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

by Marie Corelli

  He wore the simple white garb of an ordinary citizen of Al-Kyris, together with a silver belt and plain-sheathed dagger, . . not a jewel relieved the classic severity of his costume, and not even the merest fillet of gold in his rough dark hair denoted his royal rank. But the pride of precedence spoke in his flashing eyes, — the arrogance of authority in the self-conscious poise of his figure and haughtiness of his step, — his brows were knitted in something of a frown, and his face looked pale and slightly careworn. He spied out Sah-luma at once and smiled kindly, — there was not a trace of coldness in his manner toward his favored minstrel, and Theos noted this with a curious sense of sudden consolation and encouragement. “Why should I have feared Zephoranim?” he thought. “Sah-luma has no greater friend, . . except myself! The King would be the last person in the world to do him any injury!”

  Just then a magnificent burst of triumphal music rolled through the Temple, — the music of some mighty instrument, organ-like in sound, but several tones deeper than the grandest organ ever made, mingled with children’s voices singing. The King seated himself on a cushioned chair directly in front of the Silver Veil, . . Sah-luma took a place at his right hand, giving Theos a low bench close beside him, while the various distinguished personages who had attended Zephoranim disposed themselves indifferently wherever they could find standing-room, only keeping as near to their monarch as they were able to do in the extreme pressure of so vast a congregation.

  For now every available inch of space was occupied, — as far as eye could see there were rows upon rows of men and white-veiled women, . . Theos imagined there must have been more then five thousand people present. On went the huge pulsations of melody, surging through the incense-laden air like waves thudding incessantly on a rocky shore, and presently out of a side archway near the Sanctuary-steps came with slow and gliding noiselessness a band of priests, walking two by two, and carrying branches of palm. These were all clad in purple and crowned with ivy-wreaths, — they marched sedately, keeping their eyes lowered, while their lips moved constantly, as though they muttered inaudible incantations. Waving their palm-boughs to and fro, they paced along past the King and down the centre aisle of the Temple, — then turning, they came back again to the lowest step of the Shrine and there they all prostrated themselves, while the children who stood near the incense-burners flung fresh perfumes on the glowing embers and chanted the following recitative:

  “O Nagaya, great, everlasting and terrible!

  Thou who dost wind thy coils of wisdom into the heart!

  Thou, whose eyes, waking and sleeping, do behold all things!

  Thou who art the joy of the Sun and the Master of Virgins!

  Hear us, we beseech thee, when we call upon thy name!”

  Their young treble voices were clear and piercing, and pealed up to the dome to fall again like the drops of distinct round melody from a lark’s singing-throat, — and when they ceased there came a short impressive pause. The Silver Veil quivered from end to end as though swayed by a faint wind, and the flaming Arch above turned from pale blue to a strange shimmering green. Then, in mellow unison, the kneeling priests intoned:

  “O thou who givest words of power to the dumb mouth of the

  soul in Hades; hear us, Nagaya!

  O thou who openest the grave and givest peace to the heart;

  plead for us, Nagaya!

  O thou who art companion of the Sun and controller of the

  East and of the West; comfort us, Nagaya!

  Here they ended, and the children began again, not to chant but to sing.. a strange and tristful tune, wilder than any that vragrant winds could play on the strings of an aeolian lyre:

  “O Virgin of Virgins, Holy Maid, to what shall we resemble thee?

  Chaste Daughter of the Sun, how shall we praise thy peerless

  beauty!

  Thou art the Gate of the House of Stars! — thou art the first of

  the Seven Jewels of Nagaya!

  Thou dost wield the sceptre of ebony, and the Eye of Raphon

  beholds thee with love and contentment!

  Thou art the Chiefest of Women, … thou hast the secrets of earth

  and heaven, thou knowest the dark mysteries!

  Hail, Lysia! Queen of the Hall of Judgment!

  Hail, pure Pearl in the Sea of the Sun’s glory!

  Declare unto us, we beseech thee, the Will of Nagaya!”

