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

arms raised, she lifted up her voice, a voice mellow as a golden flute, that pierced the silence with a straight arrow of pure sound, and chanted: “Give glory to the Sun, O ye people! for his Light doth illumine your darkness!”

 

And the murmur of the mighty crowd surged back in answer: “We give him glory!”

 

Here came a brief clash of brazen bells, and when the clamor ceased, Lysia continued:

 

“Give glory to the Moon, O ye people! … for she is the servant of the Sun and the Ruler of the House of Sleep!”

 

Again the people responded;

 

“We give her glory!’.. and again the bells jangled tempestuously.

 

“Give glory to Nagaya, O ye people! for he alone can turn aside the wrath of the Immortals!”

 

“We give him glory!”.. rejoined the multitude,—and “We give him glory! seemed to be shouted high among the arches of the Temple with a strange sound as of the mocking laughter of devils.”

 

This preliminary over, there came out of unseen doors on both sides of the Sanctuary twenty priests in companies of ten each; ten advancing from the left, ten from the right. These were clad in flowing garments of carnation-colored silk, heavily bordered with gold, and the leader of the right-hand group was the priest Zel. His demeanor was austere and dignified, . . he carried a square cushion covered in black, on which lay a long, thin cruel-looking knife with a jewelled hilt. The chief of the priests, who stood on the left, bore a very tall and massive staff of polished ebony, which he solemnly presented to the High Priestess, who grasped it firmly in one slight hand and allowed it to rest steadily on the ground, while its uppermost point reached far above her head.

 

Then followed the strangest, weirdest scene that even the pen of poets or brush of painter devised, . . a march round and round the Temple of all the priests, bearing lighted flambeaux and singing in chorus a wild Litany,—a confused medley of supplications to the Sun and Nagaya, which, accompanied as it was by the discordant beating drums and the clanging of bells, had an evidently powerful effect on the minds of the assembled populace, for presently they also joined in the maddening chant, and growing more and more possessed by the contagious fever of fanaticism, began to howl and shriek and clap their hands furiously, creating a frightful din suggestive of some fiendish clamor in hell.

 

Theos, half deafened by the horrible uproar, as well as roused to an abnormal pitch of restless excitement, looked round to see how Sahluma comported himself. He was sitting quite still, in a perfectly composed attitude,—a faint, derisive smile played on his lips, . . his profile, as it just then appeared, had the firmness and the pure soft outline of a delicately finished cameo, . . his splendid eyes now darkened, now lightened with passion, as he gazed at Lysia, who, all alone in the centre of the Shrine, held her ebony staff as perpendicularly erect as though it were a tree rooted fathoms deep in earth, keeping herself too as motionless as a figure of frozen snow.

 

And the King? … what of him? … Glancing at that bronze-like brooding countenance, Theos was startled and at the same time half fascinated by its expression. Such a mixture of tigerish tenderness, servile idolatry, intemperate desire, and craven fear he had never seen delineated on the face of any human being. In the black thirsty eyes there was a look that spoke volumes,—a look that betrayed what the heart concealed,—and reading that featured emblazonment of hidden guilt, Theos knew beyond all doubt that the rumors concerning the High Priestess and the King were true, . . that the dead Khosrul had spoken rightly, . . that Zephoranim loved Lysia! … Love? … it seemed too tame a word for the pent-up fury of passion that visibly and violently consumed the man! What would be the result? …

 

“When the High Priestess Is the King’s mistress Then fall Al-Kyris!”

 

These foolish doggerel lines! … why did they suggest themselves?

… they meant nothing. The question did not concern Al-Kyris at all,—let the city stand or fall as it list, who cared, so long as Sahluma escaped injury! Such, at least, was the tenor of Theos’s thoughts, as he rapidly began to calculate certain contingencies that now seemed likely to occur. If, for instance, the King were made aware of Sahluma’s intrigue with Lysia, would not his rage and jealousy exceed all bounds? … and if, on the other hand, Sahluma were convinced of the King’s passion for the same fatally fair traitress, would not his wrath and injured self-love overbear all loyalty and prudence?

 

And between the two powerful rivals who thus by stealth enjoyed her capricious favors, what would Lysia’s own decision be?—Like a loud hissing in his ears, he heard again the murderous command,—a command which was half a menace: “KILL SAH-LUMA!”

 

Faint shudders as of icy cold ran through him,—he nerved himself to meet some deadly evil, though he could not guess what that evil might be,—he was willing to throw away all the past that haunted him, and cut off all hope of a future, provided he could only baffle the snares of the pitiless beauty to whom the torture of men was an evident joy, and rescue his beloved and gifted friend from her perilous attraction! Making a strong effort to master the inward conflict of fear and pain that tormented him, he turned his attention anew to the gorgeous ceremony that was going on, . . the march of the priests had come to an abrupt end. They stood now on each side of the Shrine, divided in groups of equal numbers, tossing their flambeaux around and above them to the measured ringing of bells. At every upward wave of these flaring torches, a tongue of fire leaped aloft, to instantly break and descend in a sparkling shower of gold,—the effect of this was wonderful in the extreme, as by the dexterous way in which the flames were flung forth, it appeared to the spectator’s eyes as though a luminous Snake were twisting and coiling itself to and fro in mid-air.

