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Ardath

<h2 id="id00984" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XX.</h2> <h5 id="id00985">THE PASSAGE OF THE TOMBS.</h5> Sah-luma stirred uneasily and smiled in his sleep. "More wine!" he muttered thickly—"More, . . more I say! What! wilt thou stint the generous juice that warms my soul to song? Pour, . . pour out lavishly! I will mix the honey of thy luscious lips with the crimson bubbles on this goblet's brim, and the taste thereof shall be as nectar dropped from paradise! Nay, nay! I will drink to none but Myself,—to the immortal bard Sah-luma,—Poet of poets,—named first and greatest on the scroll of Fame! … aye, 'tis a worthy toast and merits a deeper draught of mellow vintage! Fill…fill again!—the world is but the drunken dream of a God Poet and we but the mad revellers of a shadow day! 'Twill pass—'twill pass, . . let us enjoy ere all is done,—drown thought in wine, and love, and music, . . wine and music…" His voice broke in a short, smothered sigh,—Theos surveyed him with mingled impatience, pity, and something of repulsion, and there was a warm touch of indignant remonstrance in his tone when he called again: "Sah-luma! Rouse thee, man, for very shame's sake! Art thou dead to the honor of thy calling, that thou dost wilfully consent to be the victim of wine-bibbing and debauchery? O thou frail soul! how hast thou quenched the heavenly essence within thee! … why wilt thou be thus self-disgraced and all inglorious? Sah-luma! Sah-luma!"—and he shook him violently by the arm—"Up,—up, thou truant to the faith of Art! I will not let thee drowse the hours away in such unseemliness, . . wake! for the night is almost past,—the morning is at hand, and danger threatens thee,—wouldst thou be found here drunk at sunrise?" This time Sah-luma was thoroughly disturbed, and with a half uttered oath he sat up, pushed his tumbled hair from his brows, and stared at his companion in blinking, sleepy wonderment. "Now, by my soul! … thou art a most unmannerly ruffian!" he said pettishly, yet with a vacant smile,—"what question didst thou bawl unmusically in mine ear? Will I be drunk at sunrise? Aye! … and at sunset too, Sir Malapert, if that will satisfy thee! Hast thou been grudged sufficient wine that thou dost envy me my slumber? What dost thou here? … where hast thou been?".. and, becoming more conscious of his surroundings he suddenly stood up, and catching hold of Theos to support himself, gazed upon him suspiciously with very dim and bloodshot eyes … "Art thou fresh from the arms of the ravishing Nelida? … is she not fair? a choice morsel for a lover's banquet? … Doth she not dance a madness into the veins? … aye, aye!—she was reserved for thee, my jolly roysterer! but thou art not the first nor wilt thou be the last that hath revelled in her store of charms! No matter!"—and he laughed foolishly … "Better a wild dancer than a tame prude!" Here he looked about him in confused bewilderment.. "Where is Lysia? Was she not here a moment since? …" and he staggered toward the neighboring pavilion, and dashed the dividing curtain aside … "Lysia! … Lysia! …" he shouted noisily,—then, receiving no answer, he flung himself down on the vacant couch of roses, and gathering up a handful of the crumpled flowers, kissed them passionately,—"The witch has flown!" he said, laughing again that mirthless, stupid laugh as he spoke—"She doth love to tantalize me thus! … Tell me! what dost thou think of her? Is she not a peerless moon of womanhood? … doth she not eclipse all known or imaginable beauty? … Aye! … and I will tell thee a secret,—she is mine!—mine from the dark tresses down to the dainty feet! … mine, all mine, so long as I shall please to call her so! …—notwithstanding that the foolish people of Al-Kyris think she is impervious to love, self-centered, holy and 'immaculate'! Bah! … as if a woman ever was 'immaculate'! But mark you! … though she loves me,—me, crowned Laureate of the realm, she loves no other man! And why? Because no other man is found half so worthy of love! All men must love her, . . Nirjalis loved her, and he is dead because of overmuch presumption, . . and many there be who shall still die likewise, for love of her, but I am her chosen and elected one,—her faith is mine!—her heart is mine,—her very soul is mine!—mine I would swear though all the gods of the past, present, and future denied her constancy!" Here his uncertain, wandering gaze met the grave, pained, and almost stern regard of Theos. "Why dost thou stare thus owl-like upon me?"—he demanded irritably.. "Art thou not my friend and worshipper? Wilt preach? Wilt moralize on the folly of the time,—the vices of the age? Thou lookest it,—but prithee hold thy peace an thou lovest me!