Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-chamber.

  A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne — arrived at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows, — a man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This was Khosrul, — the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world, — the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men, — the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

  Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud, — at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders, — at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, … something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King, — and for a moment or so a deep silence reigned, — silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim’s glance rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference, — seated haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.

  “We give thee greeting, Khosrul!” he said slowly and with a sinister smile— “The Lion’s paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou trifled with our patience, — thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom, — of judgment, — of the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? … wilt denounce the Faith? … Wilt mislead the people? … Wilt curse the King? … Thou mad sorcerer! — devil bewitched and blasphemous! … What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?” And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.

  Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.

  “Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim,” he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos’s heart with a strange, foreboding chill— “Nothing — save thine own scorn of cowardice!”

  The monarch’s hand fell from his sword-hilt, — a flush of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive — and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man’s bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority …

  “Unloose his fetters!” he commanded.

  The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright.

  Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.

  “Unloose him, I say! … By the gods! must I repeat the same thing twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their sovereign? … And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron, — methinks ye might have tied him with thread and met with small resistance! I have known many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when captured! Unloose him — and quickly too! — Our pleasure is that, ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man.”

  In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters wrenched asunder, — and in a very short space Khosrul stood at comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King’s generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to move, — his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still bound, — and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from a deep dream, — shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor, — then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.

  “Away … Away!” he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to every part of the vast hall— “Wilt force me to drink blood?” He paused, — and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. “Blood … Blood! It stains the earth and sky! … its red, red waves swallow up the land! … The heavens grow pale and tremble, — the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood … blood! The blood of the innocent! … ’tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders … founders … never to rise again!”

  These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.

  “Thou art mad, Khosrul” — then said the monarch in calmly measured accents— “And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now retarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness — and this we cannot suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency, — and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman’s cunning, — thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the realm, — thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die. Thou art accused…”

  “Of honesty!” interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy satire in his tone. “I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! ’Tis a most death-worthy deed!”

  He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man. Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing — and a brief pause ensued. Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the scene, — there was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter.

  “Now by the Sacred Veil,” — he said gayly, addressing himself to the King— “Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft, — a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I live, ’twas not ill-devised for a madman’s brain! … and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment
withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic’s chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!” And turning to Khosrul he added— “Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard? Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love, — and the King shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and lasting sweetness!”

  Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate’s half-mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

  “Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!” he said mournfully— “Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea! … thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the measure of thine inspiration, — yet thou hast missed its true teaching, — and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God! Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! … Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!”

  And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed steadfastly to — the King! There was a momentary hush…a stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.

  “By all the virtues of Nagaya!” he cried— “This is most excellent fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite in the realm? … Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience, — though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,— ’tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma, through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals of future history — for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the renown of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma! — aye, even cry aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!”

  Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic assurance of his sovereign’s friendship, — but nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had evidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul’s words, and the restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. “What is this Khosrul?” he thought half resentfully— “and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired Sah-luma so dark and unmerited an end? … “Hark! … what was that low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed? … He listened, — then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had suddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair, outstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror personified.

  “Victory… Victory!” he cried, catching at the King’s last word … “There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! … Thy conquests are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! … Destruction clamors at thy palace-gates! … and the enemy that cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be trodden down as wheat, — thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail as children bewildered with fear: — thy great engines of battle shall be to thee as naught, — and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury! Zephoranim! Zephoranim! …” and his voice shrilled with terrific emphasis through the vaulted chamber … “The days of recompense are come upon thee, — swift and terrible as the desert-wind! … The doom of Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! … its beauty, its greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the waning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings shall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! … Fire! …” and here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, his dark garments brushing against Theos as he passed, — and springing on the first step, stood boldly within hand-reach of the King, who, taken aback by the suddenness of his action, stared at him with a sort of amazed and angry fascination.. “To arms, Zephoranim! … To arms! … take up thy sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire! Fire! … How shall the King quench it? … how shall the mighty monarch defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air with red devouring tongues of flame! … the thick smoke reeks of blood! … Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of ashes! Who will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call upon the desert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on the wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters of the earth, — all nations shall shudder and be astonished at the direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress of kingdoms! Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered herself to be led astray by her rulers! … she hath drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath followed after idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts of her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore because Al-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth repentance, so shall destruction descend furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the mid-watches of the night, — she shall be swept away from the surface of the earth, … wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens, and the generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings, princes, and warriors! — Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!” and now his wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous plaintiveness— “Weep! — for never again on earth shall be found a fairer dwelling-place for the lovers of joy! … never again shall be builded a grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris! Al-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! … thou art become a forgotten heap of ruin! … the sands of the desert shall cover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire concerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none shall shed tears for the grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the names of thy mighty heroes and men of fame, — for thou shalt vanish utterly and be lost far out of memory even as though thou hadst never been!”

