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

to remember that, whatever happened, his first care must be for Sahluma, . . always for Sahluma, no matter who else perished! … and he now held that beloved comrade closely clasped by the arm, while he eagerly glanced about him on every side for some outlet through which to make a good and swift escape.

 

The most immediate place of safety seemed to be the Inner Sanctuary of Nagaya, . . it was untouched by the flames, and its Titanic pillars of brass and bronze suggested, in their very massiveness, a nearly impregnable harbor of refuge. The King had fled thither, and now stood, like a statue of undaunted gloomy amazement, beside Lysia, who on her part appeared literally frozen with terror. Her large, startled eyes, roving here and there in helpless anxiety, alone gave any animation to the deathly, rigid whiteness of her face, and she still mechanically supported the Sacred Ebony Staff, without apparently being aware of the fact that the Snake Deity, convulsed through all his coils with fright, had begun to make therefrom his rapid DESCENT. The priests, the virgins,—the poor, unhappy little singing children,—flocked hurriedly together, and darted to the back of the great Shrine, in the manifest intention of reaching some private way of egress known only to themselves,—but their attempts were evidently frustrated, for no sooner had they gone than they sped back again, their faces scorched and blackened, and uttering cries and woeful lamentations they flung themselves wildly among the struggling crowds in the main body of the Temple, and fought for life in the jaws of death, every one for Self, and no one for another! Volumes of smoke rolled up from the ground, in thick and suffocating clouds, accompanied by incessant sharp reports like the close firing of guns, . . jets of flame and showers of cinders broke forth fountain-like, scattering hot destruction on every hand, . . while a few flying sparks caught the end of the “Silver Veil”—and withered it into nothingness with one bright resolute flare!

 

Half maddened by the shrieks and dying groans that resounded everywhere about him, and yet all the time feeling as though he were some spectator set apart, and condemned to watch the progress of a ghastly phantasmagoria in Hell, Theos was just revolving in his mind whether it would or would not be possible to make a determined climb for escape through one of the tall painted windows, some of which were not yet reached by the fire, when, with a sudden passionate exclamation, Sahluma broke from his hold and rushed to the Sanctuary. Quick as lightning, Theos followed him, . . followed him close, as he sprang up the steps and confronted Lysia with eager, outstretched arms. The dead Niphrita lay near him, . . fair as a sculptured saint, with the cruel wound of sacrifice in her breast,—but he seemed not to see that piteous corpse of Faithfulness! His grief for her death had been a mere transient emotion, . . his stronger earthly passions reasserted their tempestuous sway,—and for sweet things perished and gone to heaven he had no further care. On Lysia, and on Lysia’s living beauty alone, his eyes flamed their ardent glory.

 

“Come! … Come!” he cried.. “Come, my love—my life! … Let me save thee! … Or if I cannot save thee, let us die together!”

 

Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the King, with a swift forward movement like the pounce of some desert-panther, turned fiercely upon him, . . amazement, jealousy, distrust, revenge, all gathering stormily in the black frown of his bent vindictive brows. His great chest heaved pantingly—his teeth glittered wolfishly through his jetty beard, . . and in the terrible nerve-tension of the moment, the fury of the spreading conflagration was forgotten, at any rate, by Theos, who, stricken numb and rigid by a shock of alarm too poignant for expression, stared aghast at the three figures before him…Sahluma, Lysia, Zephoranim, . .

especially Zephoranim, whose bursting wrath threatened to choke his utterance.

 

“What sayest thou, Sahluma?” he demanded in a sort of ferocious gasping whisper … “Repeat thy words! … Repeat them!” … and his hand clutched at his dagger-hilt, while his restless, lowering glance flashed from Lysia to the Laureate and from the Laureate back to Lysia again.. “Death encompasses us, . . this is no time for trifling! … Speak!”.. and his voice suddenly rose to a frantic shout of rage, “Speak! What is this woman to thee?”

 

“Everything!”.. returned Sahluma with prompt and passionate fearlessness, his glorious eyes blazing a proud defiance as he spoke.. “Everything that woman can be, or ever shall be, unto man!

Call her by whatsoever name a foolish creed enjoins, . . Virgin-Daughter of the Sun, or High-Priestess of Nagaya,—she is nevertheless MINE!—and mine only! I am her lover!”

 

“THOU!” and with a hoarse cry, Zephoranim sprang upon, and seized him by the throat.. “Thou liest! I,—I, crowned King of Al-Kyris, I am her lover!—chosen by her out of all men! … and dost thou dare to pretend that she hath preferred THEE, a mere singer of mad songs, to ME? … Thou unscrupulous knave! … I tell thee she is MINE! .. Dost hear me?—Mine.. mine.. MINE!” and he shrieked the last word out in a perfect hurricane of passion,—“My Queen.. my mistress!—heart of my heart!—soul of my soul! … Let the city burn to ashes, and the whole land be utterly consumed, in death as in life Lysia is mine! … and the gods themselves shall never part her from me!”

 

And suddenly releasing his grasp he hurled Sahluma away as he might have hurled aside a toy figure,—and a peal of reckless musical laughter echoed mockingly through the vaulted shrine. It was Lysia’s laughter! … and Theos’s blood grew cold as he heard its cruel, silvery ring … even so had she laughed when Nirjalis died!

