“Is there any need to tell her, Recklow?”
“Not for a while, anyway.”
“All right. I suppose the Yezidees are responsible for this horrible business.”
“Certainly. Your poor servant’s head lay at the foot of a curtain-pole which had been placed upright between two chairs. On the pole were tied three tufts of hair from the dead man’s head. The pole had been rubbed with blood.”
“That’s Mongol custom,” muttered Cleves. “They made a toug and ‘greased’ it! — the murderous devils!”
“They did more. They left at the foot of your bed and at the foot of your wife’s bed two white sheets. And a knife lay in the centre of each sheet. That, of course, is the symbol of the Sect of Assassins.”
Cleves nodded. His body, as he leaned there on the window sill in the moonlight, trembled. But his face had grown dark with rage.
“If I could — could only get my hands on one of them,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Be careful. Don’t wear a face like that. Your wife is looking at us,” murmured Recklow.
With an effort Cleves raised his head and smiled across the room at his wife.
“Our luggage will be sent over shortly,” he said. “If you’re tired, we’ll say good-night.”
So she rose and the three men came to make their adieux and pay their compliments and devoirs. Then, with a smile that seemed almost happy, she went into her own apartment on her husband’s arm.
Cleves and his wife had connecting bedrooms and a sitting-room between. Here they paused for a moment before the always formal ceremony of leave-taking at night. There were roses on the centre table. Tressa dropped one hand on the table and bent over the flowers.
“They seem so friendly,” she said under her breath.
He thought she meant that she found even in flowers a refuge from the solitude of a loveless marriage.
He said quietly: “I think you will find the world very friendly, if you wish.” But she shook her head, looking at the roses.
Finally he said good-night and she extended her hand, and he took it formally.
Then their hands fell away. Tressa turned and went toward her bedroom. At the door she stopped, turned slowly.
“What shall I do about Yulun?” she asked.
“What is there to do? Yulun is in China.”
“Yes, her body is.”
“Do you mean that the rest of her — whatever it is — could come here?”
“Why, of course.”
“So that Benton could see her?”
“Yes.”
“Could he see her just as she is? Her face and figure — clothes and everything?”
“Yes.”
“Would she seem real or like a ghost — spirit — whatever you choose to call such things?”
Tressa smiled. “She’d be exactly as real as you or I, Victor. She’d seem like anybody else.”
“That’s astonishing,” he muttered. “Could Benton hear her speak?”
“Certainly.”
“Talk to her?”
Tressa laughed: “Of course. If Yulun should make the effort she could leave her body as easily as she undresses herself. It is no more difficult to divest one’s self of one’s body than it is to put off one garment and put on another.... And, somehow, I think Yulun will do it to-night.”
“Come here?”
“It would be like her.” Tressa laughed. “Isn’t it odd that she should have become so enamoured of Mr. Benton — just seeing him there in the moonlight that night at Orchid Lodge?”
For a moment the smile curved her lips, then the shadow fell again across her eyes, veiling them in that strange and lovely way which Cleves knew so well; and he looked into her impenetrable eyes in troubled silence.
“Victor,” she said in a low voice, “were you afraid to tell me that your man had been murdered?”
After a moment: “You always know everything,” he said unsteadily. “When did you learn it?”
“Just before Mr. Recklow told you.”
“How did you learn it, Tressa?”
“I looked into our apartment.”
“When?”
“While you were telephoning.”
“You mean you looked into our rooms from here?”
“Yes, clairvoyantly.”
“What did you see?”
“The Iaglamichi!” she said with a shudder. “Kai! The Toug of Djamouk is anointed at last!”
“Is that the beast of a Mongol who did this murder?”
“Djamouk and Prince Sanang planned it,” she said, trembling a little. “But that butchery was Yaddin’s work, I think. Kai! The work of Yaddined-Din, Tougtchi to Djamouk the Fox!”
They stood confronting each other, the length of the sitting-room between them. And after the silence had lasted a full minute Cleves reddened and said: “I am going to sleep on the couch at the foot of your bed, Tressa.”
