself\nagainst the foolish and unaccountable depression that had seized him,\nand watching the brilliant May moon soar up higher and higher in the\nheavens; when,--all at once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ\ninside the Dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift\nattention. He listened,--the rich, round notes thundered through the\nstillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones, like\nthe passionate lament of Sarasate's \"Zigeunerweisen\" floated around and\nabove him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn\nunison:\n\n\"Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!\"\n\nA faint cold tremor crept through his veins,--his heart beat\nviolently,--again he vainly strove to open the great door. Was there a\nchoir practising inside at this hour of the night? Surely not!\nThen,--from whence had this music its origin? Stooping, he bent his ear\nto the crevice of the closed portal,--but, as suddenly as they had\nbegun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once more profoundly still.\n\nDrawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment amazed and lost in\nthought--these sounds, he felt sure, were not of earth but of heaven!\nthey had the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard on the Field\nof Ardath! What might they mean to him, here and now? Quick as a flash\nthe answer came--DEATH! God had taken pity upon his solitary earth\nwanderings,--and the prayers of Edris had shortened his world-exile and\nprobation! He was to die! and that solemn singing was the warning,--or\nthe promise,--of his approaching end!\n\nYes! it must be so, he decided, as, with a strange, half-sad peace at\nhis heart, he quietly descended the steps of the Dom,-he would perhaps\nbe permitted to finish the work he was at present doing,--and\nthen,--then, the poet-pen would be laid aside forever, chains would be\nundone, and he would be set at liberty! Such was his fixed idea. Was he\nglad of the prospect, he asked himself? Yes, and No! For himself he was\nglad; but in these latter days he had come to understand the thousand\nwordless wants and aspirations of mankind,--wants and aspirations to\nwhich only the Poet can give fitting speech; he had begun to see how\nmuch can be done to cheer and raise and ennoble the world by even ONE\ntrue, brave, earnest, and unselfish worker,--and he had attained to\nsuch a height in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and\ndrawbacks of others, that he had ceased to consider himself at all in\nthe question, either with regard to the Present or the immortal\nFuture,--he was, without knowing it, in the simple, unconsciously\nperfect attitude of a Soul that is absolutely at one with God, and that\nthus, in involuntary God-likeness, is only happy in the engendering of\nhappiness. He believed that, with the Divine help, he could do a\nlasting good for his fellow-men,--and to this cause he was willing to\nsacrifice everything that pertained to his own mere personal advantage.\nBut now,--now,--or so he imagined,--he was not to be allowed to pursue\nhis labors of love,--his trial was to end suddenly,--and he, so long\nbanished from his higher heritage, was to be restored to it without\ndelay,--restored and drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where\nEdris, his Angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride!\n\nA thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him,--joy intermingled with an\nalmost supernal pain. For he had not as yet said enough to the\nworld,--the world of many afflictions,--the little Sorrowful Star\ncovered with toiling, anxious, deluded God-forgetting millions, in\nevery unit of which was a spark of Heavenly flame, a germ of the\nspiritual essence that makes the angel, if only fostered aright.\n\nLost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him unconsciously to the\nRhine bridge,--paying the customary fee, he walked about half-way\nacross it, and stood for a while listening to the incessant swift rush\nof the river beneath him. Lights twinkled from the boats moored on\neither side,--the moon poured down a wide shower of white beams on the\nrapid flood,--the city, dusky and dream-like, crowned with the majestic\ntowers of the Dom, looked picturesquely calm and grand--it was a night\nof perfect beauty and wondrous peace. And he was to die!--to die and\nleave all this, the present fairness of the world,--he was to depart,\nwith, as he felt, his message half unspoken,--he was to be made\neternally happy, while many of the thousands he left behind were,\nthrough ignorance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! A\ngreat, almost divine longing to save ONE,--only ONE downward drifting\nsoul, possessed him,--and the comprehension of Christ's Sacrifice was\nno longer a mystery! Yet he was so certain that death, sudden and\nspeedy closely, awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very\nair,--not like a coming chill of dread, but like the soft approach of\nsome holy seraph bringing benediction. It mattered little to him that\nhe was actually in the very plenitude of health and strength,--that\nperhaps in all his life he had never felt such a keen delight in the\nphysical perfection of his manhood as now,--death, without warning and\nat a touch, could smite down the most vigorous, and to be so smitten,\nhe believed, was his imminent destiny. And while he lingered on the\nbridge, fancy-perplexed between grief and joy, a small window opened in\na quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the gleaming\nwater, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked out for a moment. Her\nface, fresh and smiling, was fair to see against the background of\ndense shadow,--the light she carried flashed like a star,--and leaning\ndown from the lattice she sang half-timidly, half mischievously, the\nfirst two or three bars of the old song.. \"Du, du, liegst in mein\nHerzen ... !