The Secret Power by Marie Corelli (dark academia books to read .TXT) 📖

can talk to me on the Sound Ray”—she said—“And I understand its possibility. You should equally be able to project your own portrait—a true similitude of yourself—on a Light Ray. Let me see you!”

“You are something of a wilful spirit!” answered the Voice—“But you know many secrets of our science and their results. So—as you wish it—”

Another second, and the cabin was filled with a pearly lustre like the vapour which sweeps across the hills in an early summer dawn— and in the center of this as in an aureole stood a nobly proportioned figure, clad in gold-coloured garments fashioned after the early Greek models. Presumably this personage was human,—but never was a semblance of humanity so transfigured. The face and form were those of a beautiful youth,—the eyes were deep and brilliant, —and the expression of the features was one of fine serenity and kindliness. Morgana gazed and gazed, bending herself towards her wonderful visitor with all her soul in her eyes,—when suddenly the vision, if so it might be called, paled and vanished. She uttered a little cry.

“Oh, why have you gone so soon?” she exclaimed.

“It is not I who have gone,”—replied the Voice—“It is only the reflection of me. We cannot project a light picture too far or too long. And even now—when you come to us—if you ever do come!—do you think you will remember me?”

“How could I forget anyone so beautiful!” she said, with passionate enthusiasm.

This time the Sound Ray conveyed a vibration of musical laughter.

“Where every being has beauty for a birthright, how should you know me more than another!” said the Voice—“Beauty is common to all in our city—as common as health, because we obey the Divine laws of both.”

She stretched out her hands appealingly.

“Oh, if I could only come to you now!” she murmured.

“Patience!” and the Voice grew softer—“There is something for you to do in the world. You must lose a love before you find it!”

She drew a quick breath. What could these words mean?

“It is time for you now to turn homeward,”—went on the Voice—“You must not be seen above this City at dawn. You would be attacked and instantly destroyed, as having received a warning which you refused to heed.”

“Do you attack and destroy all strangers so?” she asked—“Is that your rule?”

“It is our rule to keep away the mischief of the modern world”— replied the Voice—“As well admit a pestilence as the men and women of to-day!”

“I am a woman of to-day,”—said Morgana.

“No, you are not,—you are a woman of the future!” and the Voice was grave and insistent—“You are one of the new race. At the appointed hour you will take your part with us in the new world?”

“When will be that hour?”

There was a pause. Then, with an exceeding sweetness and solemnity the Voice replied—

“If He will that we tarry till He come, what is that to thee?”

A sense of great awe swept over her, oppressive and humiliating. She looked once more through her cabin window at the city spread out below, and saw that some of the lights were being extinguished in the taller buildings and on the bridges which connected streets and avenues in a network of architectural beauty.

The Voice spoke again—

“We are releasing you from the barrier. You are free to depart.”

She sighed.

“I have no wish to go!” she said.

“You must!” The Voice became commanding. “If you stay now, you and your companions are doomed to perish. There is no alternative. Be satisfied that we know you—we watch you—we shall expect you sooner or later. Meanwhile—guide your ship!—the way is open.”

Quickly she sprang to the steering-gear—she felt the “White Eagle” moving, and lifting its vast wings for flight.

“Farewell!” she cried, with a sense of tears in her throat— “Farewell!”

“Not farewell!” came the reply, spoken softly and with tenderness— “We shall meet again soon! I will speak to you in Sicily!”

“In Sicily!” she exclaimed, joyfully—“You will speak to me there?”

“There and everywhere!” answered the Voice—“The Sound Ray knows no distance. I shall speak—and you shall hear—whenever you will!”

The last syllables died away like faintly sung music—and in a few more seconds the great air-ship was sailing steadily in a level line and at a swift pace onward,—the last shining glimpse of the mysterious City vanished, and the “White Eagle” soared over a sable blackness of empty desert, through a dark space besprinkled with stars. Filled with a new sense of power and gladness, Morgana held the vessel in the guidance of her slight but strong hands, and it had flown many miles before the Marchese Rivardi sprang up suddenly from where he had lain lost in unconsciousness and stared around him amazed and confused.

“A thousand pardons, Madama!” he stammered—“I shall never forgive myself! I have been asleep!”

CHAPTER XIX

At almost the same moment Gaspard stumbled to his feet.

“Asleep—asleep!” he exclaimed—”Mon Dieu!—the shame of it!— the shame! What pigs are men! To sleep after food and wine, and to leave a woman alone like this!. . . the shame!”

Morgana, quietly steering the “White Eagle,” smiled.

“Poor Gaspard!” she said—“You could not help it! You were so tired! And you, Marchese! You were both quite worn out! I was glad to see you sleeping—there is no shame in it! As I have often told you, I can manage the ship alone.”

But Rivardi was white with anger and self-reproach.

“Gross pigs we are!” he said, hotly—“Gaspard is right! And yet—” here he passed a hand across his brow and tried to collect his thoughts—“yes!—surely something unusual must have happened! We heard bells ringing—”

Morgana watched him closely, her hand on her air-vessel’s helm.