His young wife reddened too.
He said: “This affair has thoroughly scared me. I can’t let you sleep out of my sight.”
“I am quite safe. And you would have an uncomfortable night,” she murmured.
“Do you mind if I sleep on the couch, Tressa?”
“No.”
“Will you call me when you are ready?”
“Yes.”
She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
When he was ready he slipped a pistol into the pocket of his dressing-gown, belted it over his pyjamas, and walked into the sitting-room. His wife called him presently, and he went in. Her night-lamp was burning and she extended her hand to extinguish it.
“Could you sleep if it burns?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
“Then let it burn. This business has got on my nerves,” he muttered.
They looked at each other in an expressionless way. Both really understood how useless was this symbol of protection — this man the girl called husband; — how utterly useless his physical strength, and the pistol sagging in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Both understood that the only real protection to be looked for must come from her — from the gifted and guardian mind of this young girl who lay there looking at him from the pillows.
“Good-night,” he said, flushing; “I’ll do my best. But only one of God’s envoys, like you, knows how to do battle with things that come out of hell.”
After a moment’s silence she said in a colourless voice: “I wish you’d lie down on the bed.”
“Had you rather I did?”
“Yes.”
So he went slowly to the bed, placed his pistol under the pillow, drew his dressing-gown around him, and lay down.
After he had lain unstirring for half an hour: “Try to sleep, Tressa,” he said, without turning his head.
“Can’t you seem to sleep, Victor?” she asked. And he heard her turn her head.
“No.”
“Shall I help you?”
“Do you mean use hypnosis — the power of suggestion — on me?”
“No. I can help you to sleep very gently. I can make you very drowsy.... You are drowsy now.... You are very close to the edge of sleep.... Sleep, dear.... Sleep, easily, naturally, confidently as a tired boy.... You are sleeping, ... deeply ... sweetly ... my dear ... my dear, dear husband.”
CHAPTER XI
YULUN THE BELOVED
Cleves opened his eyes. He was lying on his left side. In the pink glow of the night-lamp he saw his wife in her night-dress, seated sideways on the farther edge of the bed, talking to a young girl.
The strange girl wore what appeared to be a chamber-robe of frail gold tissue that clung to her body and glittered as she moved. He had never before seen such a dress; but he had seen the girl; he recognised her instantly as the girl he had seen turn to look back at Tressa as she crossed the phantom bridge over that misty Florida river. And Cleves comprehended that he was looking at Yulun.
But this charming young thing was no ghost, no astral projection. This girl was
warm, living, breathing flesh. The delicate scent of her strange garments and of her hair, her very breath, was in the air of the room. Her half-hushed but laughing voice was deliciously human; her delicate little hands, caressing Tressa’s, were too eagerly real to doubt.
Both talked at the same time, their animated voices mingling in the breathless delight of the reunion. Their exclamations, enchanting laughter, bubbling chatter, filled his ears. But not one word of what they were saying to each other could he understand.
Suddenly Tressa looked over her shoulder and met his astonished eyes.
“Tokhta!” she exclaimed. “Yulun! My lord is awake!”
Yulun swung around swiftly on the edge of the bed and looked laughingly at Cleves. But when her red lips unclosed she spoke to Tressa: and, “Darling,” she said in English, “I think your dear lord remembers that he saw me on the Bridge of Dreams. And heard the bells of Yian across the mist.”
Tressa said, laughing at her husband: “This is Yulun, flame-slender, very white, loveliest in Yian. On the rose-marble steps of the Yezidee Temple she flung a stemless rose upon Djamouk’s shroud, where he had spread it like a patch of snow in the sun.
“And at the Lake of the Ghosts, where there is freedom to love, for those who desire love, came Yaddin, Tougtchi to Djamouk the Fox, in search of love — and Yulun, flame-slim, and flower-white.... Tell my dear lord, Yulun!”