—we can but live and die and there's an end, . . all's over with the best and wisest of us soon,—let us be merry while we may!" And he tossed a cluster of roses playfully in the air, catching them as they fell again in a soft shower of severed fluttering pink and white petals. Theos listened to his rambling, unguarded words with a sense of acute personal sorrow. Here was a man, young, handsome, and endowed with the rarest gift of nature, a great poetic genius,—a man who had attained in early manhood the highest worldly fame together with the friendship of a king, and the love of a people, . . yet what was he in himself? A mere petty Egoist, . . a poor deluded fool, the unresisting prey of his own passions, . . the besotted slave of a treacherous woman and the voluntary degrader of his own life! What was the use of Genius, then, if it could not aid one to overcome Self, . . what the worth of Fame, if it were not made to serve as a bright incentive and noble example to others of less renown? As this thought passed across his mind, Theos sighed, . . he felt curiously conscience-stricken, ashamed, and humiliated, THROUGH Sah-luma, and solely for Sah-luma's sake! At present, however, his chief anxiety was to get his friend safely out of Lysia'a pavilion before she should return to it, and his spirit chafed within him at each moment of enforced delay. "Come, come, Sah-luma!" he said at last, gently, yet with persuasive earnestness.. "Come away from this place, . . the feast is over,—the fair ones are gone, . . why should we linger? Thou art half-asleep,—believe me 'tis time thou wert home and at rest. Lean upon me, … so! that is well!"—this, as the other rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched heavily against him, . . "Now let me guide thee,—though of a truth I know not the way through this wondrous woodland maze, . . canst tell me whither we should turn? … or hast thou no remembrance of the nearest road to thine own dwelling?"— Thus speaking, he managed to lead his stupefied companion out of the tent into the cool, dewy garden, where, feeling somewhat refreshed by the breath of the night wind blowing on his face, Sah-luma straightened himself, and made an absurd attempt to look exceedingly dignified. "Nay, an thou wilt depart with such scant ceremony"—he grumbled peevishly—"get thee thence and find out the road as best thou mayest! … why should I aid thee? For myself I am well contented here to remain and sleep,—no better couch can the Poet have than this violet-scented moss"—and he waved his arm with a grandiloquent gesture,—"no grander canopy than this star-besprinkled heaven! Leave me,—for my eyes are wondrous heavy, and I would fain slumber undisturbed till the break of day! By my soul, thou art a rough companion! …" and he struggled violently to release himself from Theos's resolute and compelling grasp.. "Where wouldst thou drag me?" "Out of danger and the shadow of death!" replied Theos firmly.. "Thy life is threatened, Sah-luma, and I will not see thee slain! If thou canst not guard thyself, then I must guard thee! … Come, delay no longer, I beseech thee!—do I not love thee, friend?—and would I urge thee thus without good reason? O thou misguided soul! thou dost most ignorantly court destruction, but if my strength can shield thee, thou shalt not die before thy time!" And he hurried his pace, half leading, half carrying the reluctant poet, who, however, was too drowsy and lethargic to do more than feebly resent his action,—and thus they went together along a broad path that seemed to extend itself in a direct line straight across the grounds, but which in reality turned and twisted about through all manner of perplexing nooks and corners,—now under trees so closely interwoven that not a glimpse of the sky could be seen through the dense darkness of the crossed boughs,—now by gorgeous banks of roses, pale yellow and white, that looked like frozen foam in the dying glitter of the moon,—now beneath fairy-light trellis work, overgrown with jasamine, and peopled by thousands of dancing fire-flies,—while at every undulating bend or sharp angle in the road, Theos's heart beat quickly in fear lest they should meet some armed retainer or spy of Lysia's, who might interrupt their progress, or perhaps peremptorily forbid their departure. Nothing of the kind happened, or seemed likely to happen,—the splendid gardens were all apparently deserted,—and not a living soul was anywhere to be seen. Presently through an archway of twisted magnolia stems, Theos caught a glimpse of the illuminated pool with the marble nymph in its centre which had so greatly fascinated him on his first arrival,—and he pressed forward eagerly, knowing that now they could not be very far from the gates of exit. All at once the tall figure of a man clad in complete armor came into sudden view between some heavily drooping boughs,—it stood out for a second, and then hurriedly disappeared, muffling its face in a black mantle as it fled. Not, however, before Theos had recognized those dark, haughty features, those relentless brows, and