\" \"Ah! Gute Nacht, Liebchen!\" said a man's voice below.\n\n\"Gute Nacht! Schlafen sie wohl!\"\n\nA light laugh, and the window closed, \"Good-night! Sleep well!\" Love's\nbest wish!--and for some sad souls life's last hope,--a \"good-night and\nsleep well!\" Poor tired World, for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes\nthe greatest blessing is sleep! Good-night! sleep well! but the sleep\nimplies waking.--waking to a morning of pleasure or sorrow,--or labor\nthat is only lightened by,--Love! Love!--love divine,--love\nhuman,--and, sweetest love of all for us, as Christ has taught when\nboth divine and human are mingled in one!\n\nAlwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging like pendent\nfire-jewels above him, thought of this marvel-glory of Love,--this\ncelestial visitant who, on noiseless pinions, comes flying divinely\ninto the poorest homes, transfiguring common life with ethereal\nradiance, making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest faces and\npoetry to the dullest brains. Love! its tremulous hand-clasp,--its\nrapturous kiss,--the speechless eloquence it gives to gentle eyes!--the\ngrace it bestows on even the smallest gift from lover to beloved, were\nsuch gift but a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken\nthreads of hair!\n\nNot for the poet creator of \"Nourhulma\" such love any more,--had he not\ndrained the cup of Passion to the dregs in the far Past, and tasted its\nmixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence? All\nthat was over;--and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, back to his\nhotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what a transcendent thing Love\nmight be, even on earth, between two whose spirits were SPIRITUALLY\nAKIN,--whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful\nconcord,--whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one\nanother,--and who held their love as a sacred bond of union--a gift\nfrom God, not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely\nbrings contempt. And then before his fancy appeared to float the\nradiant visage of Edris, half-child, half-angel,--he seemed to see her\nbeautiful eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of\nsin,--and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he\nspecially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness:\n\n   \"Oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid\n    Is more than kingdoms,--more than light and shade\n    In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,\n    And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell.\n    Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,\n    And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,\n    Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,\n    Athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.\n\n   \"I'll seek no joy that is not linked with thine,\n    No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,\n    And after death, no home in any star,\n    That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar\n\n    As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things!\n    Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings\n    That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway,\n    Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!\"\n\nHad not she, Edris, consigned him to his \"own disdain, Athwart the\nraptures of a visioned bliss?\" Ay! truly and deservedly!--and this\ndisdain of himself had now reached its culminating point,--namely, that\nhe did not consider himself worthy of her love,--or worthy to do aught\nthan sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually\nretrospective Memory, there to explore the uttermost depths of anguish,\nand count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life, in\nevery separate phase he had passed through, till he had penitently\nstriven his best to atone for them all! Christ had atoned! yes,--but\nwas it not almost base on his part to shield himself with that Divine\nLight and do nothing further? He could not yet thoroughly grasp the\namazing truth that ONE ABSOLUTELY PURE act of faith in Christ, blots\nout Past Sin forever,--it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!\n\nWhen he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly PREPARED TO\nDIE. With this expectation upon him he was nevertheless happy and\ntranquil. The line--\"Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings\"\nhaunted him, and he repeated it over and over again without knowing\nwhy. Wings! the brilliant shafts of radiance that part angels from\nmortals,--wings, that, after all, are not really wings, but lambent\nrays of living lightning, of which neither painter nor poet has any\ntrue conception, . . long, dazzling rays such as encircled God's\nmaiden, Edris, with an arch of roseate effulgence, so that the very air\nwas sunset-colored in the splendor of her presence! How if she were a\nwingless angel,--made woman?\n\n\"Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings!