CHAPTER XLIX
"The soil out of which such men as he are made is good to be born on, good to live on, good to die for, and to be buried in."--_Lowell_.
Leonie lay motionless on the stained stone before the altar; her hair,pulled back clear from her neck, swept behind her head like a cascadeof rust-coloured water to the floor; her hands were clasped between herbreasts, and her great unfathomable eyes stared up into those of thestone woman who looked down at her and seemed to laugh with joy at herlong coveted prize.
In every corner black shapes danced; advancing, retreating, springingtowards the roof and vanishing utterly. The place seemed infested withgoblins, or devils, things of untold evilness and vice, although, inreality, they were but the shadows thrown by the little lights whichwere like tongues licking the lips of darkness in sensuous anticipationof the coming feast of blood.
The old priest stood looking up at his god with perplexity in hissunken eyes.
Arrayed in snow-white garment, with long hair hanging down, he held theknife of sacrifice in one hand, and in the other the sacred _roomal_.
The terrible picture shone softly in the light of the full moon whichstruck straight down upon the altar through a hole in the ruined roof.
"Tell thy servant thy pleasure, O Black One!" prayed the priest,swaying slightly to and fro. "Make him understand it the _roomal_shall be knotted about the neck of this white sacrifice, or if theknife shall draw a necklace of red about the white neck and upon thewhite breast. Give me an answer, O Mother, that I may right the wrongof many moons ago. A sign, a sign, O Mother!"
As he spoke; and for no apparent reason, Leonie's hands unclasped, herarms opened and fell towards her sides, leaving the beautiful breastbare with the jewel in shape and colour of a cat's eye winking craftilywith the cunning and knowledge of the sins of all ages, just above theheart.
The priest shouted in worship, and his words, caught, echoed andre-echoed from the dome, drowned the sound of footsteps running at highspeed across the flower-strewn floor.
Madhu Krishnaghar, naked save for the turban which bound his handsomehead and the loin cloth which girt the slender middle, sped like thewind to the rescue of his beloved.
In the black shades of the jungle, understanding at last that for himthere could be no life outside the life of the white woman he loved,and no happiness outside her happiness, he had raced Time down thejungle path, through the outer gates and temple door, pausing not forthe fraction of a second; realising, as he ran, that upon his speedalone depended the life of his beloved. And even as the priest flungback his arm with a scream of ecstasy, the knife was wrenched out ofhis hand from behind.
O Madhu, you splendid heathen, who defied the anger of your strangegods for the love in your noble heart.
"Ha!" said the old man as he swung round in fury; then he smiled andopened wide his arms. "Thou! O my son! _thou_! Thou wouldst offerthe great sacrifice thyself to our most gentle mother. And art thounot in the right? Thine has been the task and the toil, therefore isit meet that thou shouldst have the reward."
He laid his hands upon the shoulders of the youth, who straightwaygripped the veined old wrists and raised the withered arms high upabove their heads, while their eyes met in a sudden-born, subconsciousenmity, and the knife lay glittering along the wrinkled brown skin.
Only for an instant, and Madhu let go his hold, and turning, stoodlooking down upon the jewel above the woman's heart. As he looked, thething, catching the reflections of the lights, shone strangely brightupon the snow-white skin, and the lust of blood swept him from head tofoot.
He longed to drive the dagger through the breast above the shiningjewel; he craved to see the whiteness of the skin stained with red, tothrow himself upon the still form and shut the dead mouth with kisses.
He was mad with passion, intoxicated with the heavy perfumed air, drunkwith the atmosphere of his surroundings, and his slim body shook as heran the needle-point of the dagger into his own breast.
He closed his eyes in the ecstasy of that pain which is twin to theecstasy of desire fulfilled, and in their closing woke suddenly to thepurity of his strange love. He turned with a snarl and hit up the oldman's hand as it almost touched the nape of his neck, and stretchingwide his arms made a shield of his body between Leonie and the intenthe read in the priest's eyes, just as a brick fell and split to piecesat their feet.
"Linger not, my son," said the old priest fiercely. "Behold! the riteshave been performed, the chants sung, and the offerings made. Drivethe knife home, and give drink to thy mother of that which she loves.Hasten! for she is angry at thy slowness, and the very earth tremblesat her wrath."
But Madhu Krishnaghar looked straight back into the fierce, suspiciousold eyes, and moved quickly towards the priest who, taken by surprise,retreated hurriedly.
"Father!" came the words in the musical, steady voice. "O servant ofthe Black One, I cannot, nay, I will not, for I love yon white womanwith a love passing all understanding. Nay, hearken! A sacrificethere must be this night, and there shall be one. Even me, O myFather. Let it suffice, for behold is my love so great, that she, theslender white flower, seems but one with me. Let her go, let her go,and lay me on the stone, warm with the life of her dear body, and drivethe knife through my heart, that through my love peace may be made withthy god and my god!"
The whole world seemed bound in a great terrible silence as the two menstood staring at each other in the soft silver light of the moon; thenthe old man smiled gently, with the cunning of all time in his eyes,and creeping close to his pupil spoke in the merest whisper; tempting,as have always tempted, those who desire to gain their own ends, andwho justify all means as long as that end is gained.
