RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
"Eureka," Chatto and Windus, London, 1899
OWEN HALL was the pen-name of the politician and author Hugh H. Lusk, who was born in Stirling, Scotland, on 28 August 1838.
Hall, a barrister and solicitor by profession, emigrated to New Zealand in the 1870's. From 1876 to 1878 he was a Member of Parliament from the Auckland Region.
He lived and worked in Australia in the 1890's but eventually returned to New Zealand. He died in Auckland on 7 September 1926.
Hall is best known for his "lost race" novel Eureka (Chatto and Windus, London, 1899)—one of the earliest examples of Australian science-fiction—in which a group of adventurers discover of a hidden city inhabited by descendants of Alexander the Great's army.
First edition copies of Eureka are very rare. At the time of writing (September 2018) only one copy was available for sale at AbeBooks—with a price tag in excess of 2,000 Australian dollars.
Other works by Owen Hall are:
• The Track of a Storm (London: Chatto and Windus, 1895)
• Jetsam (London: Chatto and Windus, 1897);
• Hernando (London: Chatto and Windus, 1902);
• A Fight to a Finish, a tale of the Maori war serialised in The Auckland Star in 1904;
• After Many Years, a series of five articles about a visit
to New Zealand, The Auckland Star, 1904;
• The Cruise of the Flying Fish, serialised in
The Auckland Star in 1907;
• Lumi's Lagoon, serialised in The Auckland Star
in 1908.
Under his own name, Hugh H. Lusk, he also wrote several non-fiction works, mainly about social and political issues. These included Social Welfare in New Zealand (1916). He also compiled the textbook A History of Australia for Schools (1891).
—Roy Glashan, 13 September 2018
THE Colonel had been a puzzle to me for years before I ever spoke to him, and in some ways he remains a puzzle still. That reminds me that perhaps before I go any further I had better begin by saying something about myself. My name, you will understand, is Lockhart. I am an old bachelor, and I had lived at Jamaica Road, Highgate, for nearly ten yean before the Colonel came to live in the house next door. Neither of these facts has anything to do with the story that follows; but then, it may surprise you to learn that I have nothing to do with the story myself. I didn't write a word of it; I don't guarantee that any of it is true; and I haven't even corrected the proofs of it for the press. Yet, in spite of all that, I find myself in a queer sort of way responsible for it. I think you will admit that under these circumstances an explanation is no more than fair both to you and me; and an explanation mean some account of my acquaintance with Colonel Ambrose.
The Colonel was my next neighbour at Highgate for nine years. He was a retired officer, who, as I have been told since then, had served with distinction in India for many years. Perhaps it isn't necessary to remark that Highgate was a different place twenty odd years ago from the Highgate of today. Whether my readers know it or not, it is a fact that Highgate has been ruined. Quarter a century ago, when I went there, a gentleman could find houses at Highgate that were really private to live in. There were gardens where he could sit and smoke in peace and privacy, bits of green lawn, where he could feel as if he were alone. It wasn't an aristocratic suburb even then, I'll admit, but it was vastly better than that; for it was quite as quiet, it was fully as pretty, and it was a very great deal cheaper. I lived there nearly a quarter of a century, and I ought to know.
Colonel Ambrose had been my nearest neighbour for more than two years before we ever exchanged a word, and if it hadn't been for the Colonel's dog we might never have done so at all. That dog was the very deuce; not one of those noisy barking brutes, you understand—the Colonel wouldn't have kept such a creature about him for a day; and if he had been willing, his man Hector wouldn't have allowed him. That dog—his name was Cerberus, without any abbreviation; nobody would have had the audacity to abbreviate that dog—was a huge animal, handsome, and jet-black. His manners were reserved and dignified, his temper was good, and his appearance impressive; and yet that dog was the very deuce. Although we were next-door neighbours, the Colonel's tastes and my own differed. I was fond of flowers; the Colonel preferred grass. The Colonel's dog, unfortunately, developed tastes that were a compromise between the two. During the greater part of each day Cerberus consented to be guided by his master's tastes, and to stay on his master's premises; but early each morning, when the weather was fine, he relieved his feelings and cultivated his finer tastes by taking a stroll through my flower-beds. How he got over the seven-foot wall that divided the gardens I never could imagine, but that he did so was unquestionable. To begin with, there were his footprints, and these were neither few nor light; then there was the huge animal himself, for he never tried to go back again over the wall, but waited to be let out at the gate. At first I contented myself with grumbling and letting him out. Then I got into the habit of sending my man Dick to deliver him at the Colonel's door with the message, "Mr. Lockhart's compliments to Colonel Ambrose, and his dog has been in the garden again."
He invariably brought back the same reply, which, I suspect, came from Hector rather than the Colonel:
"The Colonel he would be ferry sorry, and he will be seeing that Cerberus will not be doing so anymore."