  Here he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard, — his blazing eyes preternaturally large and brilliant fixed themselves steadfastly on the sculptured ivory shield that surmounted the back of the King’s throne, and over his drawn and wrinkled features came an expression of such ghastly horror that instinctively every one present turned their looks in the same direction. Suddenly a shriek, piercing and terrible, broke from his lips, — a shriek that like a swiftly descending knife seemed to saw the air discordantly asunder.

  “See … See!” he cried in fierce haste and eagerness … “See how the crested head gleams! … How the soft, shiny throat curves and glistens! … how the lithe body twists and twines! … Hence! — Hence, accursed Snake! ..thou poisoner of peace! … thou quivering sting in the flesh! — thou destroyer of the strength of manhood! What hast thou to do with Zephoranim, that thou dost wind thy many coils about his heart? … Lysia … Lysia! …” here the King started violently, his face flushing darkly red, “Thou delicate abomination! … Thou tyrannous treachery.. what shall be done unto thee in the hour of darkness! Put off, put o
ff the ornaments of gold and the jewels wherewith thou adornest thy beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of an endless affliction! … for thou shalt be girdled round about with flame, and fire shall be thy garment! … thy lips that have drunken sweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness! — vainly shalt thou make thyself fair and call aloud on thy legion of lovers, . . they shall be as dead men, deaf to thine entreaties, and none shall answer thee, — no, not one! None shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort, — in the midst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish! … and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou unvirgined Virgin! — thou Queen-Courtesan!”

  Scarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King with a furious oath sprang upon him, grasped him by the throat, and thrusting him fiercely down on the steps of the dais, placed one foot on his prostrate body. Then drawing his gigantic sword he lifted it on high, … the blight blade glittered in air…an audible gasp of terror broke from the throng of spectators, … another second and Khosrul’s life would have paid the forfeit for his temerity…when crash! … a sudden and tremendous clap of thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was extinguished! Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, close, suffocating darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in sullen, vibrating echoes, and there was a short, impressive silence. Then piercing through the profound gloom came the clamorous cries and shrieks of frightened women, . . the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and struggling of a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless, nerveless, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit when striving together for escape from some imminent deadly peril, — and though the King’s stentorian voice could be heard above all the tumult loudly commanding order, his alternate threats and persuasions were of no avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which the whole court was thrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to Nagaya and the Sun-God.. curses from the soldiery, who intent on saving themselves were brutally trying to force a passage to the door regardless of the wailing women, whose frantic appeals for rescue and assistance were heart-rending to hear, . . all these sounds increased the horror of the situation, — and Theos, blind, giddy, and confused, listened to the uproar around him with something of the affrighted compassion that a stranger in Hell might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the ceaseless plaints of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored to grope his way to Sah-luma’s side, — and just then lights appeared, . . lights that were not of earth’s kindling, . . strange, wandering flames that danced and flitted along the tapestried walls like will-o’-the-wisps on a dark morass, and flung a ghastly blue glare on the pale, uneasy faces of the scared people, till gathering in a sort of lurid ring round the throne, they outlined in strong relief the enraged, Titanesque figure of Zephoranim whose upraised sword looked in itself like an arrested flash of lightning. Brighter and brighter grew the weird lustre, illumining the whole scene.. the vast length of the splendid hall, . . the shining armor of the soldiers…the white robes of the women…the flags and pennons that hung from the roof and swayed to and fro as though blown by a gust of wind.. every object near and distant was soon as visible as in broad day, — and then…a terrible cry of rage burst from the King, — the cry of a maddened wild beast.