that, stern almost lurid smile! … and with a quick convulsive movement he grasped his companion's arm. "Hist, Sah-luma!" he whispered … "Saw you not the King?" Sah-luma started as though he had received a dagger thrust, . . his very lips turned pale in the moonlight. "The KING?" he echoed, with an accent of incredulous amazement … "The King? … thou art mad! … it could not be! Where didst thou see him?" In silence Theos pointed to the dark shrubbery. Sahluma shook himself free of his friend's hold, and, standing erect, gazed in the direction indicated, with an expression of mingled fear, distrust, bewilderment, and wrath on his features, . . he was suddenly but effectually sobered, and all the delicate beauty of his face came back like the rich tone of a fine picture restored. His hand fell instinctively toward the jewelled hilt of the poniard at his belt. "The King?" he muttered under his breath, … "The King? … Then.. is Khosrul right after all, and must one learn wisdom from a madman? … By my soul! … If I thought…" Here he checked himself abruptly and turned upon Theos … "Nay, thou art deceived!" he said with a forced smile.. "'Twas not the King! … 'twas some rash, unknown intruder whose worthless life must pay the penalty of trespass!"—and he drew his flashing weapon from his sheath.. "THIS shall unmask him! … And thou, my friend, get thee away and home, . . fear nothing for my safety! … go hence and quickly; I'll follow thee anon!" And before Theos could utter a word of warning, he plunged impetuously into the innermost recess of the dense foliage behind which the mysterious armed figure had just vanished, and was instantly lost to sight. "Sah-luma! … Sah-luma!"—called Theos passionately … "Come back! Whether wilt thou go? … Sah-luma!" Only silence answered him,—silence rendered even more profound by the subdued, faint rustling of the wind among the leaves,—and agitated by all manner of vague alarms and dreary forebodings, he stood still for a moment hesitating as to whether he should follow his friend or no. Some instinct stronger than himself, however, persuaded him that it would be best to continue his road,—he therefore went on slowly, hoping against hope that Sah-luma might still rejoin him,—but herein he was disappointed. He waited a little while near the illuminated water, dreamily eying the beautiful marble nymph crowned with her wreath of amethystine flame, . . she resembled Lysia somewhat, he thought,—only this was a frozen fairness, while the peerless charms of the cruel High Priestess were those of living flesh and blood. Yet the remembrance of all the tenderly witching loveliness that might have been his, had he slain Sah-luma at her bidding, now moved him neither to regret nor lover's passion, but only touched his spirit with a sense of bitter repulsion, . . while a strange pity for the Poet Laureate's infatuation awoke in him,—pity that any man could be so reckless, blind, and desperate as to love a woman for her mere perishable beauty of body, and never care to know whether the graces of her mind were equal to the graces of her form. "We men have yet to learn the true meaning of love,"—he mused rather sadly—"We consider it from the selfish standpoint of our own unbridled passions,—we willingly accept a fair face as the visible reflex of a fair soul, and nine times out of ten, we are utterly mistaken! We begin wrongly, and we therefore end miserably,—we should love a woman for what she IS, and not for what she appears to be. Yet, how are we to fathom her nature? how shall we guess, . . how can we decide? Are we fooled by an evil fate?—or do we in our loves and marriages deliberately fool ourselves?" He pondered the question hazily without arriving at any satisfactory answer, . . and as Sah-luma still did not return, he resumed his slow, unguided, and solitary way. He presently found himself in a close boscage of tall trees straight as pines, and covered with very large, thick leaves that exhaled a peculiarly faint odor,—and here, pausing abruptly, he looked anxiously about him. This was certainly not the avenue through which he had previously come with Sah-luma, . . and he soon felt uncomfortably convinced that he had somehow taken the wrong path. Perceiving a low iron gate standing open in front of him, he went thither and discovered a steep stone staircase leading down, down into what seemed to be a vast well, black and empty as a starless midnight. Peering doubtfully into this gloomy pit, he fancied he saw a small, blue flame wavering to and fro at the bottom, and, pricked by a sudden impulse of curiosity, he made up his mind to descend. He went down slowly and cautiously, counting each step as he placed his foot upon it, . . there were a hundred steps in all, and at the end the light he had seen completely vanished, leaving him in the most profound darkness. Confused and startled, he stretched out his hands instinctively as a