\" And with the name of his\nangel-love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and\ndreamless slumber.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\nIN THE CATHEDRAL.\n\n\nA booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, solemn, sonorous\nswing of full and weighty rhythm, striking the air with deep, slowly\nmeasured resonance like the rolling of close cannon! Awake, all ye\npeople!--Awake to prayer and praise! for the Night is past and sweet\nMorning reddens in the east, ... another Day is born,--a day in which\nto win God's grace and pardon,--another wonder of Light, Movement,\nCreation, Beauty, Love! Awake, awake! Be glad and grateful for the\npresent joy of life,--this life, dear harbinger of life to come! open\nyour eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine blue of the beneficent sky,\nthe golden beams of the sun, the color of flowers, the foliage of\ntrees, the flash of sparkling waters!--open your ears to the singing of\nbirds, the whispering of winds, the gay ripple of children's laughter,\nthe soft murmurs of home affection,--for all these things are freely\nbestowed upon you with each breaking dawn, and will you offer unto God\nNO thanksgiving?--Awake! Awake! the Voice you have yourselves set in\nyour high Cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron\ntongue, and summons you all to worship Him the Ever-Glorious, through\nwhose mercy alone you live!\n\nTo and fro,--to and fro,--gravely persistent, sublimely eloquent, the\nhuge, sustained, and heavy monotone went thudding through the\nstillness,--till, startled from his profound sleep by such loud, lofty,\nand incessant clangor, Alwyn turned on his pillow and listened,\nhalf-aroused, half-bewildered,--then, remembering where he was, he\nunderstood; it was the great Bell of the Dom pealing forth its first\nsummons to the earliest Mass. He lay quiet for a little while, dreamily\ncounting the number of reverberations each separate stroke sent\nquivering on the air,--but presently, finding it impossible to sleep\nagain, he got up, and drawing aside the curtain looked out of the\nwindow of his room, which fronted on the Platz. Though it was not yet\nsix o'clock, the city was all astir,--the Rhinelanders are an early\nworking people, and to see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction\nof poesy, but a daily fact. It was one of the loveliest of lovely\nspring mornings--the sky was clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and\nevery little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the Dom stood out\nfrom its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as\nhis gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and\nsudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,--he felt as\none prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,--some great and\nwondrous celebration or feast of joy! The thoughts of death, on which\nhe had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled,\nleaving no trace behind,--only a keen and vigorous delight in life\nabsorbed him now. It was good to be alive, even on this present earth!\nit was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful\nfor in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!\n\nFull of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself\nas he moved about his room,--his desire to view the interior of the\nCathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented,--and he\nresolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in\nall the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. For he knew that\nby the time he was dressed, the first Mass would be over,--the priests\nand people would be gone,--and he would be alone to enjoy the\nmagnificence of the place in full poet-luxury,--the luxury of silence\nand solitude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous\neagerness,--he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as he\nhad been to arrive at the Field of Ardath! The same feverish impatience\nwas upon him--impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not\naccount for,--his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories,\nand fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth,\ncame back to him without his wish or will,--songs that he instinctively\nfelt belonged to his Past, when as \"Sah-luma\" he had won golden\nopinions in Al-Kyris. And though they were but echoes, they seemed this\nmorning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender\nsuggestiveness,--two lines especially from the Idyl of Roses he had\npenned so long,--ah! so very long ago,--came floating through his brain\nlike a message sent from some other world,--\n\n   \"By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase,\n    And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace.\"\n\nThe \"lilies of peace\" and the flowers of Ardath,--the \"roses of\npassion\" and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost\nunconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of\ntremulous expectation,--expectation of he knew not what-he went,\nwalking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the steps\nof the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the\nprevious night,--he therefore made his rapid way round to the great\nwestern door. That stood open,--the bell had long ago ceased,--Mass was\nover,--and all was profoundly still.