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

grandly gifted, gift-squandering Poet the world has ever known, shalt be cast among the dust of unremembered nothings, and the name of Sahluma shall carry no meaning to any man born in the coming hereafter! For thou hast cherished within Thyself the poison that withers thee, … the deadly poison of Doubt, the Denial of God’s existence, … the accursed blankness of Disbelief in the things of the Life Eternal! … wherefore, thy spirit is that of one lost and rebellious,—whose best works are futile,—

whose days are void of example,—and whose carelessly grasped torch of song shall be suddenly snatched from thy hand and extinguished in darkness! God pardon thee, dying Poet! … God give thy parting soul a chance of penance and of sweet redemption!

… God comfort thee in that drear Land of Shadow whither thou art bound! … God bring thee forth again from Chaos to a nobler Future!

… Sin-burdened as thou art, my blessing follows thee in thy last agony! Sahluma! … FALLEN ANGEL, SELF-EXILED FROM THY PEERS! …

FAREWELL!”

 

The effect of these strange words was so extraordinarily impressive, that for one instant the astonished and evidently affrighted crowds pressed round Sahluma eagerly, staring at him in morbid fear and wonder, as though they expected him to drop dead before them in immediate fulfillment of the Prophet’s solemn valediction. Theos, oppressed by an inward sickening sense of terror, also regarded him with close and anxious solicitude, but was almost reassured at the first glance.

 

Never was a greater opposition offered to Khosrul’s gloomy prognostications, than that contained in the handsome Laureate’s aspect at that moment,—his supple, graceful figure alert with life, . . his glowing face flushed by the sun, and touched with that faintly amused look of serene scorn, . . his glorious eyes, brilliant as jewels under their drooping amorous lids, and the regal poise of his splendid shoulders and throat, as he lifted his head a little more haughtily than usual, and glanced indifferently down from his foothold on the edge of the fountain at the upturned, questioning faces of the throng, … all even to the careless balance and ease of his attitude, betokened his perfect condition of health, and the entire satisfaction he had in the consciousness of his own strength and beauty.

 

He seemed about to speak, and raised his hand with the graceful yet commanding gesture of one accustomed to the art of elegant rhetoric, … when suddenly his expression changed, . . shrugging his shoulders lightly as who should say.. “Here comes the conclusion of the matter,—no time for further argument”—he silently pointed across the Square, while a smile dazzling yet cruel played on his delicately parted lips, . . a smile, the covert meaning of which was soon explained. For all at once a brazen roar of trumpets split the silence into torn and discordant echoes,—

the crowd turned swiftly, and seeing who it was that approached, rushed hither and thither in the wildest confusion, making as though they would have fled, . . and in less than a minute, a gleaming cohort of mounted and armed spearmen galloped furiously into the thick of the melee.

 

Following these came a superb car drawn by six jet-black horses that plunged and pranced through the multitude with no more heed than if these groups of living beings had been mere sheafs of corn, . . a car flashing from end to end with gold and precious stones, in which towered the erect, massive form of Zephoranim, the King. His dark face was ablaze with wrath, … tightly grasping the reins of his reckless steeds, he drew himself haughtily upright and turned his rolling, fierce black eyes indignantly from side to side on the scared people, as he drove through their retreating ranks, smiting down and mangling with the sharp spikes of his tall chariot-wheels men, women, and children without care or remorse, till he forced his terrible passage straight to the foot of the Obelisk. There he came to an abrupt standstill, and, lifting high his strong hand and brawny arm glittering with jewels, he cried:

 

“Soldiers! Seize yon traitorous rebel! Ten thousand pieces of gold for the capture of Khosrul!”

 

There was an instant of hesitation, … not one of the populace stirred to obey the order. Then suddenly, as though released by their monarch’s command from some mesmeric spell, the before inactive mounted guards started into action, cantered sharply forward and surrounded the Obelisk, while the armed spearsmen closed together and made a swift advance upon the venerable figure that stood alone and defenseless, tranquilly awaiting their approach. But there was evidently some unknown and mysterious force pent up within the Prophet’s feeble frame, for when the soldiers were just about an arm’s length from him, they seemed all at once troubled and irresolute, and turned their looks away, as though fearing to gaze too steadfastly upon that grand, thought-furrowed countenance in which the eyes, made young by inward fervor, blazed forth with unearthly lustre beneath a silvery halo of tossed white hair. Zephoranim perceived this touch of indecision on the part of his men, and his black brows contracted in an ominous frown.

 

“Halt!” he shouted fiercely, apparently to make it seem to the mob that the pause in the action of the soldiery was in compliance with his own behest, . . “Halt! … Bind him, and bring him hither, . . I myself will slay him!”

 

“Halt!” echoed a voice, discordantly sharp and wild.. “Halt thou also, great Zephoranim! for Death bars thy further progress!”

 

And Khosrul, manifestly possessed by some superhuman access of frenzy, leaped from his position on the back of the stone Lion, and slipping agilely through the ranks of the startled spearmen and guards, who were all unprepared for the suddenness and rapidity of his movements, he sprang boldly on the edge of the Royal chariot, and there clung to the jewelled wheel, looking like a gaunt aerial spectre, an ambassador of coming ruin. The King, speechless with amazement and fury, dragged at his huge sword till he wrenched it out of its sheath, . . raising it, he whirled it round his head so that it gave a murderous hiss in the air, …

and yet.. was his strong arm paralyzed that he forbore to strike!