blind man might do, and thus came in contact with something sharp, pointed, and icy cold like the frozen talon of a dead bird. Shuddering at the touch, he recoiled,—and was about to try and grope his way up the stairs again, when the light once more appeared, this time casting a thin, slanting, azure blaze through the dense shadows,—and he was able gradually to realize the horrors of the place into which he had unwittingly adventured. One faint cry escaped his lips,—and then he was mute and motionless,—chilled to the very heart. A great awe and speechless dread overwhelmed him, . . for he—a living man and fully conscious of life—stood alone, surrounded by a ghastly multitude of skeletons, skeletons bleached white as ivory and glistening with a smooth, moist polish as of pearl. Shoulder to shoulder, arm against arm, they stood, placed upright, and as close together as possible,—every bony hand held a rusty spear,—and on every skull gleamed a small metal casque inscribed with hieroglyphic characters. Thousands of eyeless sockets seemed to turn toward him in blank yet questioning wonder, suggesting awfully to his mind that the eyes might still be there, fallen far back into the head from whence they yet SAW, themselves unseen,—thousands of grinning jaws seemed to mock at him, as he leaned half-fainting against the damp, weed-grown portal,—he fancied he could hear the derisive laugh of death echoing horribly through those dimly distant arches! This, . . this, he thought wildly, was the sequel to his brief and wretched history! … for this one end he had wandered out of the ways of his former life, and forgotten almost all he had ever known,—here was the only poor finale an all-wise and all-potent God could contrive for the close of His marvelous symphony of creative Love and Light! … Ah, cruel, cruel! Then there was no justice, no pity, no compensation in all the width and breadth of the Universe, if Death indeed was the end of everything!—and God or the great Force called by that name was nothing but a Tyrant and Torturer of His helpless creature, Man! So thinking, dully and feebly, he pressed his hand on his aching eyes, to shut out the sight of that grim crowd of fleshless, rigid Shapes that everywhere confronted him, . . the darkness of the place seemed to descend upon him crushingly, and, reeling forward, he would have fallen in a swoon, had not a strong hand suddenly grasped his arm and supported him firmly upright. "How now, my son!"—said a grave, musical voice that had in it a certain touch of compassion, . . "What ails thee? … and why art thou here? Art thou condemned to die! … or dost thou seek an escape from death?" Making an effort to overcome the sick giddiness that confused his brain, he looked up,—a bright lamp flared in his eyes, contrasting so dazzlingly with the surrounding gloom that for a moment he was half-blinded by its brilliancy, but presently steadying his gaze he was able to discern the dark outline of a tall, black-garmented figure standing beside him,—the figure of an old man, whose severe and dignified aspect at first reminded him somewhat of the prophet Khosrul. Only that Khosrul's rugged features had borne the impress of patient, long-endured, bitter suffering, and the personage who now confronted him had a face so calm and seriously impassive that it might have been taken for that of one newly dead, from whose lineaments all traces of earthly passion had forever been smoothed away. "Art thou condemned to die, or dost thou seek an escape from death?" The question had, or seemed to have, a curious significance,—it reiterated itself almost noisily in his ears,—his mind was troubled by vague surmises and dreary forebodings,—speech was difficult to him, and his lips quivered pathetically, when he at last found force to frame his struggling thoughts into language. "Escape from death!" he murmured, gazing wildly around as he spoke, on the vast skeleton crowd that encircled him.. "Old man, dost thou also talk of dream-like impossibilities? Wilt thou also maintain a creed of hope when naught awaits us but despair? Art thou fooled likewise with the glimmering Soul-mirage of a never-to-be-realized future? … Escape from death? … How?—and where! Art not these dry and vacant forms sufficiently eloquent of the all-omnipotence of Decay?" … and he caught his unknown companion almost fiercely by the long robe, while a sound that was half a sob and half a sigh came from his aching throat.. "Lo you, how emptily they stare upon us! … how frozen-piteous is their smile! … Poor, poor frail shapes! … nay!—who would think these hollow shells of bone had once been men! Men with strong hearts, warm-flowing blood, and throbbing pulses, . . men of thought and action, who maybe did most nobly bear themselves in life upon the earth, and yet are now forgotten, . . men—ah, great Heaven! can it be that these most rueful, loathly things have loved, and hoped, and labored through all their days for such an end as this! Escape from death! … alas, there is no escape, . . 