"Thou lovest her, my son. The infidel white woman, the sacrifice longdedicated to thy god. And why not, for thou are marked even with themark which shows between the breasts like lotus buds. But thinkestthou, O son of princes, O descendant of the great, that thou art fit tomate with her. She is white, a daughter of the all-conquering race;thou--thou art black--a pariah--a dog--thou wouldst be whipped from herpresence, thou high-born son of India."
The old man never moved his eyes from the young face, and neither theone nor the other saw the great striped terrified beast which slunkpast them and disappeared into the shadows, seeking protection in itsterror.
"But why shouldst thou let this woman, whom thou lovest, go? Why notmake sacrifice of love as well as life to the great one? Behold is shesoft and white and all-pleasing! Why, therefore, should she not comeunto thy intent neath the eyes of the Sweet One, while I make offeringsin the shadows towards thy well doing; so that the Black One will betwice pleased."
Of all the horrible temptations in that place of horror! And where inthe name of all the gods did the native, unshackled by convention orcode, find the strength to resist?
For while the priest whispered the young face was swept by a flood ofconflicting emotions--which passed--leaving it as pure, assoul-stirring as the Taj Mahal at dawn.
"No! O Holy One! I will not--I love her--I love her--I will not!"
The words were firm and the young mouth like steel, and the eyes lookedsteadily back into those of the priest as the latter rushed upon him inmighty, inhuman wrath.
"And I say that thou shalt, thou begotten son of evil. I say that thoushalt encompass this woman with thy might, and then offer her insacrifice to Kali, the Goddess of Death. I say that thou _shalt_."
It was a case of will pitted against will, for the old man knew thatthe younger would not dare raise hand against him for fear ofeverlasting damnation.
And Madhu Krishnaghar girded himself for the battle by putting his lovefor the white woman in the forefront of his mind.
And as they fought, desperately, with one last terrific pull whichcaused the hide to cut down to the wrist bone, Jan Cuxson wrenched thering he had loosened from the wall, and stood swaying, sick with pain.Sweat poured down his face and bare chest, and blood flowed from h
iswrists while his burst finger-tips fumbled clumsily with the deepembedded thongs.
"I did it--I did it," he kept on repeating savagely, as his kneestrembled and his body turned cold in agony. "I did it--I did it--Godgrant I am in time--in time."
Free at last, smothered in blood, dragging his heavily booted feet withdifficulty, he sought and found the broken blade, staggered across thefloor, stooped, and entered the passage of the gods where the imprintof his beloved's bare feet marked the dust of ages.
And Leonie lay quite still; to all appearance dead, with her open eyesturned back beneath the lids and her mouth half open showing her eventeeth.
Not a word passed between the two men as they fought for her, one forher life, the other for her death. This way and that they moved; theone trying to escape from the direct range of the relentlesswill-power, and yet keep himself between the girl and the religiousfanatic; the other striving to press his opponent back even to thealtar stone.
Like iron to a magnet Madhu's hand was closed about the dagger hilt,and try as he would he could not relax the grasp nor fling the knifefar back into the shadows; neither could he keep his footing, forstrive as he would the priest's magnetic power, developed and trainedthrough years and years of study and practice, drove him back inch byinch towards the god who looked down upon them with her fish-shapedeyes.
A glint of triumph shone in the eyes of the priest, and twisted thecorner of his mouth as the heel of his enemy thudded against the stoneupon which lay the white girl; and he concentrated every ounce of hisstrength for the last moment when, by sheer force of his will, theknife should be lifted and driven down, deep, even to the hilt. Andthe white man hastened as best he could, reeling at every step, withblood streaming from his wrists and spattering upon the stones beneaththe leering eyes of the gods. Not one of the three heeded the lowmoaning of the wind as it swept past the temple and through the trees,to die away into a great, uncanny, unnatural silence, unbroken by soundof beast or bird.
Fate feeling for her shears, and peevish through want of sleep maybe,or mayhap irritated by their obstreperous behaviour, jerked the stringswhich bound those marionettes called humans to her palsied old fingers.
The old priest, misjudging the pull given to his string, in what hemistook to be his triumph, _laughed_.
It is better to laugh last indeed, but oft-times it is best not tolaugh at all, for who can foresee the particle of dust which may enteryour indecently and injudiciously wide open mouth to choke you in yourill-timed mirth.
Only for an instant did he triumph above his enemy, but for just thatinstant he loosened his will power; and Madhu Krishnaghar, sensing therelief, and whipped by the laugh to one final desperate effort of hisfailing powers, raised his hand and flung the knife far back to fallwith a clatter in some distant corner.
It was done.
Youth had mocked at experience, life at death, love at opposition, asit has done since the beginning of time, and will do, let us hope,until the end.
For as the knife hurtled into the shadows, Madhu bent swiftly andlifted Leonie into his arms, holding her in this his last moment ofheaven upon earth, tenderly and firmly, as he glared defiance over herhead at the priest.
And he, understanding at last that he had failed, cast himself at thefeet of his god who, in her fury, stamped with both her blood-stainedfeet.
Leonie of the Jungle Page 48
