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, Sah-luma 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 re-asserted 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…Sah-luma, Lysia, Zephoranim, . . especially Zephoranim, whose bursting wrath threatened to choke his utterance.
“What sayest thou, Sah-luma?” 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma 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 Nir-jalis died!
Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma, 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 vain-glory, — 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 Sah-luma, 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 from his rigid trance of speechless misery. Uttering an inarticulate dull groan, he made a violent effort to rush forward — to serve as a living shield of defence to his adored friend, . . to ward off the imminent blow! Too late! too late! … Zephoranim’s dagger glittered in the air, and rapidly descended … One gasping cry! … and Sah-luma lay prone, — beautiful as a slain Adonis, . . the rich red blood pouring from his heart, and a faint, stern smile frozen on the proud lips whose dulcet singing-speech was now struck dumb forever! With a shriek of agony, Theos threw himself beside his murdered comrade, . . heedless of King, Priestess, flames, and all the out-breaking fury of earth and heaven, he bent above that motionless form, and gazed yearningly into the fair colorless face.
“Sah-luma! … Sah-luma!”
No sign! … No tremulous stir of breath! Dead — dead, — dead in his prime of years — dead in the zenith of his glory! — all the delicate, dreaming genius turned to dust and ashes! … all the ardent light of inspiration quenched in the never-lifting darkness of the grave! … and in the first delirious paroxysm of his grief Theos felt as though life, time, and the world were ended for him also, with this one suddenly destroyed existence!
“O thou mad King!” he cried fiercely, “Thou hast slain the chief wonder of thy realm and reign! Die now when thou wilt, thou shalt only he remembered as the murderer of Sah-luma! … Sah-luma, whose name shall live when thine is covered in shameful oblivion!”
Zephoranim frowned, — and threw the blood-stained dagger from him.
“Peace, clamorous fool!” he said, “Sah-luma hath gone but a moment before me, . . as Poet he hath received precedence even in death! When the last hour comes for all of us, it matters not how we die, . . and whether I am hereafter remembered or forgotten I care not! I have lived as a man should live, — fearing nothing and conquered by none, — except perchance by Love, that hath brought many kings ere now to untimely ruin!” Here his moody eyes lighted on Lysia. “How many lovers hast thou had, fair soul?”.. he demanded in a stern yet tremulous voice … “A thousand? … I would swear this dead Minstrel of mine was one, — for though I slew him at thy bidding I saw the truth in his dying eyes! … No matter! — We shall meet in Hades, — and there we shall have ample time to urge our rival claims upon thy favor! Ah!”.. and he suddenly laid his two strong hands on her white uncovered shoulders, and gazed at her reproachfully as she shrank a little beneath his close scrutiny, . . “Thou divine Traitress! Have I not challenged the very heavens for thy sake? … and lo! the prophecy is fulfilled and Al-Kyris must fall! How many men would have loved thee as I have loved? … None! not even this dead Sah-luma, slain like a dog to give thee pleasure! Come! … Let me kiss thee once again ere death makes cold our lips! False or true, thou art nevertheless fair! — and the wrathful gods know best how I worship thy fairness!”
And folding his arms about her, he kissed her passionately. She clung to him like a lithe serpentine thing, — her eyes ablaze, her mouth quivering with suppressed hysterical laughter. Pointing to Sah-luma’s body, she said in a strange excited whisper:
“Nay, hast thou slain him in very truth, Zephoranim! … slain him utterly? For I have heard that poets cannot die, — they live when the whole world deems them dead, — they rise from their shut graves and re-invest the earth with all the secrets of past time, . . Oh! my brain reels! … I talk mere madness! … there is no afterwards of death! — No, no! No gods, no anything but blankness.. forgetfulness.. and silence! … for us, and for all men! … How good it is! — how excellently devised a jest! … that the whole wide Universe should be but a cheat of time! … a bubble blown into Space, to float, break, and perish, — all for the idle sport of some unknown and shapeless Devil-Mystery!”
Shuddering, half-laughing, half-weeping, she clasped her hands round the monarch’s throat, and hid her wild eyes in his breast, while he, unnerved by her distraction and his own inward torture, glared about him on all sides for some glimmering chance of rescue, but could see none. The flames were now attacking the Shrine on every side like a besieging army, — their leaping darts of blue and crimson gleaming here and there with indescribable velocity, . . and still Theos knelt by Sah-luma’s corpse in dry-eyed despair, endeavoring with feverish zeal to stanch the oozing blood with a strip torn from his own garments, and listening anxiously for the feeblest heart-throb, or smaller pulsation of smouldering life in the senseless stiffening clay.