'tis evident we all must die, . . die, and with dust-quenched eyes unlearn our knowledge of the sun, the stars, the marvels of the universe,—for us no more shall the flowers bloom or the sweet birds sing; the poem of the world will write itself anew in every roseate flushing of the dawn,—but we,—we who have joyed therein,—we who have sung the praises of the light, the harmonies of wind and sea, the tunefulness of woods and fields,—we whose ambitious thoughts have soared archangel-like through unseen empyreans of space, there to drink in a honeyed hope of Heaven,—we shall be but DEAD! … mute, cold, and stirless as deep, undug stones, . . dead! … Ah God, thou Utmost Cruelty!"—and in a sudden access of grief and passion he raised one hand and shook it aloft with a menacing gesture—"Would I might look upon Thee face to face, and rebuke Thee for Thy merciless injustice!" He spoke wildly as though possessed by a sort of frenzy,—his unknown companion heard him with an air of mild and pitying patience. "Peace—peace! Blaspheme not the Most High, my son!" he said gently, yet reproachfully. "Distraught as thou dost seem with some strange misery, and sick with fears, forbear thine ignorant fury against Him who hath for love's dear sake alone created thee. Control thy soul in patience!—surely thou art afflicted by thine own vain and false imaginings, which for a time contort and darken the clear light of truth. Why dost thou thus disquiet thyself concerning the end of life, seeing that verily it hath NO end? … and that what we men call death is not a conclusion but merely a new beginning? Waste not thy pity on these skeleton forms,—the empty dwellings of martial spirits long since fled, . . as well weep over fallen husks of corn from which the blossoms have sprung right joyously upward! This world is but our roadside hostelry, wherein we heaven-bound sojourners tarry for one brief, restless night,—why regret the loss of the poor refreshment offered thee here, when there are a thousand better feasts awaiting thee elsewhere on thy way? Come,—let me lead thee hence, . . this place is known as the Passage of the Tombs,—and communicates with the Inner Court of the Sacred Temple,—and if, as I fear, thou art a stray fugitive from the accursed Lysia's band of lovers, thou mayest be tracked hither and quickly slain. Come,—I will show thee a secret labyrinth by which thou canst gain the embankment of the river, and from thence betake thyself speedily home, . . if thou hast a home…" here he paused, and a keen, questioning glance flashed in his dark eyes. "But,—notwithstanding thy fluency of speech and fashion of attire, methinks thou hast the lost and solitary air of one who is a stranger in the city of Al-Kyris?" Theos sighed. "A stranger I am indeed!" he said drearily—"A stranger to my very self and all my former belongings! Ask me no questions, good father, for, as I live, I cannot answer them! I am oppressed by a nameless and mysterious suffering, . . my brain is darkened,—my thoughts but half-formed and never wholly uttered, and I,—I who once deemed human intelligence and reason all-supreme, all-clear, all-absolute, am now compelled to use that reason reasonlessly, and to work with that intelligence in helpless ignorance as to what end my mental toil shall serve! Woeful and strange it is!—yet true; . . I am as a broken straw in a whirlwind,—or the pale ghost of my own identity groping for things forgotten in a land of shadows; . . I know not whence I came, nor whither I go! Nay, do not fear me,—I am not mad: I am conscious of my life, my strength, and physical well-being,—and though I may speak wildly, I harbor no ill-intent toward any man—my quarrel is with God alone!" He paused,—then resumed in calmer accents,—"You judge rightly, reverend sir,—I am a stranger in Al-Kyris. I entered the city-gates this morning when the sun was high,—and ere noon I found courteous welcome and princely shelter,—I am the guest of the poet Sah-luma." The old man looked at him half compassionately. "Ah, Sah-luma is thine host?" he said with a touch of melancholy surprise in his tone—"Then wherefore art thou here? … here in this dark abode where none may linger and escape with life? … how earnest thou within the bounds of Lysid's fatal pleasaunce! … Has the Laureate's friendship thus misguided thee?" Theos hesitated before replying. He was again moved by that curious instinctive dread of hearing Sah-luma's name associated with any sort of reproach,—and his voice had a somewhat defiant ring as he answered: "Nay, surely I am neither child nor woman that I should weakly yield to guidance or misleading! Some trifling matter of free-will remains to me in spite of mine affliction,—and that I have supped with Sah-luma at the Palace of the High Priestess, has been as much my choice as his example. Who