\n\nOut of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool,\nclear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,--with bared head and\nnoiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave, and\nthen stood motionless, every artistic perception in him satisfied,\nsoothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil\ngrandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What hallowed peace! How\njewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained\nglass on those superb carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of\nforest-trees, bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast\nheight suggestive of a white sky rather than stone!\n\nMoving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an\noverpowering impression,--a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of\nshock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune!--a wild melody,\nhaunting and passionate, rang in his eras,--the melody that Sarasate,\nthe Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking\nviolin,--the sobbing love-lament of the \"Zigeunerweisen\"--the weird\nminor-music that had so forcibly suggested--What? THIS VERY\nPLACE!--these snowy columns,--this sculptured sanctity--this flashing\nlight of rose and blue and amber,--this wondrous hush of consecrated\ncalm! What next? Dear God! Sweet Christ! what next? The face of\nEdris?--Would that heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those\nrainbow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward him?--and\nshould he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into\ndeeper ecstasy?\n\nOvercome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped\nabruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches,\nstrove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart,--then\ngradually, very gradually he become conscious that HE WAS NOT\nALONE,--another besides himself was in the church,--another, whom it\nwas necessary for him to see!\n\nHe could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this,--but he was\nsoon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he dared\nnot raise his eyes, or move! Some invincible force held him there\nspell-bound, yet trembling in every limb,--and while he thus waited\nhesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful\nutterance,--wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the\nstately aisles and ... \"Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!\" rang forth in\nloud, full, and golden-toned chorus!\n\nLifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living\ncreature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the\ncathedral! His lips parted,--he felt as though he could scarcely\nbreathe,--strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated by a\npleasing terror that was almost a physical pang,--an agonized\nentrancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently, mastering\nhimself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily with the absorbed\nair of one who is drawn along by magnetic power ... steadily and slowly\nup the nave, ... and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously\namong the vaulted arches,--there was a faint echo afar off, as of\ntinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access\nof courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every\ntimorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front\nof the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the\nmoment nothing save that Divine Symbol alone. And still the organ\nplayed, and still the voices sang,--he knew these sounds were not of\nearth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to\nhim,--but WHAT meaning?\n\nAll at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand\nside of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher stands,\nand where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great\ncarven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous\nshades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement,\none solitary worshipper,--a girl. Her hands were clasped, and her face\nwas bent upon them so that her features were not visible,--but the\nradiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling\nit with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,--and round her\nslight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald,\nflickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting\nsun on a translucent sea. How very still she was! ... how fervently\nabsorbed in prayer!\n\nVaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable instinct,\nAlwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes\ndwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with\nfascinated and eager attention. She was clad in gray,--a soft, silken,\ndove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped\nfolds,--he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely\nrefrain from a loud cry of amazement! What flowers were those she wore\nat her breast!--so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise\nlilies new-gathered? Were they not the flowers of ARDATH? Dizzy with\nthe sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside\nher,--she did not stir! Was she REAL?--or a phantom? Trembling\nviolently, he touched her garment--it was of tangible, smooth texture,\nactual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon. In an agony\nof excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or\ncustom,--her bewildering presence must be explained,--he must know who\nshe was,--he must speak to her,--speak, if he died for it!