All at once a hideous scream assailed his ears, — another, and yet another rang above the crackling roar of the gradually conquering fire, . . and half-lifting Sah-luma’s body in his arms, he looked up…O horror, horror! his nerves contracted, — his blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins, . . his head swam giddily, . . and he thought the moment of his own death had come, for surely no man could behold the sight he saw and yet continue to live on! Lysia the captor was made captive at last! ..bound, helpless, imprisoned, and hopelessly doomed, ..Nagaya had claimed his own! The huge Snake, terrified beyond all control at the bursting breadth of fire environing the shrine, had turned in its brute fear to the mistress it had for years been accustomed to obey, and had now, with one stealthy noiseless spring, twisted its uppermost coil close about her waist, where its restless head, alarmed eyes, and darting fangs all glistened together like a blazing cluster of gems! the more she struggled to release herself from its deathful embrace, the tighter its body contracted and the more maddened with fright it became. Shriek upon shriek broke from her lips and pierced the suffocating air, . . while with all his great muscular force Zephoranim the King strove in desperate agony to tear her from the awful clutch of the monster he had but lately knelt to as divine! In vain, ..in vain! … the strongest efforts were useless, … the cruel, beautiful, pitiless Priestess of Nagaya was condemned to suffer the same frightful death she had so often mercilessly decreed for others! Closer and closer grew the fearful Python’s constricting clasp, . . nearer and nearer swept the dancing battalion of destroying flames! … For one fleeting breath of time Theos stared aghast at the horrid scene, . . then making a superhuman effort he raised Sah-luma’s corpse entirely from the ground and staggered with his burden away, . . away from the burning Shrine, . . the funeral pyre, as it vaguely seemed to him, of a wasted Love and a dead passion!
* * * * * * *
Whither should he go! … Down into the blazing area of the fast-perishing Temple? Surely no safety could be found there, where the fire was raging at its utmost height! … yet he went on mechanically, as though urged forward by some force superior to his own, . . always clinging to the idea that his friend still lived and that if he could only reach some place of temporary shelter he might yet be able to restore him. It was possible the wound was not fatal, . . far more possible to his mind than that so gloriously famed a Poet should be dead!
So he dimly thought, while he stumbled dizzily along, . . his forehead wet with clammy dews, . . his limbs trembling under the weight he bore, . . his eyes half-blinded by the hot flying sparks and drifting smoke, . . and his soul shaken and appalled by the ghastly sights that met his view wheresoever he turn
ed. Crushed and writhing bodies of men, women, and children, half-living, half-dead, . . heaps of corpses, fast blazing to ashes, — broken and falling columns, . . yawning gaps in the ground, from which were cast forth volleys of red cinders and streams of lava, … all these multitudinous horrors surrounded him, as with uncertain, faltering steps he moved on like a sick man walking in sleep, carrying his precious burden! He knew nothing of where he was bound, — he saw no outlet anywhere — no corner wherein the Fire-fiend had not set up devouring dominion, . . but nevertheless he steadily continued his difficult progress, clasping Sah-luma’s corpse with a strange tenacity, and concentrating all his attention on protecting it from the withering touch of the ravenous flames. All at once, — as he strove to force his way over a fallen altar from which the hideous presiding stone idol had toppled headlong, killing in its descent some twenty or thirty people whose bodies lay crushed beneath it, — a face horribly disfigured and tortured into a mere burnt sketch of its former likeness twisted itself up and peered at him, the face of Zabastes, the Critic. His protruding eyes glistened with something of their old malign expression as he perceived whose helpless form it was that was being carried by.
“What! … is the famous Sah-luma gone?” he gasped, his words half choking him in their utterance as he stretched out a skinny hand and caught at Theos’s garments … “Good youth, stay! … Stay! … Why burden thyself with a corpse when thou mightest rescue a living man? Save ME! … Save ME! … I was the Poet’s adverse Critic, and who but I should write his Eulogy now that he is no more! … Pity! … Pity, most courteous, gentle sir! … Save me if only for the sake of Sah-luma’s future honor! Thou knowest not how warmly, how generously, how nobly, I can praise the dead!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 182
