Ardath - Marie Corelli (love story novels in english .txt) 📗

himself for having indulged in it. How recreant, how base an idea! … how incompatible with the adoring homage he felt for his friend! What!—Sahluma,—a Poet, whose songs of Love were so perfect, so wildly sweet and soul-entrancing—HE, to be ignorant of Love’s true meaning? … Oh, impossible!—and a burning flush of shame rose to Theos’s brow,—

shame that he could have entertained such a blasphemy against his Idol for a moment! Then that curious, vague, soft contrition he had before experienced stole over him once again—a sudden moisture filled his eyes,—and turning abruptly toward his host he held out his own just filled goblet:

 

“Drink we the loving-cup together, Sahluma!” he said, and his voice trembled a little with its own deep tenderness, . . “Pledge me thy faith as I do pledge thee mine! And for to-day at least let me enjoy thy boon companionship, . . who knows how soon we may be forced to part … forever!” And he breathed the last word softly with a faint sigh.

 

Sahluma looked at him with an expressive glance of bright surprise.

 

“Part?” he exclaimed joyously—“Nay, not we, my friend! … Not till we find each other tiresome, . . not till we prove that our spirits, like over-mettlesome steeds, do chafe and fret one another too rudely in the harness of custom, . . wherefore then, and then only, ‘twill be time to break loose at a gallop, and seek each one a wider pasture-land! Meanwhile, here’s to thee!”—and bending his handsome head he readily drank a deep draught of the proffered wine.. “May all the gods hold fast our bond of friendship!”

 

And with a graceful salute he returned the jewelled cup half-empty. Theos at once drained off what yet remained within it, and then, leaning more confidentially over the Laureate’s chair, he whispered:

 

“Hast thou in very truth forgotten thy rashness of last night, Sahluma? Surely thou must guess how unquiet I have been concerning thee! Tell me, . . was thy hot pursuit in vain? … or..

didst thou discover the King?”

 

“Peace!” and a quick frown darkened the smooth beauty of Sahluma’s face as he grasped Theos’s arm hard to warn him into silence,—then forcing a smile he answered in the same low tone..

“‘Twas not the King, . . it could not be! Thou wert mistaken …”

 

“Nay but,” persisted Theos gently—“convince me of mine error!

Didst thou overtake and steadily confront yon armed and muffled stranger?”

 

“Not I!”—and Sahluma shrugged his shoulders petulantly—“Sleep fell upon me suddenly when I left thee,—and methinks I must have wandered home like a shadow in a dream! Was I not drunk last night?—Aye!—and so in all likelihood wert thou! … little could we be trusted to recognize either King or clown!”—He laughed,—

then added—“Nevertheless I tell thee once again ‘twas not the King, . . His Majesty hath too much at stake, to risk so dangerous a pleasantry!”

 

Theos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at ease, . . Sahluma’s careless contentment increased his own disquietude. Just then a curious-looking personage entered the apartment,—a gray-haired, dwarfish negro, who carried slung across his back a large bundle, consisting of several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of which he presently detached from the rest and set down before the Laureate, who in return gave him a silver coin, at the same time asking jestingly:

 

“Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya?—or is it the same ill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, commonplace events?”

 

Zibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide leathern pouch which hung from his girdle, appeared to meditate a moment,—

then he replied:

 

“If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is nothing whatever to interest the minds of the cultured. The cheap scribes of the Daily Circular cater chiefly for the mob, and do all in their power to foster morbid qualities of disposition and murderous tendencies among the lower orders; hence though there is nothing in the news-sheet pertaining to Literature or the Fine Arts, there is much concerning the sudden death of the young sculptor Nirjalis, whose body was found flung on the banks of the river this morning.”

 

Theos started, . . Sahluma listened with placid indifference. “‘Tis a case of self-slaughter”—pursued Zibya chattily.. “or so say the wise writers who are supposed to know everything, . . self-slaughter committed during a state of temporary insanity! Well, well! I myself would have had a different opinion.”

 

“And a sagacious one no doubt!” interrupted Sahluma coldly, and with a dangerous flash as of steel in his eyes.. “But.. be advised, good Zibya! … give thine opinion no utterance!”

 

The old negro shrank back nervously, making numerous apologetic gestures, and waited in abashed silence till the Laureate’s features regained their wonted soft serenity. Then he ventured to speak again,—though not without a little hesitation.

 

“Concerning the topics of the hour…” he murmured timorously..

“My lord is perhaps not aware that the river itself is a subject of much excited discussion,—the water having changed to a marvellous blood-color during the night, which singular circumstance hath caused a great panic among the populace. Even now, as I passed by the embankment, the crowd there was thick as a hive of swarming bees!”

 

He paused, but Sahluma made no remark, and he continued more glibly, “Also, to-day’s ‘Circular’ contains the full statement of the King’s reward for the capture of the Prophet Khosrul, and the formal Programme of the Sacrificial Ceremonial announced to take place this evening in the Temple of Nagaya. All is set forth in the fine words of the petty public scribes, who needs must make as much as possible out of little,—and there is likewise a so-called facsimile of the King’s signature, which will naturally be of supreme interest to the vulgar. Furthermore it is proclaimed that a grand Combat of wild beasts in the Royal Arena will follow immediately after the Service in the Temple is concluded,—

methinks none will go to bed early, seeing there is so full a list of amusements!”