 

Sahluma reeled backward from the King’s thrust, but did not fall,—white and trembling, with his sad and splendid features, frozen as it were into a sculptured mask of agonized beauty, he turned upon the treacherous woman he loved the silent challenge of his eloquent eyes. Oh, that look of piteous pain and wonder! a whole lifetime’s wasted opportunities seemed concentrated in its unspeakable reproach! She met it with a sort of triumphant, tranquil indifference, . . an uncontrollable wicked smile curved the corners of her red lips, . . the sacred Ebony Staff had somehow slipped from her hands, and it now lay on the ground, the half-uncoiled Serpent still clinging to it, in glittering lengths that appeared to be quite motionless.

 

“Ah, Lysia, hast thou played me false?”.. cried the unhappy Laureate at last, as with a quick, impulsive movement, he caught her round jewelled arm in a resolute grip.. “After all thy vows, thy endearments, thy embraces, hast thou betrayed me? Speak truly!

… Art thou not all in all to me? … hast thou not given thyself body and soul into my keeping? To this braggart King I deign no answer—one word of thine will suffice! … Be brave.. be faithful! … Declare thy love for me, even as thou hast oft declared it a thousand remembered times!”

 

Over the face of the beautiful Priestess swept a strange expression of mingled fear, antagonism, loathing, and exultation.

Her eyes wandered to the red tongued leaping flames that tossed in eddying rings round the Temple, running every second nearer to the place where she stood, and in that one glance she seemed to recognize the hopelessness of rescue and certainty of death. A careless, haughty acceptance of her fate manifested itself in the pallid resolve of her drawn features, . . but as she allowed her gaze to return and dwell on Sahluma, the old, malicious mirth flushed and gave lustre to her loveliness, and she laughed again…a laugh of uttermost bitter scorn.

 

“Declare my love for thee!” she said in thrilling accents.. “Thou boaster! Let the gods, who have kindled this fiery end for us, bear witness to my hatred! I hate thee! … Aye, even THEE!”.. and she pointed at him jeeringly, as he recoiled from her in wide eyed anguish and amazement:—“No man have I ever loved, but thee have I hated most of all! All men have I despised for their folly, greed and vainglory,—I have fought them with their own weapons of avarice, cunning, cruelty, and falsehood,—but THOU hast been even beneath MY contempt! ‘Twas scarcely worth my while to fool thee, thou wert so easily fooled! … ‘Twas idle sport to rouse thy passions, they were so easily roused! Poet and Perjurer, . . Singer and Sophist! Thou to whom the Genius of Poesy was as a pearl set in a swine’s snout! … thou wert not worthy to be my dupe, seeing that thou camest to me already in bonds, the dupe of thine own Self! Niphrata loved thee,—and thou didst play with and torture her more unmercifully than wild beasts play with and torture their prey; . . but thou couldst never trifle with ME! O thou who hast taken so much pride in the breaking of many women’s hearts, learn that thou hast never stirred one throb of passion in MINE! …

that I have loathed thy beauty while caressing thee, and longed to slay thee while embracing thee! … and that even now I would I saw thee dead before me, ere I myself am forced to die!”

 

Pausing in the swift torrent of her words, her white breast heaved violently with the rise and fall of her panting breath,—her dark, brilliant eyes dilated, while the symbolic Jewel she wore, and the crown of serpents’ heads in her streaming hair, seemed to glitter about her like so many points of lightning. At that instant one side of the Sanctuary split asunder, giving way to a bursting wreath of flames. Seeing this, she uttered a piercing cry, and stretched out her arms.

 

“Zephoranim! … Save me!”

 

In a second, the King sprang toward her, but not before Sahluma, wild with wrath, had interposed himself between them.

 

“Back!” he exclaimed passionately, addressing the infuriated monarch.. “While I live, Lysia is mine!—let her hate and deny me as she will!—and sooner than see her in thine arms, O King, I will slay her where she stands!”

 

His bold attitude was magnificent,—his countenance more than beautiful in its love betrayed despair, . . and for a moment the savage Zephoranim paused irresolute, his scowling brows bent on his erstwhile favorite Minstrel with an expression that hovered curiously between bitterest enmity and reluctant reverence. There seemed to be a struggling consciousness in his mind of the immortality of a Poet as compared with the evanescent power of a King,—and also a quick realization of the truth that, let his anger be what it would, they twain were partakers in the same evil, and were mutually deceived by the same false woman! But ere his saving sense of justice could prevail, a ripple of discordant, delirious laughter broke once more from Lysia’s lips,—her eye shone vindictively,—her whole face became animated with a sudden glow of fiendish triumph.

 

“Zephoranim!” she cried, “Hero! … Warrior! … King! … Thou who hast risked thy crown and throne and life for my sake and the love of me! … Wilt lose me now? … Wilt let me perish in these raging flames, to satisfy this wanton liar and unbeliever in the gods, to whose disturbance of the Holy Ritual we surely owe this present fiery disaster! Save me, O strong and noble Zephoranim!

… Save me, and with me save the city and the people! KILL SAH-LUMA!”

 

O barbarous, inexorable words!—they rang like a desolating knell in the ears of the bewildered, fear-stricken Theos, and startled him