  They closed this canticle softly and slowly, . . then flinging themselves prone, they pressed their faces to the earth, . . and again the glittering Veil waved to and fro suggestively, while Theos, his heart beating fast, watched its shining woof with straining eyes and a sense of suffocation in his throat, . . what ignorant fools, what mad barbarians, what blind blasphemers were these people, he indignantly thought, who could thus patiently hear the praise of an evil woman like Lysia publicly proclaimed with almost divine honors!

  Did they actually intend to worship her, he wondered? If so, he at any rate would never bend the knee to one so vile! He might have done so once, perhaps, … but now …! At that instant a flute like murmur of melody crept upward as it seemed from the ground, with a plaintive whispering sweetness like the lament of some exiled fairy, — so exquisitely tender and pathetic, and yet withal so heart-stirring and passionate, that, despite himself, he listened with a strange, swooning sense of languor stealing insidiously over him, — a dreamy lassitude, that while it made him feel enervated and deprived of strength, was still not altogether unpleasing, . . a faint sigh escaped his lips, — and he kept his gaze fixed on the Silver Veil as pertinaciously as though behind it lay the mystery of his soul’s ruin or salvation.

  How the light flashed on its shimmering folds like the rippling phosphorescence on southern seas! … as green and clear and brilliant as rays reflected from thousands and thousands of glistening emeralds! … And that haunting, sorrowful, weird music! … How it seemed to eat into his heart and there waken a bitter remorse combined with an equally bitter despair!

  Once more the Veil moved, and this time it appeared to inflate itself in the fashion of a sail caught by a sudden breeze, — then it began to part in the middle very slowly and without sound. Further and further back on each side it gradually receded, and … like a lily disclosed between folding leaves — a Figure, white, wonderful and angelically fair, shone out, the centre jewel of the stately shrine, — a shrine whose immense carven pillars, grotesque idols, bronze and gold ornaments, jewelled lamps and dazzling embroideries, only served as a sort of neutral-tinted background to intensify with a more lustrous charm the statuesque loveliness revealed! O Lysia, UNvirgined Priestess of the Sun and Nagaya, how gloriously art thou arrayed in sin! … O singular Sweetness whose end must needs be destruction, was ever woman fairer than thou! … O love, love, lost in the dead Long-Ago, and drowned in the uttermost darkness of things evil, wilt thou drag my soul with thee again into everlasting night!

  Thus Theos inwardly raved, without any real comprehension of his own thoughts, but only stricken anew by a feverish passion of mingled love and hatred as he stared on the witching sorceress whose marvellous beauty was such wonder and torture to his eyes, . . what mattered it to him that King, Laureate, and people had all prostrated themselves before her in reverent humility? … HE knew her nature, . . he had fathomed her inborn wickedness, . . and though his senses were attracted by her, his spirit loathingly repelled her, . . he therefore remained seated stiffly upright, watching her with a sort of passive, immovable intentness. As she now appeared before him, her loveliness was absolutely and ideally perfect, — she looked the embodiment of all grace, — the model of all chastity.

  She stood quite still, . . her hands folded on her breast, . . her head slightly lifted, her dark eyes upturned, . . her unbound black hair streamed over her shoulders in loose glossy waves, and above her brows her diadem of serpents’ heads sparkled like a coronal of flame. Her robe was white, made of some silky shining stuff that glistened with soft pearly hues; it was
gathered about her waist by a twisted golden girdle. Her arms were bare, decked as before with the small jewelled snakes that coiled upward from wrist to shoulder, — and when after a brief pause she unfolded her hands and raised them with a slow, majestic movement above her head, the great Symbolic Eye flared from her bosom like a darting coal, seeming to turn sinister glances on all sides as though on the search for some suspected foe.

  Fortunately no one appeared to notice Theos’s deliberate non-observance of the homage due to her, — no one except.. Lysia, herself. She met the open defiance, scorn, and reluctant admiration of his glance, . . and a cold smile dawned on her features, . . a smile more dreadful in its very sweetness than any frown, . . then, turning away her beautiful, fathomless, slumberous eyes and still keeping her 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma’s intrigue with Lysia, would not his rage and jealousy exceed all bounds? … and if, on the other hand, Sah-luma 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.