"Much depends on the particular form of enjoyment..." responded Theos thoughtfully. "Some there are, for example, who might find their greatest satisfaction in the pleasures of the table,--others in the gratification of sensual desires and gross appet.i.tes,--are these to be left to follow their own devices, without any effort being made to raise them from the brute-level where they lie?"

"Why, in the name of all the G.o.ds, SHOULD they be raised?" demanded Sah-luma impatiently--"If their choice is to grovel in mire, why ask them to dwell in a palace?--They would not appreciate the change!"

"Again," went on Theos--"there are others who are only happy in the pursuit of wisdom, and the more they learn, the more they seek to know.

One wonders, . . one cannot help wondering.. are their aspirations all in vain? ... and will the grave seal down their hopes forever?"

Sah-luma paused a moment before replying.

"It seems so ..." he said at last slowly and hesitatingly ... "And herein I find the injustice of the matter,--because however great may be the imagination and fervor of a poet for instance, he never is able WHOLLY to utter his thoughts. Half of them remain in embryo, like buds of flowers that never come to bloom, . . yet they are THERE, burning in the brain and seeming too vast of conception to syllable themselves into the common speech of mortals! I have often marvelled why such ideas suggest themselves at all, as they can neither be written nor spoken, unless..." and here his voice sank into a dreamy softness, "unless indeed they are to be received as hints, . . foreshadowings..

of greater works destined for our accomplishment, hereafter!"

He was silent a minute's s.p.a.ce, and Theos, watching him wistfully, suddenly asked:

"Wouldst thou be willing to live again, Sah-luma, if such a thing could be?"

"Friend, I would rather never die!"--responded the Laureate, half playfully, half seriously.. "But.. if I were certain that death was no more than a sleep, from which I should a.s.suredly awaken to another phase of existence, ..I know well enough what I would do!"

"What?" questioned Theos, his heart beginning to beat with an almost insufferable anxiety.

"I would live a different life NOW!" answered Sah-luma steadily, looking his companion full in the eyes as he spoke, while a grave smile shadowed rather than lightened his features. "I would begin at once, .

. so that when the new Future dawned for me, I might not be haunted or tortured by the remembrance of a misspent Past! For if we are to believe in any everlasting things at all, we cannot shut out the fatal everlastingness of Memory!" His words sounded unlike himself...his voice was as the voice of some reproving angel speaking,--and Theos, listening, shuddered, he knew not why, and held his peace.

"Never to be able to FORGET!" continued Sah-luma in the same grave, sweet tone ... "Never to lose sight of one's own bygone wilful sins, .

. this would be an immortal destiny too terrible to endure! For then, inexorable Retrospection would forever show us where we had missed the way, and how we had failed to use the chances given us, . . moreover, we might haply find ourselves surrounded..." and his accents grew slower and more emphatic.. "by strange phantoms of our own creating, who would act anew the drama of our obstinate past follies, perplexing us thereby into an anguish greater than mortal fancy can depict. Thus if we indeed possessed the positive foreknowledge of the eternal regeneration of our lives, 'twould be well to free them from all hindrance to perfection HERE,--here, while we are still conscious of Time and opportunity." He paused, then went on in his customary gay manner: "But fortunately we are not positive, nothing is certain, no truth is so satisfactorily demonstrated that some wiseacre cannot be found to disprove it, . . hence it happens my friend..." and his face a.s.sumed its wonted careless expression ... "that we men whose common-sense is offended by priestly hypocrisy and occult necromantic jugglery,--we, who perhaps in our innermost heart of hearts ardently desire to believe in a supreme Divinity and the grandly progressive Sublime Intention of the Universe, but who, discovering naught but ign.o.ble Cant and Imposture everywhere, are incontinently thrown back on our own resources, . . hence it comes, I say, that we are satisfied to accept ourselves, each man in his own personality, as the Beginning and End of Existence, and to minister to that Absolute Self which after all concerns us most, and which will continue to engage our best service until...well!--until History can show us a perfectly Selfless Example, which, if human nature remains consistent with its own traditions, will a.s.suredly never be!"

This was almost more than Theos could bear, . . there was a tightening agony at his heart that made him long to cry out, to weep, or, better still, to fling himself on his knees and pray, . . pray to that far-removed mild Presence, that "Selfless Example" who he KNEW had hallowed and dignified the world, and yet whose Holy and Beloved Name, he, miserable sinner, was unworthy to even remember! His suffering at the moment was so intense that he fancied some reflection of it must be visible in his face. Sah-luma, however, apparently saw nothing,--he stepped across the room, and out to the vine-shaded loggia, where he turned and beckoned his companion to his side.