among men would turn aside from high feasting and mirthful company? … not I, believe me! … and Sah-luma's desires herein were but the reflex of mine own. We came together through the woodland, and parted but a moment since…" He stopped abruptly, startled by a sudden clash as of steel and the tramp-tramp of approaching feet. His aged companion caught him by the arm… "Hush!" he whispered.. "Not a word more.. not a breath! … or thy life must pay the penalty! Quick,—follow me close! … step softly! … there is a hiding-place near at hand where we may couch unseen till these dread visitants pass by." Moving stealthily and with anxious precaution, he led the way to a niche hollowed deeply out in the thickness of the wall, and turning his lamp aside so that not the faintest glimmer of it could be perceived, he took Theos by the hand, and drew him into what seemed to be a huge cavernous recess, utterly dark and icy cold. Here, crouching low in the furthest gloom, they both waited silently,—Theos ignorant as to the cause of the sudden alarm, and wondering vaguely what strange new circumstance was about to happen. The measured tramp-tramp of feet came nearer and nearer, and in another moment the flare of smoking torches illumined the vaulted passage, casting many a ruddy flicker and flash on the ivory-gleaming whiteness of the vast skeleton army that stood with such grim and pallid patience as though waiting for a marching signal. Presently there appeared a number of half-naked men, carrying short axes stained with blood,—coarse, savage, cruel-looking brutes all, whose lowering faces bore the marks of a thousand unrepented crimes,—these were followed by four tall personages clad in flowing white robes and closely masked,—and finally there came a band of black slaves clothed in vivid scarlet, dragging between them two writhing, bleeding creatures,—one a man, the other a girl in her earliest youth, both convulsed by the evident last agonies of death. Arrived at the centre of that part of the vault where the skeleton crowd was thickest, this horrible cortege halted, while one of the masked personages undid from his girdle a large bunch of keys. And now Theos, watching everything with dreadful interest from the obscure corner where he was, thanks to his unknown friend, successfully concealed, perceived for the first time a low, iron door, heavily barred, and surmounted by sharp spikes as long as drawn daggers. When this dreary portal was, with many a jarring groan and clang, slowly opened, such an awful cry broke from the lips of the tortured man as might have wrung compassion from the most hardened tyrant. Wresting himself fiercely out of the grasp of the slaves who held him, he struggled to his feet, while the blood poured from the cruel wounds that were inflicted all over his body, and raising his manacled hands aloft he cried.. "Mercy! … mercy! … not for me, but for her! … for her, my love, my life, my tenderest little one! … What is her crime, ye fiends? … why do ye deem love a sin and passion a dishonor? … Shall there be no more heart-longings because ye are cold? … Spare her! … she is so young, so fond, so innocent of all reproach save one, the shame of loving me! Spare her! … or, if ye will not spare, slay her at once! … now!—now, with swift compassionate sword, . . but cast her not alive into yon hideous serpent's den! … not alive! … ah no, no,—ye gods have pity! …" Here his voice broke and a sudden light passed over his agonized countenance. Gazing steadfastly at the girl, whose beautiful, white body now lay motionless on the cold stone, with a cloud of fair hair falling veil-like over it, his eyes seemed to strain themselves out of their sockets in the intensity of his eager regard, when all at once he gave vent to a wild peal of delirious laughter and exclaimed.. "Dead.. dead! … Thanks be to the merciless gods for this one gift of grace at the last! Dead.. dead! … O the blessed favor and freedom of death! … Sweetheart, they can torture thee no more.. no more! … Ah, devils that ye are!" and his voice grown frantically loud, pierced the gloomy arches with terrible resonance, as he saw the red-garmented slaves vainly endeavoring to rouse, with ferocious blows and thrusts, new life in the fair, stiffening corpse before them.. "This time ye are baffled! … Baffled!