Yulun laughed at Cleves out of her dark eyes that slanted charmingly at the corners.
“Kai!” she cried softly, clapping her palms. “I took his roses and tore them with my hands till their petals rained on him and their golden hearts were a powdery cloud floating across the water.
“I said: ‘Even the damned do not mate with demons, my Tougtchi! So go to the devil, my Banneret, and may Erlik seize you!’”
Cleves, his ears ringing with the sweet confusion of their girlish laughter, rose from his pillow, supporting himself on one arm.
“You are Yulun. You are alive and real — —” He looked at Tressa: “She is real, isn’t she?” And, to Yulun: “Where do you come from?”
The girl replied seriously: “I come from Yian.” She turned to Tressa with a dazzling smile: “Thou knowest, my heart’s gold, how it was I came. Tell thy dear lord in thine own way, so that it shall be simple for his understanding.... And now — because my visit is ending — I think thy dear lord should sleep. Bid him sleep, my heart’s gold!”
At that calm suggestion Cleves sat upright on the bed, — or attempted to. But sank back gently on his pillow and met there a dark, delicious rush of drowsiness.
He made an effort — or tried to: the smooth, sweet tide of sleep swept over him to the eyelids, leaving him still and breathing evenly on his pillow.
The two girls leaned over and looked down at him.
“Thy dear lord,” murmured Yulun. “Does he love thee, rose-bud of Yian?”
“No,” said Tressa, under her breath.
“Does he know thou art damned, heart of gold?”
“He says no soul is ever really harmed,” whispered Tressa.
“Kai! Has he never heard of the Slayer of Souls?” exclaimed Yulun incredulously.
“My lord maintains that neither the Assassin of Khorassan nor the Sheiks-el-Djebel of the Eight Towers, nor their dark prince Erlik, can have power over God to slay the human soul.”
“Tokhta, Rose of Yian! Our souls were slain there in the Yezidee temple.”
Tressa looked down at Cleves:
“My dear lord says no,” she said under her breath.
“And — Sanang?”
Tressa paled: “His mind and mine did battle. I tore my heart from his grasp. I have laid it, bleeding, at my dear lord’s feet. Let God judge between us, Yulun.”
“There was a day,” whispered Yulun, “when Prince Sanang went to the Lake of the Ghosts.”
Tressa, very pallid, looked down at her sleeping husband. She said:
“Prince Sanang came to the Lake of the Ghosts. The snow of the cherry-trees covered the young world.
“The water was clear as sunlight; and the lake was afire with scarlet carp.... Yulun — beloved — the nightingale sang all night long — all night long.... Then I saw Sanang shining, all gold, in the moonlight.... May God remember him in hell!”
“May God remember him.”
“Sanang Noïane. May he be accursed in the Namaz Ga!”
“May he be tormented in Jehaunum! — Sanang, Slayer of Souls.”
Tressa leaned forward on the bed, stretched herself out, and laid her face gently across her husband’s feet, touching them with her lips.
Then she straightened herself and sat up, supported by one hand, and looking silently down at the sleeping man.
“No soul shall die,” she said. “Niaz!”
“Is it written?” asked Yulun, surprised.
“My lord has said it.”
“Allahou Ekber,” murmured Yulun; “thy lord is only a man.”
Tressa said: “Neither the Tekbir nor the fatha, nor the warning of Khidr, nor the Yacaz of the Khagan, nor even the prayers of the Ten Imaums are of any value to me unless my dear lord confirms the truth of them with his own lips.”
“And Erlik? Is he nothing, then?”
“Erlik!” repeated Tressa insolently. “Who is Erlik but the servant of Satan who was stoned?”
Her beautiful, angry lips were suddenly distorted; her blue eyes blazed. Then she spat, her mouth still tremulous with hatred. She said in a voice shaking with rage:
“Yulun, beloved! Listen attentively. I have slain two of the Slayers of the Eight Towers. With God’s help I shall slay them all — all! — Djamouk, Yaddin, Arrak Sou-Sou — all! — every one! — Tiyang Khan, Togrul, — all shall I slay, even to the last one among them!”