 

All loud music ceased, . . the multitude calmed down by degrees and left off their delirious cries of frenzy or rapture, . . there was nothing heard but a monotonous chanting in undertone, of which not a syllable was distinctly intelligible. Then from out a dark portal unperceived in the shadowed gloom of a curtained niche, there advanced a procession of young girls,—fifty in all, clad in pure white and closely veiled.

 

They carried small citherns, and arriving in front of the shrine, they knelt down in a semicircle, and very gently began to strike the short, responsive strings. The murmur of a lazy rivulet among whispering reeds, . . the sighing suggestions of leaves ready to fall in autumn,—the low, languid trilling of nightingales just learning to sing,—any or all these might be said to resemble the dulcet melody they played; while every delicate arpeggio, every rippling chord was muffled with a soft pressure of their hands ere the sound had time to become vehement. This elf-like harping continued for a short interval, during which the priests, gathering in a ring round a huge bronze font-shaped vessel hard by, dipped their flambeaux therein and suddenly extinguished them.

 

At the same moment the lights in the body of the Temple were all lowered, . . only the Arch spanning the Shrine blazed in undiminished brilliancy, its green tint appearing more intense in contrast with the surrounding deepening shadow. And now with a harsh clanging noise as of the turning of heavy bolts and keys, the back of the Sanctuary parted asunder in the fashion of a revolving double doorway,—and a golden grating was disclosed, its strong glistening bars welded together like knotted ropes and wrought with marvellous finish and solidity. Turning toward this semblance of a prison-cell Lysia spoke aloud—her clear tones floating with mellifluous slowness above the half-hushed quiverings of the cithern-choir:

 

“Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst slumber in the bosom of Space ere ever the world was made!

 

“Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst behold the Sun born out of Chaos, and the Earth enriched with ever-producing life!

 

“Come forth, O Nagaya, Friend of the gods and the people, and comfort us with the Divine Silence of thy Wisdom supernal!”

 

While she pronounced these words, the golden grating ascended gradually inch by inch, with the steady clank as of the upward winding of a chain,—and when she ceased, there came a mysterious, rustling, slippery sound, suggestive of some creeping thing forcing its way through wet and tangled grass, or over dead leaves, . . one instant more, and a huge Serpent—a species of python some ten feet in length—glided through the round aperture made by the lifted bars, and writhed itself slowly along the marble pavement straight to where Lysia stood.

 

Once it stopped, curving back its glistening body in a strange loop as though in readiness to spring—but it soon resumed its course, and arrived at the High Priestess’s feet. There, its whole frame trembled and glowed with extraordinary radiance, . . the prevailing color of its skin was creamy white, marked with countless rings and scaly bright spots of silver, purple, and a peculiar livid blue,—and all these tints came into brilliant prominence, as it crouched before Lysia and twisted its sinuous neck to and fro with an evidently fawning and supplicatory gesture; while she, keeping her sombre dark eyes fixed full upon it, moved not an inch from her position, but, majestically serene, continued to hold the tall staff of ebony straight and erect as a growing palm.

 

The cithern-playing had now the soothing softness of a mother’s lullaby to a tired child, and as the liquid notes quavered delicately on the otherwise deep stillness, the formidable reptile began to coil itself ascendingly round and round the ebony rod, . .

higher and higher,—one glistening ring after another,—higher still, till its eyes were on a level with the “Eye of Raphon” that flamed on Lysia’s breast, . . there it paused in apparent reflectiveness, and seemed to listen to the slumberous strains that floated toward it in wind-like breaths of sound, . . then, starting afresh on its upward way, it carefully, and with almost human tenderness, avoided touching Lysia’s hand, which now rested on the staff between two thick twists of its body, . . and finally it reached the top, where fully raising its crested head, it displayed the prismatic tints of its soft, restless, wavy throat, which was adorned furthermore by a flexible circlet of magnificent diamonds.

 

Nothing more striking or more singular could Theos imagine than the scene now before him, . . the beautiful woman, still as sculptured marble, and the palpitating Snake coiled on that mast-like rod and uplifted above her,—while round the twain knelt the Priests, their faces covered in their robes, and from all parts of the Temple the loud shout arose:

 

“ALL HAIL, NAGAYA!”

“Praise, Honor, and Glory be unto thee forever and ever!”

 

Then it was that the proud King flung himself to earth and kissed the dust in abject submission,—then Sahluma, carelessly complaisant, bent the knee and smiled to himself mockingly as he performed the act of veneration, … then the enormous multitude with clasped hands and beseeching looks fell down and worshipped the glittering beast of the field, whose shining, emerald-like, curiously sad eyes roved hither and thither with a darting yet melancholy eagerness over all the people who called it Lord!

 

To Theos’s imagination it looked a