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cushions, the Zulu lay. Considine genuflected as he entered, and
moving to one side made a sign to Caithness. The priest ran forward,
threw something round his neck, and drew a crucifix from near his
heart. He kneeled by the couch; Inkamasi leaned his head towards him
and they murmured between themselves. Considine, waiting, looked
round, and made a sign to Roger to come to his side. He slipped his
arm into the young man’s and said: “This is a gift of the universe to
you; deal wisely with it. Be strong, exult, and live.”
The two of them were together, a little distance from the head of the
couch; opposite them, at a greater distance from the foot, four others
had gathered. Mottreux was by the door with a clear space between him
and the Zulu. So set, they waited till the speech between the priest
and the king died; while the two yet remained in close and silent
prayer Considine said in a low voice to the others: “Enlarge in you
the imagination by which man lives; this is perhaps the moment of
fulfilment. The work shall be accomplished tonight without ritual or
ceremony such as we are used to, in your contemplation alone.” He took
a step towards Caithness and touched him on the shoulder, saying:
“Have you spoken with the king?”
“You’re committing wickedness,” the priest exclaimed and ceased,
broken either by his own passion or by the concentration of the
other’s power.
“Back, then,” Considine gently said, and when Caithness had risen and
moved a step or two away, he in turn knelt by the couch.
“Majesty,” he said, “are you willing to restore your kingship through
us to that of which it is a shadow?”
“Yes,” Inkamasi said, “for though I hold you for my own enemies and
for misguided men I think you are the only servants of the kingship
that is more than the king.”
“Majesty,” Considine said again, “we are the king’s servants and his
greatest friends. Farewell.” He touched Inkamasi’s hand with his lips
and rising signed to Roger to follow him. The young man went forward,
knelt, and said, “I’m sorry if this happened through me.”
“Don’t be,” Inkamasi said; “it’s better to die here than under the
feet of a London crowd—if there’s any difference. Thank you, and
good-bye.”
Roger touched his hand with his lips and went back. The rest, one by
one, followed him, ending with Mottreux and Vereker. As Mottreux in
turn moved back towards the door Caithness felt a hand press his arm
and heard a soft whisper, “Come back and wait by me.” The order
reached him in his anguish; with a hope that even now something might
interpose, he obeyed and slowly withdrew till he also stood by the
door.
Meanwhile, his obeisance done, Vereker had brought to Considine a
chalice that had been standing, filled with wine, on a carved table at
the side of the room. His master poured into it the contents of a
small phial; then he took the chalice in his hands, and turned towards
the couch. The silence in the room grew so deep, the absorbed
attention of the watchers so intense, that Roger felt as if the
terrific moment must break in some new astonishing revelation. Regret
and sorrow, bewilderment and antagonism, which had mingled in his
heart, were swept away; an awful harmony began to exist. So, in other
far-off lives, lesser or greater he could not tell, he had waited for
Isabel when they were young and happy, and indeed he had chosen
necessity; so he had submitted his obedience to the authority of
Milton or Wordsworth, waiting for the august plenitude of their poetry
to be manifested within him. Till now he had believed that sense of
harmony to be all they—Isabel or Paradise Lost—had to offer, but he
had begun to learn that to pause there was to be too easily content.
The harmony itself was but a prelude to some enrichment of his whole
being, which in its turn must be experienced in every detail—made
familiar that new powers might arise. He gave himself, freely and
wholly, to the moment; he was to live the more completely through the
king’s death. It was no good being distressed or ashamed; his business
was to live by it, as if necessary it would be the business of others
to live by his death. He gave himself to the moment, and in the moment
to the whole charged imagination of man. It was no lie; the mind of
man—not his mind or Inkamasi’s but man’s—was exalted above all the
power of things, “of quality and fabric more divine,” and yet his own
was never nearer or more useful to man’s than when he was most
intensely aware of all things in himself. He gave himself to the
moment.
“Drink, Majesty,” Considine said, and gave the chalice into Inkamasi’s
hands. The king took it, raised it to his lips, and drank. Even as it
left his lips, his grip relaxed, his face changed, he sank heavily on
to the cushions behind him.
But before the dropped chalice reached the floor, before the sound of
its fall could strike their ears, a violent explosion shattered them.
Roger, fixed in his surrender, saw Considine jerk his arms up and fall
crashing across the litter. Almost before the king’s body had sunk
lifeless his destroyer lay slain over him. For they saw, as soon as
their startled senses acted, that two lives, not one, had been taken.
The violence against which Considine had never pretended to be secure,
but which had avoided him so long, had struck him at last. The bullet
had pierced his skull; the blood streamed over the dead Zulu. And
Mottreux dragged Caithness from the room, and shut and locked the
door. He held the priest’s arm; he rushed him through the house,
making for the hall. Caithness ran, and listened to hasty orders: “Go
straight to the car in front of the door…get in…I’ll come. Can
you drive?”