“Sanang, also?”
“I leave him to God. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!”
Yulun calmly paraphrased the cant phrase of the Assassins: “For it is written that we belong to God and we return to Him. Heart of gold, I shall execute my duty!”
Then Yulun slipped from the edge of the bed to the floor, and stood there looking oddly at Tressa, her eyes rain-bright as though choking back tears — or laughter.
“Heart of a rose,” she said in a suppressed voice, “my time is nearly ended.... So.... I go to the chamber of this strange young man who holds my soul like a pearl afire between his hands.... I think it it written that I shall love him.”
Tressa rose also and placed her lips close to Yulun’s ear: “His name, beloved, is Benton. His room is on this floor. Shall we make the effort together?”
“Yes,” said Yulun. “Lay your body down upon the bed beside your lord who sleeps so deeply.... And now stretch out.... And fold both hands.... And now put off thy body like a silken garment.... So! And leave it there beside thy lord, asleep.”
They stood together for a moment, shining like dewy shapes of tall flowers, whispering and laughing together in the soft glow of the night lamp.
Cleves slept on, unstirring. There was the white and sleeping figure of his wife lying on the bed beside him.
But Tressa and Yulun were already melting away between the wall and the confused rosy radiance of the lamp.
Benton, in night attire and chamber-robe belted in, fresh from his bath and still drying his curly hair on a rough towel, wandered back into his bedroom.
When his short, bright hair was dry, he lighted a cigarette, took the automatic from his dresser, examined the clip, and shoved it under his pillow.
Then he picked up the little leather-bound Testament, seated himself, and opened it. And read tranquilly while his cigarette burned.
When he was ready he turned out the ceiling light, leaving only the night lamp lighted. Then he knelt beside his bed, — a custom surviving the nursery period, — and rested his forehead against his folded hands.
Then, as he prayed, something snapped the thread of prayer as though somebody had spoken aloud in the sti
ll room; and, like one who has been suddenly interrupted, he opened his eyes and looked around and upward.
The silent shock of her presence passed presently. He got up from his knees, looking at her all the while.
“You are Yulun,” he said very calmly.
The girl flushed brightly and rested one hand on the foot of the bed.
“Do you remember in the moonlight where you walked along the hedge of white hibiscus and oleander — that night you said good-bye to Tressa in the South?”
“Yes.”
“Twice,” she said, laughing, “you stopped to peer at the blossoms in the moonlight.”
“I thought I saw a face among them.”
“You were not sure whether it was flowers or a girl’s face looking at you from the blossoming hedge of white hibiscus,” said Yulun.
“I know now,” he said in an odd, still voice, unlike his own.
“Yes, it was I,” she murmured. And of a sudden the girl dropped to her knees without a sound and laid her head on the velvet carpet at his feet.
So swiftly, noiselessly was it done that he had not comprehended — had not moved — when she sat upright, resting on her knees, and grasped the collar of her tunic with both gemmed hands.
“Have pity on me, lord of my lost soul!” she cried softly.
Benton stooped in a dazed way to lift the girl; but found himself knee deep in a snowy drift of white hibiscus blossoms — touched nothing but silken petals — waded in them as he stepped forward. And saw her standing before him still grasping the collar of her golden tunic.
A great white drift of bloom lay almost waist deep between them; the fragrance of oleander, too, was heavy in the room.
“There are years of life before the flaming gates of Jehaunum open. And I am very young,” said Yulun wistfully.
Somebody else laughed in the room. Turning his head, he saw Tressa standing by the empty fireplace.
“What you see and hear need not disturb you,” she said, looking at Benton out of brilliant eyes. “There is no god but God; and His prophet has been called by many names.” And to Yulun: “Have I not told you that nothing can harm our souls?”
Yulun’s expression altered and she turned to Benton: “Say it to me!” she pleaded.
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