 

“Zephoranim!” Khosrul, in terms that were piercing and dolorous as the whistling of the wind among hollow reeds,—“Zephoranim, THOU

SHALT DIE TONIGHT! ART THOU READY? Art thou ready, proud King? …

ready to be made less than the lowest of the low? Hush! … Hush!”

and his aged face took upon itself a ghastly greenish pallor—

“Hear you not the muttering of the thunder underground? There are strange powers at work! … powers of the undug earth and unfathomed sea! … hark how they tear at the stately foundations of Al-Kyris! … Flame! flame! it is already kindled!—it shall enwrap thee with more closeness than thy coronation robe, O mighty Sovereign! … with more gloating fondness than the serpent-twining arms of thy beloved! Listen, Zephoranim, listen!”

 

Here he stretched out his skinny hand and pointed upwards,—his eyes grew fixed and glassy,—his throat rattled convulsively. At that moment the monarch, recovering his self-possession, once more lifted his sword with direct and deadly aim, but the Prophet, uttering a wild shriek, caught at his descending wrist and gripped it fast.

 

“See.. See!” he exclaimed.. “Put up thy weapon! … Thou shalt never need it where thou art summoned! … Lo! how yon. blood-red letters blaze against the blue of heaven! … There! … there it comes!—Read.. read! ‘tis written plain.. ‘AL-KYRIS SHALL FALL, AND THE KING SHALL DIE!’.. Hist … hist! … Dumb oracles speak and dead voices find tongue! … hark how they chant together the old forgotten warning:

 

‘When the High Priestess

Is the King’s mistress

Then fall Al-Kyris!’

 

Fall Al-Kyris! … Aye! … the City of a thousand palaces shall fall tonight! … TONIGHT! … O night of desperate horror! …

and thou, O King, SHALT DIE!”

 

And as he shrilled the last word on the air with terrific emphasis, he threw up his arms like a man suddenly shot, and reeling backward fell heavily on the ground,—a corpse.

 

A great cry went up from the crowd, . . the King leaned eagerly out of his car.

 

“Is the fool dead, or feigning death?” he demanded, addressing one of a group of soldiers standing near.

 

The officer stooped and felt the motionless body.

 

“O great King, live forever! He is dead!”

 

Zephoranim hesitated. Cruelty and clemency struggled for the mastery in the varying expression of his frowning face, but cruelty conquered. Grasping his sword firmly, he bent still further forward out of his chariot, and with one swift, keen stroke, severed the lifeless Prophet’s head from its trunk, and taking it up on, the point of his weapon, showed it to the multitude. A smothered, shuddering sigh that was half a groan rippled through the dense throng—a sound that evidently added fresh irritation to the already heated temper of the haughty sovereign. With a savage laugh, he tossed his piteous trophy on the pavement, where it lay in a pool of its own blood, the white hair about it stained ruddily, and the still open eyes upturned as though in dumb appeal to heaven. Then, without deigning to utter another word, or to bestow another look upon the surrounding crowd of his disconcerted subjects, he gathered up his coursers’ reins and prepared to depart.

 

Just then the sun went behind a cloud, and only a side-beam of radiance shot forth, pouring itself straight down on the royally attired figure of the monarch and the headless body of Khosrul, and at the same time bringing into sudden and prominent relief the silver Cross that glittered on the breast of the bleeding corpse, and that seemed to mysteriously offer itself as the Key to some unsolved Enigma. As if drawn by one strangely mutual attraction, all eyes, even those of Zephoranim himself, turned instinctively toward the flashing Emblem, which appeared to burn like living fire on that perished mass of stiffening clay, . . and there was a brief silence,—a pause, during which Theos, who had watched everything with curiously calm interest, such as may be felt by a spectator watching the progress of a finely acted tragedy, became conscious of the same singular sensation he had already several times experienced,—namely, THAT HE HAD WITNESSED THE WHOLE OF

THIS SCENE BEFORE!

 

he remembered it quite well,—particularly that apparently trifling incident of the sunlight happening to shine so brilliantly on the dead man and his cross while the rest of the vast assemblage were in comparative shadow. It was very odd! …

his memory was like a wonderful art-gallery in which some pictures were fresh of tint, while others were dim and faded, . . but this special “tableau” in the Square of Al-Kyris was very distinctly painted in brilliant and vivid colors on the sombre background of his past recollections, and he found the circumstance so remarkable that he was on the point of saying something to Sahluma about it,—when the sun came out again in full splendor, and Zephoranim’s spirited steeds started forward at a canter.

 

The King, controlling them easily with one hand, extended the other majestically by way of formal salutation to his people, . .

his tall, muscular form was displayed to the best advantage,—the narrow jewelled fillet that bound his rough dark locks emitted a myriad scintillations of light, . . his close-fitting coat-of-mail, woven from thousands of small links of gold, set off his massive chest and shoulders to perfection,—and as he moved along royally in his sumptuous car, the effect of his striking presence was such, that a complete change took