Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

in his royal presence.”

 

“Thou art surprised, Ormaz, at most things, especially those which savor of simple good-nature and forbearance…” responded Lysia coldly. “Thou art a wolfish, youth, and wouldst tear thine own brother to shreds if he thwarted thy pleasure! For myself I see little cause for astonishment, that a soldier-hero like Zephoranim should take some pity on so frail and aged a wreck of human wit as Khosrul. Khosrul blasphemes the Faith, . . what then? … do ye not all blaspheme?”

 

“Not in the open streets!” said Ormaz hastily.

 

“No—ye have not the mettle for that!”—and Lysia smiled darkly, while the great eye on her breast flashed forth a sardonic lustre—

“Strong as ye all are, and young, ye lack the bravery of the weak old man who, mad as he may be, has at least the courage of his opinions! Who is there here that believes in the Sun as a god, or in Nagaya as a mediator? Not one, . . but ye are cultured hypocrites all, and careful to keep your heresies secret!”

 

“And thou, Lysia!” suddenly cried Nirjalis, . . “Why if thou canst so liberally admire the valor of thy sworn enemy Khosrul, why dost not THOU step boldly forth, and abjure the Faith thou art Priestess of, yet in thy heart deridest as a miserable superstition?”

 

She turned her splendid flashing orbs slowly upon him, … what an awful chill, steely glitter leaped forth from their velvet-soft depths!

 

“Prithee, be heedful of thy speech, good Nirjalis!” she said, with a quiver in her voice curiously like the suppressed snarl of her pet tigress.. “The majority of men are fools, … like thee! …

and need to be ruled according to their folly!”

 

Ormaz broke into a laugh. “And thou dost rule them, wise Virgin, with a rod of iron!” he said satirically … “The King himself is but a slave in thy hands!” “The King is a devout believer,”—

remarked a dainty, effeminate-looking youth, arrayed in a wonderfully picturesque garb of glistening purple,—“He pays his vows to Nagaya three times a day, at sunrise, noon, and sunset,—

and ‘tis said he hath oft been seen of late in silent meditation alone before the Sacred Veil, even after midnight. Maybe he is there at this very moment, offering up a royal petition for those of his less pious subjects who, like ourselves, love good wine more than long prayers. Ah!—he is a most austere and noble monarch,—a very anchorite and pattern of strict religious discipline! “And he shook his head to and fro with an air of mock solemn fervor. Every one laughed, . . and Ormaz playfully threw a cluster of half-crushed roses at the speaker.

 

“Hold thy foolish tongue, Pharnim,—” he said,—“The King doth but show a fitting example to his people, . . there is a time to pray, and a time to feast, and our Zephoranim can do both as becomes a man. But of his midnight meditations I have heard naught, . . since when hath he deserted his Court of Love for the colder chambers of the Sacred Temple?”

 

“Ask Lysia!” muttered Nirjalis drowsily, under his breath—“She knows more of the King than she cares to confess!”

 

His words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they were distinct enough for all present to hear. A glance of absolute dismay went round the table, and a breathless silence followed like the ominous hush of a heated atmosphere before a thunder-clap. Nirjalis, apparently struck by the sudden stillness, looked lazily round from among the tumbled cushions where he reclined,—a vacant, tipsy smile on his lips.

 

“What a company of mutes ye are!” he said thickly..

 

“Did ye not hear me? I bade ye ask Lysia, . .” and all at once he sat bolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of passion.. “Ask Lysia!” he repeated loudly.. “Ask her why the mighty Zephoranim creeps in and out the Sacred Temple at midnight like a skulking slave instead of a King! … at midnight, when he should be shut within his palace walls, playing the fool among his women! I warrant ‘tis not piety that persuades him to wander through the underground Passage of the Tombs alone and in disguise! Sahluma! … pretty pampered hound as thou art! …

thou art near enough to Our Lady of Witcheries,—ask her, … ask her! … she knows, . . “and his voice sank into an incoherent murmur, . . “she knows more than she cares to confess!”

 

Another deep and death like pause ensued, … and then Lysia’s silvery cold tones smote the profound silence with calm, clear resonance.

 

“Friend Nirjalis,” she said, . . how tuneful were her accents, . .

how chilly sweet her smile! … “Methinks thou art grown altogether too wise for this world! … ‘tis pity thou shouldest continue to linger in so narrow and incomplete a sphere! …

Depart hence therefore! … I shall frely excuse thine absence, since THY HOUR HAS COME! …”

 

And, taking from the table at her side a tall crystal chalice fashioned in the form of a lily set on a golden stem, she held it up toward him. Starting wildly from his couch he looked at her, as though doubting whether he had heard her words aright, . . a strong shudder shook him from head to foot, . . his hands clenched themselves convulsively together,—and then slowly, slowly, he staggered to his feet and stood upright. He was suddenly but effectually sobered—the flush of intoxication died off his cheeks—and his eyes grew strained and piteous. Theos, watching him in wonder and fear, saw his broad chest heave with the rapid-drawn gasping of his breath, ..he advanced a step or two—then all at once stretched out his hands in imploring agony.

 

“Lysia!” he murmured huskily. “Lysia! … pardon! … spare me!

… For the sake of past love have pity!”