"Come!" he said, pushing his hair off his brows with a languid gesture, . . "The afternoon wears onward, and the very heavens seem to smoke with heat,--let us seek cooler air beneath the shade of yonder cypresses, whose dark-green boughs shut out the glaring sky. We'll talk of love and poesy and tender things till sunset, . . I will recite to thee a ballad of mine that Niphrata loved,--'tis called 'An Idyl of Roses,'...and it will lighten this hot and heavy silence, when even birds sleep, and b.u.t.terflies drowse in the hollowed shelter of the arum-leaves. Come, wilt thou? ... To-night perchance we shall have little time for pleasant discourse!"

As he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with the dazed sensations of one under the influence of mesmerism, ... the dazzling face and luminous eyes of the Laureate exercised over him an indescribable yet resistless authority,--and it was certain that, wherever Sah-luma led the way, he was bound to follow. Only, as he mechanically descended from the terrace into the garden, and linked his arm within that of his companion, he was conscious of a vague feeling of pity for himself...pity that he should have dwindled into such a nonent.i.ty, when Sah-luma was so renowned a celebrity, . . pity too that he should have somehow never been able to devise anything original in the Art of Poetry!

This last was evident, . . for he knew already that the "Idyl of Roses"

Sah-luma purposed reciting could be no other than what he had fancied was HIS "Idyl of Roses" ... a poem he had composed, or rather had plagiarized in some mysterious fashion before he had even dreamt of the design of "Nourhalma"...However he had become in part resigned to the peculiar position he occupied,--he was just a little sorry for himself, and that was all. Even as the parted spirit of a dead man might hover ruthfully above the grave of its perished mortal body, so he compa.s.sionated his own forlorn estate, and heaved a pa.s.sing sigh of regret, not only for all HE ONCE HAD BEEN, but also for all HE COULD NEVER BE!

CHAPTER XXVII.

IN THE TEMPLE OF NAGAYA.

The hours wore on with stealthy rapidity,--but the two friends, reclining together under a deep-branched canopy of cypress-boughs, paid little or no heed to the flight of time. The heat in the garden was intense--the gra.s.s was dry and brittle as though it had been scorched by pa.s.sing flames,--and a singularly profound stillness reigned everywhere, there being no wind to stir the faintest rustle among the foliage. Lying lazily upon his back, with his arms clasped above his head, Theos looked dreamily up at the patches of blue sky seen between the dark-green gnarled stems and listened to the measured cadence of the Laureate's mellow voice as he recited with much tenderness the promised poem.

Of course it was perfectly familiar,--the lines were precisely the same as those which he, Theos, remembered to have written out, thinking them his own, in an old ma.n.u.script book he had left at home. "At-home!" ...

Where was that? It must be a very long way off! ... He half-closed his eyes,--a sense of delightful drowsiness was upon him, . . the rise and fall of his friend's rhythmic utterance soothed him into a languid peace, . . the "Idyl of Roses" was very sweet and musical, and, though he knew it of old, he heard it now with special satisfaction, inasmuch as, it being no longer his, he was at liberty to bestow upon it that full measure of admiration which he felt it deserved!

Yet every now and then his thoughts wandered,--and though he anxiously strove to concentrate his attention on the lovely stanzas that murmured past his ears like the gentle sound of waves flowing beneath the mesmerism of the moon, his brain was in a continual state of ferment, and busied itself with all manner of vague suggestions to which he could give no name.

A great weariness weighed down his spirit--a dim consciousness of the futility of all ambition and all endeavor--he was haunted, too, by the sharp hiss of Lysia's voice when she had said, "KILL SAH-LUMA!"...Her look, her att.i.tude, her murderous smile, troubled his memory and made him ill at ease,--the thing she had thus demanded at his hands seemed more monstrous than if she had bidden him kill himself! For there had been one moment, when, mastered by her beauty and the force of his own pa.s.sion, he WOULD have killed himself had she requested it...but to kill his adored, his beloved friend! ... ah no! not for a thousand sorceress-queens as fair as she!