\n\n\"Pardon me!\" he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words;\n\"I fancy,--I think,--we have met,--before! May I, . . dare I, . . ask\nyour name?\"\n\nSlowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she\nlifted her bent head, and smiled at him! Oh, the lovely light upon her\nface! Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!\n\n\"My name is EDRIS!\"--she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of her\nvoice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious music of the\norgan and the invisible singers throbbed away,--away,--away,--into\nsofter and softer echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a\nsigh, as of farewell, into the deepest silence.\n\n\"EDRIS!\"--In a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her\nhand,--the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in\nsubmissive tenderness,--pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy, all\ncommingled, rushed through him,--with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned\nevery feature of that love-smiling countenance,--a countenance no\nlonger lustrous with Heaven's blinding glory, but only most maiden-like\nand innocently fair,--dazzled, perplexed, and half afraid, he could not\nat once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight! He had\nno doubt of her identity--he knew her well! she was his own\nheartworshipped Angel,--but on what errand had she wandered out of\nparadise? Had she come once more, as on the Field of Ardath, to comfort\nhim for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence, or did\nshe bring from Heaven the warrant for his death?\n\n\"Edris!\" he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, \"Edris, my\nlife, my love! Speak to me again! make me sure that I am not dreaming!\nTell me where I have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me\nhow I must still further atone! Is this the hour appointed for my\nspirit's ransom?--has this dear and sacred hand I hold, brought me my\nquittance of earth?--and have I so soon won the privilege to die?\"\n\nAs he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening light of\nthe stained window falling royally about her,--and he obeying her mute\ngesture, rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting\nto see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the\nCathedral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed\nin clear space. But no! She remained quiet as a tame bird,--her eyes\nmet his with beautiful trust and tenderness,--and when she answered\nhim, her low, sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note\nof HUMAN affection, as well as of angelic sympathy!\n\n\"Theos, my Beloved, I am ALL THINE!\" she said, a holy rapture vibrating\nthrough her exquisite voice.--\"Thine now, in mortal life as in\nimmortal!--one with thee in nature and condition,--pent up in\nperishable clay, even as thou art,--subject to sorrow, and pain, and\nweariness,--willing to share with thee thine earthly lot,--ready to\ntake my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own choice have I come\nhither,--sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe in Christ! Every\ntime thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness, so much the\nnearer hast thou drawn me to thee; every time thou hast prayed God for\nmy peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my existence\nbeen linked with thine! And now, O my Poet, my lord, my king!--we are\ntogether forever more,--together in the brief Present, as in the\neternal Future!--the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her\nmission is not Death, but Love!\"\n\nOh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face!--the\nsplendid hope, faith, and triumph of her attitude! What strange miracle\nwas here accomplished!--an Angel had become human for the sake of love,\neven as light substantiates itself in the colors of flowers!--the Eden\nlily had consented to be gathered,--the paradise dove had fluttered\ndown to earth! Breathless, bewildered, lifted to a height of transport\nbeyond all words, Alwyn gazed upon her in entranced, devout\nsilence,--the vast cathedral seemed to swing round and round in great\nglittering circles, and nothing was real, nothing steadfast, but that\nslight, sweet maiden in her soft gray robes, with the Ardath-blossoms\ngleaming white against her breast! Angel she was,--angel she ever would\nbe,--and yet--what did she SEEM? Naught but:\n\n   \"A child-like woman, wise and very fair,\n    Crowned with the garland of her golden hair!\"\n\nThis, and no more,--and yet in this was all earth and all heaven\ncomprised!--He gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by the amazement of his own\nbliss,--he could have gazed upon her so in speechless ravishment for\nhours, when, with a gesture of infinite grace and appeal, she stretched\nout her hands toward him:\n\n\"Speak to me, dearest one!\" she murmured wistfully--\"Tell me,--am I\nwelcome?\"\n\n\"O exquisite humility!--O beautiful maiden-timid hesitation! Was\nshe,--even she, God's Angel, so far removed from pride, as to be\nuncertain of her lover's reception of such a gift of love? Roused from\nhis half-swooning sense of wonder, he caught those gentle hands, and\nlaid them tenderly against his breast,--tremblingly, and all devoutly,\nhe drew the lovely, yielding form into his arms, close to his\nheart,--with dazzled sight he gazed down into that pure, perfect face,\nthose clear and holy eyes shining like new-created stars beneath the\nsoft cloud of clustering fair hair!