—and I live to see your vanquishment! Give her to me!" and he stretched out his trembling arms … "Give her…she is dead—and ye cannot offer to Nagaya any lifeless thing! I will weave her a shroud of her own gold hair—I will bury her softly away in the darkness—I will sing to her as I used to sing in the silent summer evenings, when we fancied our secret of forbidden love unknown,—and with my lips on hers, I will pray.. pray for the pardon of passion grown stronger…than…life! …" He ceased, and swaying forward, fell, . . a shiver ran through his limbs…one deep, gasping sigh…and all was over. The band of torturers gathered round the body, uttering fierce oaths and exclamations of dismay. "Both dead!" said one of the individuals in white.. "'Tis a most fatal augury!" "Fatal indeed!" said another, and turning to the men with the blood stained axes, he added angrily—"Ye were too swift and lavish of your weapons—ye should have let these criminals suffer slowly inch by inch, and yet have left them life enough wherewith to linger on in anguish many hours." The wretches thus addressed looked sullen and humiliated, and approaching the two corpses, would have brutally inflicted fresh wounds on them, had not the seeming chief of the party interfered. "Let be.. let be!" he said austerely—"Ye cannot cause the dead to feel, . . would that it were possible! Then might the glorious and god like thirst of vengeance in our great High Priestess be somewhat more appeased in this matter. For the unlawful communion of love between a vestal virgin and an anointed priest cannot be too utterly abhorred and condemned,—and these twain, who thus did foully violate their vows, have perished far too easily. The sanctity of the Temple has been outraged, . . Lysia will not be satisfied, . . and how shall we pacify her righteous wrath, concerning this too tranquil death of the undeserving and impure?" Drawing all together in a close group they held a whispered consultation, and finally, appearing to have come to some sort of decision, they took up the dead bodies one after another, and flung them carelessly into the dark aperture lately unclosed. As they did this, a stealthy, rustling sound was heard, as of some great creature moving to and fro in the far interior, but they soon locked and barred the iron portal once more, and then took their departure rather hurriedly, leaving the vault by the way Theos had entered it—namely, up the stone stairway that led into Lysia's palace-gardens. As the last echo of their retreating steps died away and the last glimmer of their lurid torches vanished, Theos sprang out from his hiding-place,—his venerable companion slowly followed. "Oh, God! Can such things be!" he cried loudly, reckless of all possible risk for himself as his voice rang penetratingly through the deep silence—"Were these brute-murderers actual men?—or but the wandering, grim shadows of some long past crime? … Nay,—surely I do but dream!—and ghouls and demons born out of nightmare-sleep do vex my troubled spirit! Justice! … justice for the innocent! … Is there none in all Al-Kyris?" "None!" replied the old man who stood beside him, lamp in hand, fixing his dark, melancholy eyes upon him as he spoke—"None! … neither in Al-Kyris nor in any other great city on the peopled earth! Justice? … I who am named Zuriel the Mystic, because of my tireless searching into things that are hidden from the unstudious and unthinking,—I know that Justice is an idle name,—an empty braggart-word forever on the mouths of kings and judges, but never in their hearts! Moreover,—what is guilt? … What is innocence? Both must be defined according to the law of the realm wherein we dwell,—and from that law there can be no appeal. These men we lately saw were the chief priests and executioners of the Sacred Temple,—they have done no wrong—they have simply fulfilled their duty. The culprits slain deserved their fate,—they loved where loving was forbidden,—torture and death was the strictly ordained punishment, and herein was justice,—justice as portioned out by the Penal Code of the High Court of Council." Theos heard, and gave an expressive gesture of loathing and contempt. "O narrow jurisdiction! … O short-sighted, false equity!" he exclaimed passionately. "Are there different laws for high and low? … Must the weak and defenceless be condemned to death for the self-same sin committed openly by their more powerful brethren who yet escape scot-free? What of the High Priestess then? … If these poor lover-victims merited their doom, why is not Lysia slain? … Is not SHE a willingly violated vestal? … doth SHE not count her lovers by the score? … are not her vows long since broken? … is not her life a life of wanton luxury and open shame? … Why doth the Law, beholding these things, remain in her case dumb and ineffectual?" "Hush, hush, my son!" said the aged Zuriel anxiously—"These stone walls hear thee far too loudly,—who knows but they may echo forth thy words to unsuspected listeners! Peace—peace! … Lysia is as much Queen, as Zephoranim is King of Al-Kyris; and surely thou knowest that the sins of tyrants are accounted virtues, so long as they retain their ruling powers? The public voice pronounces Lysia chaste, and Zephoranim faithful; who then shall dare to disprove the verdict?