He drew a long breath, . . an irresistible desire for rest came over him, . . the air was heavy and warm and fragrant,--his companion's dulcet accents served as a lullaby to his tired mind,--it seemed a long time since he had enjoyed a pleasant slumber, for the previous night he had not slept at all. Lower and lower drooped his aching lids, . . he was almost beginning to slip away slowly into a blissful unconsciousness, . . when all at once Sah-luma ceased reciting, and a harsh, brazen clang of bells echoed through the silence, storming to and fro with a violent, hurried uproar suggestive of some sudden alarm.

He sprang to his feet, rubbing his eyes,--Sah-luma rose also, a slightly petulant expression on his face.

"Canst thou do no better than sleep"--he queried complainingly, "when thou art privileged to listen to an immortal poem?"

Impulsively Theos caught his hand and pressed it fervently.

"Nay, dost thou deem me so indifferent, my n.o.ble friend?" he cried ...

"Thou art mistaken, for though perchance mine eyes were closed, my ears were open; I heard thy every word,--I loved thy every line! What dost thou need of praise? ... thou, who canst do naught but work which, being perfect, is beyond all criticism!"

Sah-luma smiled, well satisfied, and the little lines of threatening ill-humor vanished from his countenance.

"Enough!" he said.. "I know that thou dost truly honor me above all poets, and that thou wouldst not willingly offend. Hearest thou how great a clamor the ringers of the Temple make to-night?--'tis but the sunset chime, . . yet one would think they were pealing forth an angry summons to battle."

"Already sunset!" exclaimed Theos, surprised.. "Why, it seems scarce a minute since, that we came hither!"

"Aye!--such is the magic charm of poesy!" rejoined Sah-luma complacently.. "It makes the hours flit like moments, and long days seemed but short hours! ... Nevertheless 'tis time we were within doors and at supper,--for if we start not soon for the Temple, 'twill be difficult to gain an entrance, and I, at any rate, must be early in my place beside the King."

He heaved a short, impatient sigh,--and as he spoke, all Theos's old misgivings came rushing back upon him and in full force, filling him with vague sorrow, uneasiness, fear. But he knew how useless it was to try and impart any of his inward forebodings to Sah-luma,--Sah-luma, who had so lightly explained Lysia's treacherous conduct to his own entire satisfaction, . . Sah-luma, on whom neither the prophecies of Khosrul nor the various disastrous events of the day had taken any permanent effect, . . while no attempt could now be made to deter him from attending the Sacrificial Service in the Temple, seeing he had been so positively commanded thither by Lysia, through the medium of the priest Zel.

Feeling bitterly his own incompetency to exercise any protective influence on the fate of his companion, Theos said nothing, but silently followed him, as he thrust aside the drooping cypress boughs and made his way out to more open ground, his lithe, graceful figure looking even more brilliant and phantom-like than ever, contrasted with the deep green gloom spread about him by the h.o.a.ry moss-covered trees that were as twisted and grotesque in shape as a group of fetich idols.

As he bent back the last branchy barrier however, and stepped into the full light, he stopped short,--and, uttering a loud exclamation, lifted his hand and pointed westward, his dark eyes dilating with amazement and awe.

Theos at once came swiftly up beside him, and looked where he looked, .

. what a scene of terrific splendor he beheld! ... Right across the horizon, that glistened with a pale green hue like newly frozen water, a cloud, black as the blackest midnight, lay heavy and motionless, in form resembling an enormous leaf, fringed at the edges with tremulous lines of gold.

This nebulous ma.s.s was absolutely stirless, . . it appeared as though it had been thrown, a ponderous weight, into the vault of heaven, and having fallen, there purposed to remain. Ever and anon beamy threads of lightning played through it luridly, veining it with long, arrowy flashes of orange and silver,--while poised immediately above it was the sun, looking like a dull scarlet seal, ... a ball of dim fire dest.i.tute of rays.

On all sides the sky was crossed by wavy flecks of pearl and sudden glimpses as of burning topaz,--and down toward the earth drooped a thin azure fog,--filmy curtain, through which the landscape took the strangest tints and unearthly flushes of color. A moment,--and the spectral sun dropped suddenly into the lower darkness, leaving behind it a glare of gold and green,--lowering purple shadows crept over across the heavens, darkening them as smoke darkens flame,--but the huge cloud, palpitating with lightning, moved not at all nor changed its shape by so much as a hair's breadth, . . it appeared like a vast pall spread out in readiness for the solemn state-burial of the world.

Fascinated by the aspect of the weird sky-phenomenon, Theos was at the same time curiously impressed by a sense of its UNREALITY, . . indeed he found himself considering it with the calm attentiveness of one who is brought face to face with a remarkable picture effectively painted.