\n\n\"Welcome!\" he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe and\necstasy;--\"My Edris! My Saint! My Queen! Welcome, more welcome than the\nfirst flowers seen after winter snows!--welcome, more welcome than\nswift rescue to one in dire peril!--welcome, my Angel, into the\ndarkness of mortal things, which haply so sweet a Presence shall make\nbright! O sacred innocence that I am not worthy to shield! ... O\nsinless beauty that I am all unfitted to claim or possess! Welcome to\nmy life, my heart, my soul! Welcome, sweet Trust, sweet Hope, sweet\nLove, that as Christ lives, I will never wrong, betray, or resign again\nthrough all the glory spaces of far Eternity!\"\n\nAs he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her,--his lips met\nhers,--and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment,\nthere came a rushing noise, as of thousands of wings beating the air,\nfollowed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly and then\ndepartingly through and through the Cathedral arches--and a Voice,\nclear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed aloud:\n\n\"Those whom GOD hath joined together, let no MAN put asunder!\"\n\nThen, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a storm, the\nmusic seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately harmony,--and\npresently there was silence once more,--the silence and sunshine of the\nmorning pouring through the rose windows of the church and sparkling on\nthe Cross above the Altar,--the silence of a love made perfect,--of\ntwin souls made ONE!\n\nAnd then Edris drew herself gently from her lover's embrace and raised\nher head,--putting her hand confidingly in his, a lovely smile played\non her sweetly parted lips:\n\n\"Take me, Theos,\" she said softly, \"Lead me,--into the World!\"\n\n     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nSlowly the great side-doors of the Cathedral swung back on their\nhinges,--and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came Poet\nand Angel together. The one, a man in the full prime of splendid and\nvigorous manhood,--the other, a maiden, timid and sweet, robed in gray\nattire with a posy of white flowers at her throat. A simple girl, and\nmost distinctly human,--the fresh, pure color reddened in her\ncheeks,--the soft springtide wind fanned her gold hair, and the\nsunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright revel of amaze and\ncuriosity. Her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy Platz below with a\nvaguely compassionate wonder--a look that suggested some far\nforeknowledge of things, that at the same time were strangely\nunfamiliar. Hand in hand with her companion she stood,--while he,\nholding her fast, drunk in the pureness of her beauty, the love-light\nof her glance, the holy radiance of her smile, till every sense in him\nwas spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence in his\nheart, the marvellous glory that had fallen upon his life, the nameless\nrapture that possessed his soul!--To have knelt at her feet, and bowed\nhis head before her in worshipping silence, would have been to follow\nthe strongest impulse in him,--but she had given him a higher duty than\nthis. He was to \"LEAD HER,\"--lead her \"into the world!\"--the dreary,\ndark world, so unfitted to receive such brightness,--she had come to\nhim clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood; and it was his proud\nprivilege to guard and shelter her from evil,--from the evil in others,\nbut chiefly from the evil in himself. No taint must touch that spotless\nlife with which God had entrusted him!--sorrow might come--nay, MUST\ncome, since, so long as humanity errs, so long must angels\ngrieve,--sorrow, but not sin! A grand, awed sense of responsibility\nfilled him,--a responsibility that he accepted with passionate\ngratitude and joy ... he had attained a vaster dignity than any king on\nany throne, ... and all the visible Universe was transfigured into a\ngolden pageant of loveliness and light, fairer than the fabled Valley\nof Avilion!\n\nYet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty Dom,\nhalf-longing, half-hesitating to take her further, and ever and anon\nassailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not even now pass\naway from him suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading into heaven,--when\nall at once the sound of beating drums and martial trumpets struck\nloudly on the quiet morning air. A brilliant regiment of mounted Uhlans\nemerged from an opposite street, and cantered sharply across the Platz\nand over the Rhine-bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished helmets\nand accoutrements glistening in a long compact line of silvery white,\nthat vanished as speedily as it had appeared, like a winding flash of\nmeteor flame. Alwyn drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of those armed\nsoldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in the turmoil of\npresent daily events,--that his supernal happiness was no vision, but\nREALITY,--that Edris, his Spirit-love, was with him in tangible human\nguise of flesh and blood,--though how such a mysterious marvel had been\naccomplished, he knew no more than scientists know how the lovely life\nof green leaf and perfect flower can still be existent in seeds that\nhave lain dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years! And as\nhe looked at her proudly,--adoringly,--she raised her beautiful,\ninnocent, questioning eyes to his.