—'Tis the same in all countries, near and far,—the law serves the strong, while professing to defend the weak. The rich man gains his cause,—the beggar loses it,—how can it be otherwise, while lust of gold prevails? Gold is the moving-force of this our era,—without it kings and ministers are impotent, and armies starve, . . with it, all things can be accomplished even to the concealment of the foulest crimes. Come, come! …" and he laid one hand kindly on Theos's arm, "Thou hast a generous and fiery spirit, but thou shouldst never have been born into this planet if thou seekest such a thing as Justice! No man will ever deal true justice to his fellow man on earth, unless perhaps in ages to come, when the old creeds are swept away for a new, and a grander, wider, purer form of faith is accepted by the people. For religion in Al-Kyris to-day is a hollow mockery,—a sham, kept up partly from fear,—partly from motives of policy,—but every thinker is an atheist at heart, . . our splendid civilization is tottering towards its fall, . . and should the fore-doomed destruction of this city come to pass, vast ages of progress, discovery, and invention will be swept away as though they had never been!" He paused and sighed,—then continued sorrowfully—"There is, there must be something wrong in the mechanism of life,—some little hitch that stops the even wheels,—some curious perpetual mischance that crosses us at every turn,—but I doubt not all is for the best, and will prove most truly so hereafter!" "Hereafter!" echoes Theos bitterly … "Thinkest thou that even God, repenting of the evil He hath done, will ever be able to compensate us by any future bliss, for all the needless anguish of the Present?" Zuriel looked at him with a strange, almost spectral expression of mingled pity, fear, and misgiving, but he offered no reply to this home-thrust of a question. In grave silence and with slow, majestic tread he began to lead the way along through the dismal labyrinth of black, winding arches, holding his blue lamp aloft as he went, the better to lighten the dense gloom. Theos followed him, silent also, and wrapped in stern, and mournful musings of his own, . . musings through which faint threads of pale recollection connected with his past glimmered hazily from time to time, perplexing rather than enlightening his bewildered brain. Presently he found himself in a low, narrow vestibule illumined by the bright yet soft radiance of a suspended Star,—and here, coming close up with his guide and observing his dress and manner more attentively, he suddenly perceived a shining SOMETHING which the old man wore hanging from his neck and which flashed against the sable hue of his garment like a wandering moonbeam. Stopping abruptly, he examined this ornament with straining, wistful gaze, . . and slowly, very slowly, recognized its fashion of construction,—it was a plain silver Cross—nothing more. Yet at sight of the sacred, strange, yet familiar Symbol, a chord seemed to snap in his brain,—tears rushed to his tired eyes, and with a sharp cry he fell on his knees, grasping his companion's robe wildly, as a drowning man grasps at a floating spar,—while the venerable Zuriel, startled at his action, stared down upon him in evident amazement and terror. "Rescue! … rescue!" he cried, … "O thou blessed among men!—thou dost wear the Sign of Eternal Safety! … the Sign of the Way, the Truth, and the Life! … 'without the Way, there is no going, without the Truth there is no knowing, without the Life there is no living'! Now do I know thee for a saint in Al-Kyris,—for thou dost openly avow thyself a follower of the Divine Faith that fools despise, and selfish souls repudiate, . . ah, I do beseech thee, thou good and holy man, absolve me of my sin of Unbelief! Teach me! … help me! … and I will hear thy counsels with the meekness of a listening child! ..See you, I kneel! … I pray! … I, even I, am humiliated to the very dust of shame! I have no pride, . . I seek no glory, … I do entreat, even as I once rejected the blessing of the Cross, whereby I shall regain my lost love,—my despised pardon,—my vanished peace!" And, with pathetic earnestness, he raised his hands toward the silver emblem, and touched it tenderly, reverently, … then as though unworthy, he bent his head low, and waited eagerly for a Name, . . a Name that he himself could not remember, . . a Name suggested by the Cross, but not declared. If that Name were once spoken in the form of a benediction, he felt instinctively that he would straightway be released from the mysterious spell of misery that bound his intelligence in such a grievous thrall. But not a word of consolation did his companion utter, . . on the contrary, he seemed agitated by the strangest surprise and alarm. "Now may all the gods in Heaven defend thee, thou unhappy, desperate, distracted soul!" he said in trembling, affrighted accents. "Thou dost implore the blessing of a Faith unknown! … a Mystery predicted but not yet fulfilled…a Creed that shall not be declared to men for full FIVE THOUSAND YEARS!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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