 

He paused again, somewhat out of breath,—and Sahluma meanwhile unrolled the linen scroll he had purchased, which measured about twenty-four inches in length and twenty in width. Carefully ruled black and red lines divided it into nearly the same number of columns as those on the page of an ordinary newspaper, and it was covered with close writing, here and there embellished by bold, profusely ornamented headings. One of these, “Death of the Sculptor, Nirjalis,” seemed to burn into Theos’s brain like letters of fire,—how was it, he wondered, that the body of that unfortunate victim had been found on the shore of the river, when he himself had seen it loaded with iron weights, and cast into the lake that formed part of Lysia’s fatal garden? Presently Sahluma passed the scroll to him with a smile, saying lightly: “There, my friend, is a specimen of the true mob-literature! …

written to-day, forgotten tomorrow! ‘Tis a droll thing to meditate upon, the ephemeral nature of all this pouring-out of unnecessary words and stale stock-phrases!—and, wouldst thou believe it, Theos! each little paid scribe that adds his poor quota to this ill-assorted trash deems himself wiser and greater far than any poet or philosopher dead or living! Why, in this very news-sheet I have seen the immortal works of the divine Hyspiros so hacked by the blunt knives of ignorant and vulgar criticism that, by my faith! … were it not for contempt, one would be disposed to nail the hands of such trumpery scribblers to a post, and scourge their bare backs with thorny rods to cure them of their insolence! Nay, even my fool Zabastes hath found place in these narrow columns, to write his carping diatribes against me,—

me, the King’s Laureate! … As I live, his cumbersome diction hath caused me infinite mirth, and I have laughed at his crabbed and feeble wit till my sides have ached most potently! Now get thee gone, fellow!—thou and thy news!”—and he nodded a good-humored dismissal to the deferential Zibya, who with his woolly gray head very much on one side stood listening gravely and approvingly to all that was said,—” Yet stay! … has gossip whispered thee the name of the poor virgin self-destined for this evening’s sacrifice?”

 

“No, my lord”—responded Zibya promptly—“‘Tis veiled in deeper mystery than usual. I have inquired of many, but in vain,—and even the Chief Flamen of the Outside Court of the Temple, always drunk and garrulous as he is, can tell me naught of the holy victim’s title or parentage. “Tis a passing fair wench!’ said he, with a chuckle.. ‘That is all I know concerning her … a passing fair wench!’ Ah!” and Zibya rolled up the whites of his eyes and sighed in a comically contemplative manner.. “If ever a Flamen deserved expulsion from his office, it is surely yon ancient, crafty, carnal-minded soul! … so keen a glance for a woman’s beauty is not a needful qualification for a servant of the Snake Divine! Methinks we have fallen upon evil days! … maybe the crazed Prophet is right after all, and things are coming to an end!”

 

“Like thy discourse, I hope, Zibya!” observed Sahluma, yawning and flinging himself lazily back on his velvet couch,—“Get hence, and serve thy customers with their cheap news, . . depend upon it, some of them are cursing thee mightily for thy delay! And if thou shouldst chance to meet the singing-maiden of my household, Niphrata, bid her make haste homeward,—she hath been absent since the break of morn,—too long for my contentment. Maybe I did unwisely to give the child her freedom,—as slave she would not have presumed to gad abroad thus wantonly, without her lord’s permission. Say, if thou seest her, that I am wrathful,—the thought of mine anger will be as a swift wing to waft her hither like a trembling dove,—afraid, all penitent, and eager for my pardon! Remember! … be sure thou tell her of my deep displeasure!”

 

Zibya bowed profoundly, his outspread hands almost touching the floor in the servility of his obeisance, and backed out of the room as humbly as though he were leaving the presence of royalty.

When he had gone, Theos looked up from the news-scroll he was perusing:

 

“Is it not strange Niphrata should have left thee thus, Sahluma?”.. he said with a touch of anxiety in his tone … “Maybe”..

and he hesitated, conscious of a strange, unbidden remorse that suddenly and without any apparent reason overwhelmed his conscience.. “Maybe she was not happy?”…

 

“Not happy!” ejaculated Sahluma amazedly, “Not happy with ME? …

not happy in MY house,—protected by MY patronage? Where then, if not here, could she find happiness?”

 

And his beautiful flashing eyes betokened his entire and naive astonishment at the mere supposition. Theos smiled involuntarily..

how, charming, after all was Sahluma’s sublime egotism!—how almost child-like was his confidence in himself and his own ability to engender joy! All at once the young girl Zoralin spoke,—her accents were low and timorous: “May it please my lord Sahluma to hear me…” she said and paused.

 

“Thy lord Sahluma hears thee with pleasure, Zoralin,” replied the Laureate gently. “Thou dost speak more sweetly than many a bird doth sing!”

 

A rich, warm blush crimsoned the maiden’s cheeks at these dulcet words,—she drew a quick, uneasy breath, and then went on,—

 

“I love Niphrata!” she murmured in a soft tone of touching tenderness, . . “And I have watched her often when she deemed herself unseen, . . she has, methinks, shed many tears for sake of some deep, heart-buried sorrow! We have lived as sisters, sharing the same room, and the same couch of sleep, but alas!