\n\n\"This is a city?\" she asked--\"a city of men who labor for good, and\nserve each other?\"\n\n\"Alas, not so, my sweet!\" he answered, his voice trembling with its own\ninfinite tenderness; \"there is no city on the sad Earth where men do\nnot labor for mere vanity's sake, and oppose each other!\"\n\nHer inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion.\n\n\"Come,--let us go!\" she said gently. \"We twain, made one in love and\nfaith, must hasten to begin our work!--darkness gathers and deepens\nover the Sorrowful Star,--but we, perchance, with Christ's most holy\nBlessing, may help to lift the Shadows into Light!\"\n\n     *     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nAway in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from the louder clamor\nof the world, the Poet and his heavenly companion dwell in peace\ntogether. Their love, their wondrous happiness, no mortal language can\ndefine,--for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion\nas the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the nickering of an earthly\ntaper. Few, very few, there are who recognize, or who attain, such\njoy,--for men chiefly occupy themselves with the SEMBLANCES of things,\nand therefore fail to grasp all high realities. Perishable\nbeauty,--perishable fame,--these are mere appearances; imperishable\nWorth is the only positive and lasting good, and in the search for\nimperishable Worth alone, the seeker must needs encounter Angels\nunawares!\n\nBut for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual life\nand being, the history of Theos Alwyn can be disposed of with much\nlanguid ease and cold logic, as a foolish chimera scarce worth\nnarrating. Practically viewed, there is nothing wonderful in it, since\nit can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill. Tranced\ninto a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic Chaldean,\nHeliobas,--tricked into visiting the Field of Ardath, what more likely\nthan that a real earth-born maiden, trained to her part, should have\nmet the dreamer there, and, with the secret aid of the hermit Elezar,\ncontinued his strange delusion? What more fitting as a sequel to the\nwhole, than that the same maiden should have been sent to him again in\nthe great Rhine Cathedral, to complete the deception and satisfy his\nimagination by linking her life finally with his?--It is a perfectly\nsimple explanation of what some credulous souls might be inclined to\nconsider a mystery,--and let the dear, wise, oracular people who cannot\nadmit any mystery in anything, and who love to trace all seeming\nmiracles to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all\nmeans,--they will be able to fit every incident of the story into such\nan hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive neatness! Al-Kyris\nwas truly a Vision,--the rest was,--What? Merely the working of a\npoetic imagination under mesmeric influence!\n\nSo be it! The Poet knows the truth,--but what are Poets? Only the\nProphets and Seers! Only the Eyes of Time, which clearly behold\nHeaven's Fact beyond this world's Fable. Let them sing if they choose,\nand we will hear them in our idle hours,--we will give them a little of\nour gold,--a little of our grudging praise, together with much of our\nprivate practical contempt and misprisal! So say the unthinking and\nfoolish--so will they ever say,--and hence it is, that though the fame\nof Theos Alwyn widens year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of Song\nrings loud warning, promise, hope, and consolation above the noisy\ntumult of the whirling age, people listen to him merely in vague\nwonderment and awe, doubting his prophet utterance, and loth to put\naway their sin. But he, never weary in well-doing, works on, ... ever\nregardless of Self, caring nothing for Fame, but giving all the riches\nof his thought for Love. Clear, grand, pure, and musical, his writings\nfill the time with hope and passionate faith and courage,--his\ninspiration fails not, and can never fail, since Edris is his fount of\necstasy,--his name, made glorious by God's blessing, shall never, as in\nhis perished Past, be again forgotten!\n\nAnd what of Edris? What of the \"Flower-crowned Wonder\" of the Field of\nArdath, strayed for a while out of her native Heaven? Does the world\nknow her marvellous origin? Perhaps the mystic Heliobas knows,--perhaps\neven good Frank Villiers has hazarded a reverent guess at his friend's\ngreat secret--but to the uninstructed, what does she seem?\n\nNothing but a WOMAN, MOST PURE WOMANLY; a woman whose influence on all\nis strangely sweet and lasting,--whose spirit overflows with tenderest\nsympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind,--whose voice charms\naway care,--whose smile engenders peace,--whose eyes, lustrous and\nthoughtful, are unclouded by any shadow of sin,--and on whose serene\nbeauty the passing of years leaves no visible trace. That she is fair\nand wise, joyous, radiant, and holy is apparent to all,--but only the\nPoet, her lover and lord, her subject and servant, can tell how truly\nhis Edris is not so much sweet woman as most perfect Angel! A Dream of\nHeaven made human! ... Let some of us hesitate ere we doubt the\nMiracle; for we are sleepers and dreamers all,--and the hour is close\nat hand when--we shall Wake.\n\nTHE END.","title":"Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":211070}