 

At this Sahluma sprang up from his lounging posture on the dais, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his whole face flaming with wrath.

 

“By my soul!” he cried, “what doth this fellow prate of? … Past love? … Thou profane boaster! … how darest thou speak of love to the Priestess of the Faith?”

 

Nirjalis heeded him not. His eyes were fixed on Lysia, like the eyes of a tortured animal who vainly seeks for mercy at the hand of its destroyer. Step by step he came hesitatingly to the foot of her throne, . . and it was then that Theos perceived rear at hand a personage he immediately recognized,—the black scarlet-clad slave Gazia, who had brought Lysia’s message to Sahluma that same afternoon. He had made his appearance now so swiftly and silently, that it was impossible to tell where he had come from,—and he stood close to Nirjalis, his muscular firms folded tightly across his chest, and his hideous mouth contorted into a grin of cruel amusement and expectancy. Absolute quiet reigned within the magnificent banquet hall, . . the music had ceased,—and not a sound could be heard, save the delicate murmur of the wind outside swaying the water-lilies on the moonlit lake. Every one’s attention was centred on the unhappy young man, who with lifted head and rigidly clasped hands, faced Lysia as a criminal faces a judge, . . Lysia, whose dazzling smile beamed upon him with the brightness of summer sunbeams,—Lysia, whose exquisite voice lost none of its richness as she spoke his doom.

 

“By the vow which thou hast vowed to me, Nirjalis—” she said slowly.. “and by thine oath sworn on the Symbolic Eye of Raphon”..

here she touched the dreadful Jewel on her breast—“which bound thy life to my keeping, and thy death to my day of choice, I herewith bestow on thee the Chalice of Oblivion—the Silver Nectar of Peace! Sleep, and wake no more!—drink and die! The gateways of the Kingdom of Silence stand open to receive thee! … thy service is finished! … … fare-thee-well!”

 

With the utterance of the last word, she gave him the glittering cup she held. He took it mechanically,—and for one instant glared about him on all sides, scanning the faces of the attentive guests as though in the faint hope of some pity, some attempt at rescue.

But not a single look of compassion was bestowed upon him save by Theos, who, full of struggling amazement and horror, would have broken out into indignant remonstrance, had not an imperative glance from Sahluma warned him that any interference on his part would only make matters worse. He therefore, sorely against his will, and only for Sahluma’s sake, kept silence, watching Nirjalis meanwhile in a sort of horrible fascination.

 

There was something truly awful in the radiant unquenchable laughter that lurked in Lysia’s lovely eyes, . . something positively devilish in the grace of her manner, as with a negligent movement, she reseated herself in her crystal throne, and taking a knot of magnolia-flowers that lay beside her, idly toyed with their creamy buds, all the while keeping her basilisk gaze fixed immovably and relentlessly on her sentenced victim. He, grasping the lily-shaped chalice convulsively in his right hand, looked up despairingly to the polished dome of malachite, with its revolving globe of fire that shed a solemn blood-red glow upon his agonized young face, . . a smile was on his lips,—the dreadful smile of desperate, maddened misery.

 

“Oh, ye malignant gods!” he cried fiercely—“ye immortal Furies that made Woman for Man’s torture, … Bear witness to my death!

… bear witness to my parting spirit’s malediction! Cursed be they who love unwisely and too well! … cursed be all the wiles of desire and the haunts of dear passion!—cursed he all fair faces whose fairness lures men to destruction! … cursed be the warmth of caresses, the beating of heart against heart, the kisses that color midnight with fire! Cursed be Love from birth unto death!—may its sweetness be brief, and its bitterness endless!—

its delight a snare, and its promise treachery! O ye mad lovers!—

fools all!” … and he turned his splendid wild eyes round on the hushed assemblage,—“Despise me and my words as ye will, throughout ages to come, the curse of the dead Nirjalis shall cling!”

 

He lifted the goblet to his lips, and just then his delirious glanced lighted on Sahluma.

 

“I drink to thee, Sir Laureate!” he said hoarsely, and with a ghastly attempt at levity—“Sing as sweetly as thou wilt, thou must drain the same cup ere long!”

 

And without another second’s hesitation he drank off the entire contents of the chalice at a draught. Scarcely had he done so, when with a savage scream he fell prone on the ground, his limbs twisted in acute agony,—his features hideously contorted,—his hands beating the air wildly, as though in contention with some invisible foe, ..while in strange and terrible dissonance with his tortured cries, Lysia’s laughter, musically mellow, broke out in little quick peals, like the laughter of a very young child.

 

“Ah, ah, Nirjalis!” she exclaimed. “Thou dost suffer! That is well! … I do rejoice to see thee fighting for life in the very jaws of death! Fain would I have all men thus tortured out of their proud and tyrannous existence! … their strength made strengthless, their arrogance brought to naught, their egotism and vainglory beaten to the dust! Ah, ah! thou that wert the complacent braggart of love,—the self-sufficient proclaimer of thine own prowess, where is thy boasted vigor now? … Writhe on, good fool! … thy little day is done! … All honor to the Silver Nectar whose venom never fails!”

 

Leaning forward eagerly, she clapped her hands in a sort of fierce ecstasy—and