This peculiar sensation, however, was, like many others of his experience, very transitory, . . it pa.s.sed, and he watched the lightnings come and go with a certain hesitating fear mingled with wonder. Sah-luma was the first to speak.

"Storm at last!" ... he said, forcing a smile though his face was unusually pale,--"It has threatened us all day...'twill break before the night is over. How sullenly yonder heavens frown! ... they have quenched the sun in their sable darkness as though it were a beaten foe! This will seem an ill sign to those who worship him as a G.o.d,--for truly he doth appear to have withdrawn himself in haste and anger. By my soul! 'Tis a dull and ominous eve!" ... and a slight shudder ran through his delicate frame, as he turned toward the white-pillared loggia garlanded with its climbing vines, roses, and pa.s.sion-flowers, through which there now floated a dim golden, suffused radiance reflected from lamps lit within, . . "I would the night were past and that the new day had come!"

With these words, he entered the house, Theos accompanying him, and together they went at once to the banqueting-hall. There they supped royally, served by silent and attentive slaves,--they themselves, feeling mutually depressed, yet apparently not wishing to communicate their depression one to the other, conversed but little. After the repast was finished, they set forth on foot to the Temple, Sah-luma informing his companion, as they went, that it was against the law to use any chariot or other sort of conveyance to go to the place of worship, the King himself being obliged to dispense with his sumptuous car on such occasions, and to walk thither as unostentatiously as any one of his poorest subjects.

"An excellent rule!" ... observed Theos reflectively,--"For the pomp and glitter of an earthly potentate's display a.s.sorts ill with the homage he intends to offer to the Immortals,--and Kings are no more than commoners in the sight of an all-supreme Divinity."

"True, if there WERE an all-supreme Divinity!" rejoined Sah-luma dryly,--"But in the present state of well-founded doubt regarding the existence of any such omnipotent personage, thinkest thou there is a monarch living, who is sincerely willing to admit the possibility of any power superior to himself? Not Zephoranim, believe me! ... his enforced humility on all occasions of public religious observance serves him merely as a new channel wherein to proclaim his pride.

Certes, in obedience to the Priests, or rather let us say in obedience to the High Priestess, he paces the common foot-path in company with the common folk, uncrowned and simply clad,--but what avails this affectation of meekness? All know him for the King--all make servile way for him,--all flatter him! ... and his progress to the Temple resembles as much a triumphal procession as though he were mounted in his chariot and returning from some wondrous victory. Besides, humility in my opinion is more a weakness than a virtue, . . and even granting it were a virtue, it is not possible to Kings,--not as long as people continue to fawn on royalty like grovelling curs, and lick the sceptred hand that often loathes their abject touch."

He spoke with a certain bitterness and impatience as though he were suffering from some inward nervous irritation, and Theos, observing this, prudently made no attempt to continue the conversation. They were just then pa.s.sing down a narrow, rather dark street, lined on both sides by lofty buildings of quaint and elaborate architecture. Long, gloomy shadows had gathered in this particular spot, where for a short s.p.a.ce the silence was so intense that one could almost hear one's own heart beat. Suddenly a yellowish-green ray of light flashed across the pavement, and lo! the upper rim of the moon peered above the house-tops, looking strangely large and rosily brilliant, . . the air seemed all at once to grow suffocating and sulphurous, and between whiles there came the faint plashing sound of water lapping against stone with a monotonous murmur as of continuous soft whispers.

The vast silence, the vast night, were full of a solemn weirdness,--the moon, curiously magnified to twice her ordinary size, soared higher and higher, firing the lofty solitudes of heaven with long, shooting radiations of rose and green, while still in the purple hollow of the horizon lay that immense, immovable Cloud, nerved as it were with living lightning which leaped incessantly from its centre like a thousand swords drawn and re-drawn from as many scabbards.

Presently the deep booming noise of a great bell smote heavily on the stillness, . . a sound that Theos, oppressed by the weight of unutterable forebodings, welcomed with a vague sense of relief, while Sah-luma, hearing it, quickened his pace. They soon reached the end of the street, which terminated in a s.p.a.cious quadrangular court guarded on all sides by gigantic black statues, and quickly crossing this place, which was entirely deserted, they came out at once into a dazzling blaze of light, . . the Temple of Nagaya in all its stately magnificence towered before them, a stupendous pile of marvellously delicate architecture so fine as to seem like lace-work rather than stone.