“Yes—we all thought we heard bells”—she said—“But that was a noise in our own brains—the clamour of our own blood brought on by pressure—we were flying at too great a height and the tension was too strong—”

Gaspard threw out his hands with a half defiant gesture.

“No, Madama! It could not be so! I swear we never left our own level! What happened I cannot tell—but I felt that I was struck by a sudden blow—and I fell without force to recover—”

“Sleep struck you that sudden blow, you poor Gaspard!” said Morgana, “And you have not slept so long—barely an hour—just long enough for me to hover a while above this black desert and then turn homeward,—I want no more of the Sahara!”

Rivardi, smarting under a sense of loss and incompetency, went up to her.

“Give me the helm!” he said, almost sharply—“You have done enough!”

She resigned her place to him, smiling at his irritation.

“You are sure you are quite rested?” she asked.

“Rested!” he echoed the word disdainfully—“I should never have rested at all had I been half the man I profess to be! Why do you turn back? I thought you were bent on exploring the Great Desert!— that you meant to try and find the traditional Brazen City?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I do not like the prospect”—she said—“There is nothing but sand— interminable billows of sand! I can well believe it was all ocean once,—when the earth gave a sudden tilt, and all the water was thrown off from one surface to another. If we could dig deep enough below the sand I think we should find remains of wrecked ships, with the skeletons of antediluvian men and animals, remains of one of the many wasted civilisations—”

“You do not answer me—” interrupted Rivardi with impatience—“What of your search for the Brazen City?”

She raised her lovely, mysterious eyes and looked full at him.

“Do you believe it exists?” she asked.

He gave a gesture of annoyance.

“Whether I believe or not is of no importance,”—he answered—”YOU have some idea about it, and you have every means of proving the truth of your idea—yet, after making the journey from Sicily for the purpose, you suddenly turn back!”

Still she kept her eyes upon him.

“You must not mind the caprices of a woman!” she said, with a smile- “And do please remember the ‘Brazen City’ is not MY idea! The legend of this undiscovered place in the desert was related by your friend Don Aloysius-and he was careful to say it was ‘only’ a legend. Why should you think I accept it as a truth?”

“Surely it was the motive of your flight here?” he demanded, imperatively.

Her brows drew together in a slight frown.

“My dear Marchese, I allow no one to question my motives”—she said with sudden coldness—“That I have decided to go no farther in search of the Brazen City is my own affair.”

“But—not even to wait for the full daylight!” he expostulated—“You could not see it by night even if it existed!”

“Not unless it was lit like other cities!” she said, smiling—“I suppose if such a city existed, its inhabitants would need some sort of illuminant—they would not grope about in the dark. In that case it would be seen from our ship as well by night as by day.”

Gaspard, busy with some mechanical detail, looked up.

“Then why not make a search for it while we are here?” he said—“You evidently believe in it!”

“I have turned the ‘White Eagle’ homeward, and shall not turn again”—she said—“But I do not see any reason why such a city should not exist and be discovered some day. Explorers in tropical forests find the remains or beginnings of a different race of men from our own—pygmies, and such like beings—there is nothing really against the possibility of an undiscovered City in the Great Desert. We modern folk think we know a great deal—but our wisdom is very superficial and our knowledge limited. We have not mastered EVERYTHING under the sun!”

The Marchese Rivardi looked at her with something of defiance in his glance.

“I will adventure in search of the legendary city myself, alone!” he said.

Morgana laughed, her clear little cold laugh of disdain.

“Do so, my friend! Why not?” she said—“You are a daring airman on many forms of airships—I knew that,—before I entrusted you with the scheme of mine. Discover the legendary ‘Brazen City’ if you can!—I promise not to be jealous!—and return to the world of curiosity mongers—(also, if you CAN!) with a full report of its inhabitants and their manners and customs. And so—you will become famous! But you must not fall asleep on the way!”

He paled with anger and annoyance,—she still smiled.

“Do not be cross, AMICO!” she said, sweetly. “Think where we are!— in the wide spaces of heaven, pilgrims with the stars! This is no place for personal feeling of either disappointment or irritation. You asked me a while ago if I was tired—I thought I was Hot, but I am—very tired!—I am going to rest. And I trust you both to take care of me and the ‘White Eagle’!”

“We are to make straight for Sicily?” he asked.

“Yes—straight for Sicily.”

She retired into her sleeping-cabin and disappeared. The Marchese Rivardi looked at Gaspard questioningly.

“We must obey her, I suppose?”

“We could not think of disobeying!” returned Gaspard.

“She is a strange woman!” and as he spoke Rivardi gripped his steering-gear with a kind of vindictive force—“It seems absurd that we,—two men of fair intelligence and scientific attainment,—should be ruled by her whim,—her fancies—for after all she is made up of fancies—”

Gaspard shook his finger warningly.

“This air-ship is not a ‘whim’ or a ‘fancy’”—he said, impressively- “It is the most wonderful thing of its kind ever