Ardath by Marie Corelli (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

“Where wouldst thou drag me?”

“Out of danger and the shadow of death!” replied Theos firmly..

“Thy life is threatened, Sahluma, 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, Sahluma!” he whispered … “Saw you not the King?”

Sahluma 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.

“Sahluma! … Sahluma!”—called Theos passionately … “Come back! Whether wilt thou go? … Sahluma!”

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 Sahluma 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 Sahluma at her bidding, now moved him neither to regret nor lover’s passion, but only touched his spirit with a sense of bitter repulsion, . . while a strange pity for the Poet Laureate’s infatuation awoke in him,—pity that any man could he so reckless, blind, and desperate as to love a woman for her mere perishable beauty of body, and never care to know whether the graces of her mind were equal to the graces of her form.

“We men have yet to learn the true meaning of love,”—he mused rather sadly—“We consider it from the selfish standpoint of our own unbridled passions,—we willingly accept a fair face as the visible reflex of a fair soul, and nine times out of ten, we are utterly mistaken! We begin wrongly, and we therefore end miserably,—we should love a woman for what she IS, and not for what she appears to be. Yet, how are we to fathom her nature? how shall we guess, . . how can we decide? Are we fooled by an evil fate?—or do we in our loves and marriages deliberately fool ourselves?”

He pondered the question hazily without arriving at any satisfactory answer, . . and as Sahluma 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 Sahluma, . . 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