“Yes,” he gasped.
“Get in the driver’s seat.” They reached the hall; Mottreux looking
frantically round rushed him to the front door, paused less than a
second to see that the priest was actually scrambling into the car,
pushed the door almost shut, lest by chance the other should see him,
and sent another mad glance around the hall.
By so small a chance he was defeated. The old Jew, when he was left
alone with the casket, had, by some trick of the mind, gone back to
the room where he and his companions had spent most of the day. He was
sitting there, lost in his meditations, when Mottreux broke in on him,
and in one wild dash caught the case in one hand. But Rosenberg held
to the trust which the God of his fathers had imposed on him. He was
dragged violently from his chair, but he clung to the sacred treasure;
he heard a voice yelling oaths, but though he was shaken to and fro he
said nothing. His face, as he lifted it, was full of a scorn deeper
than time, the scorn of his God for the spoilers of the holy places.
He saw the distorted face of a greedy Gentile above him, and before
the bullet searched his brain he spat at it once.
But by now the revolvers of the other servants of the Deathless One
had blown the lock of their prison from the door, and the momentary
prisoners had already nearly reached the hall. In a wild confusion and
anger they came; Mottreux heard them, and ran to the glass doors on to
the drive. These were fastened, and he was again delayed. By the time
he had got them open and was outside, Vereker and the Egyptian were
out by the car. He was seen; he fired once and ran along the wall of
the house. The shot probably saved Caithness’s life, for none of the
pursuers were in a state to distinguish between the responsibility of
the fugitives for the crime. But Vereker was unarmed, and the Egyptian
was distracted by Mottreux’s appearance. He left the priest to his
companion, and ran after Mottreux, circling widely out so as to
command the corner as he approached it. In the darkness it could only
dimly be seen.
Voices were calling from doors and windows. There were men in the room
where the dead Jew lay. Roger, borne along in the general rush, was
there also. He wondered afterwards why no-one had shot him down out of
hand, and attributed his salvation to the fact that Considine had
treated him familiarly. He tried to order his thoughts, but they only
repeated themselves: “Considine is dead; is he dead?” Was he dead? or
would he, first again in the great experiment, achieve the work he had
desired? The question beat at his brain as he ran. He saw the body of
the Jew as he came into the room, and paused by it. Without, from the
darkness, there came more shots. Roger pulled himself together; he’d
better look for Caithness. If Considine were dead, the two of them
would be in a very dubious position; he went as far as the glass
doors. There he listened; presently, away round the side of the house,
he heard another shot. He slipped out and along to the car, whose
lights shone steadily as they had done when last he looked at it
before he had walked in the verandah and talked. This was the kind of
thing that remained; the imagination of man was blown out in a moment
but the light of his mechanical invention remained. He cursed deeply,
and saw Caithness, who in a restless uncertainty had got out of the
car. Roger walked up to him, but for a few seconds neither of them
spoke.
At last Caithness said: “What had we better do?”
Roger answered: “I should think you’d better get away. Inkamasi’s
dead, so I don’t see much point in your staying.” Caithness looked
round, and tried to see something in the darkness. He failed, and
presently asked, “What’s happened to Mottreux?”
“How the hell do I know?” Roger asked. “Why did you bolt with him?” A
sudden thought struck him, and he added: “Did you—by God, did you
arrange for him to shoot?”
“No,” the priest answered, “but I promised to do what I could for him
if…if he needed it.”
“I see,” Roger said, and walked a few steps away. He couldn’t trust
himself to speak. That this dreamer, this master of vision should have
been destroyed by—by a traitor and a clergyman. He walked back
abruptly and said: “I hope you paid him better than Caiaphas did? Even
at half-crowns it would only come to three pounds fifteen.”
Caithness began quietly, “Don’t be unfair, Ingram-” but Roger pursued
his own thoughts. “And did you promise him as much for Rosenberg?”
“Rosenberg!” Caithness cried out, startled. “He can’t have killed
Rosenberg?”
“Can’t he?” Roger said. “What do you think he wanted? Go and look;
Rosenberg’s dead and the jewels are gone.”
The priest stared at him in something like horror. He had believed
Mottreux to be sincere, and yet now—words overheard between the
traitor and Rosenberg rushed back, the likelihood that so great a
personal desire rather than a conversion of thought should have
alienated him, his turning away at the last moment, the shot heard in
the room close at hand, the old man slain (for he believed Roger at
once), the seizure of the jewels by a covetous hand. Roger saw him
flinch and said, with a touch of
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