You can get used to anything. I got used to the visits of Cerberus, and both Dick and I found regular employment in erasing his footprints from the flower-beds. One day the dog failed to show himself. There was no dog, and there were no footprints. I missed the animal, and I seemed to have nothing to do in the garden. A second morning came, and still there was no dog. I sent Dick round to inquire what had become of Cerberus. Hector sent back the Colonel's compliments as usual, "but Cerberus she would heff been stolen, and the Colonel he would not be ferry well pleased that he did not heff him brought back."
I went round and paid my first visit to my neighbour. Absurd as it may appear, I was positively anxious about the recovery of that ponderous animal; and, strange as it will probably sound, the loss of the dog became the foundation of a sort of friendship, which lasted as long as the Colonel lived.
I suppose Colonel Ambrose had plenty of experience about some things—the reader, if the story that follows should have any readers, can form his own opinion about that—but in others, perhaps because he had lived more than forty years in India, he was as simple as a child. He and his man Hector had wandered about the streets of London for hours looking for the dog; they had called at a dozen police-stations to inquire about him; but it had never entered into the mind of either of them to advertise a reward for his recovery. As we really wanted to get Cerberus back, I let the police alone, and I offered a reward in the newspaper at once. The reward was a handsome one—the Colonel seemed to feel that anything less would be an insult to his dog— and in a couple of days we got him back again as a matter of course. He was a little thinner, a little older- looking, and a good deal hungrier than when he was lost; but his habits were unchanged, and his footprints were as deep as ever.
This was the beginning of my acquaintance with Colonel Ambrose, and it appeared harmless enough at the time. I never became intimate with the Colonel, any more than I ever grew familiar with his dog. The two had, I think, a good deal in common, which may partly account for it. The Colonel, like his dog, was reserved, and perhaps rather solemn in his manner. He was tall, a little gaunt, with abundant evidences of former strength and vigour of no ordinary kind. Nobody could possibly have mistaken him for anything but a gentleman, or his dog for anything but a dog of birth and breeding. If you ask me how old the Colonel was, I can only say I don't know. His closely- cropped, iron-gray hair said little, and his closely-shaven cheeks and chin, if possible, less as to his age. He might, from his appearance, have been sixty-five or so; but the story which follows, and other things, have since then made me fancy he must have been a good deal nearer eighty.
I knew Colonel Ambrose altogether for about seven years. We never grew intimate, but I suppose I must have been more intimate with him than anybody else, always excepting his man Hector. I saw him for an hour or more every afternoon. On one day I called and smoked with him, and on the next he returned the compliment. We were not talkative, though in seven years we must, I suppose, have said a good deal; but, in spite of that, I knew hardly anything about him. That he had spent his life as an officer in the East India Company's service I was aware of course; that he had seen much active service I suspected; but beyond a few casual references to India once or twice he said nothing about his past life.
The Colonel's study, library, or smoking-room—for the room in which we used to sit when the weather was unfit for sitting out of doors might have been called any one of the three—was, like himself, dignified but simple. The furniture was good and solid, but not showy. A table, covered with dark leather, on which there stood a heavy, old-fashioned mahogany desk, bound with brass, a few leather-covered chairs, besides one curious armchair of bamboo, a dark Turkish carpet, and a heavy bookcase of black oak, containing perhaps three hundred volumes in somewhat faded bindings, formed the chief objects on which the eye rested in the Colonel's room. The wall above the mantelpiece was decorated with a very fine tiger's head, which glared with glassy eyes at all comers, and above this a trophy of weapons. Thank Heaven I am not learned in such things! and whatever connoisseurs might think of them, I set them down in my own mind as a lot of ugly and barbarous weapons of destruction, about which I, felt very little curiosity. I remember, however, noticing that at the bottom of the trophy there hung a very large and singularly shaped axe, made apparently of a dull bronze metal.
"Eastern relics, I suppose. Colonel?" was, I think, the only remark it occurred to me, to make about them.
The Colonel's eye followed my glance, and rested on the axe for an instant with a strange expression but he only answered:
"Yes."
The weapons were never referred to again by either of us during all my visits to the room.
Our acquaintance had lasted in this way for nearly seven years, when I was called away to Scotland to see my brother, who was ill. I remained for several weeks, and was beginning to look forward with some impatience to my return to civilization and Highgate, when, to my surprise, I one morning received a telegram. Such a thing hadn't happened to me for years, and my surprise was increased when I had opened and read it. It was written in the third person:
"Colonel Ambrose presents his compliments to Mr. Lockhart. He has met with an accident, and is reported dying. Would gladly see Mr. Lockhart on argent business."
I was shocked by the intelligence, and hurried home at once. My first step upon reaching home was to call at the Colonel's house. I was met at the door by the imposing figure of Hector, the Colonel's confidential attendant, whose strongly marked features, I observed, looked more solemn and grim than I had ever seen them, as he received me with a military salute.
"Can I see Colonel Ambrose, Hector?" I asked.
"Surely, sir, for it will be the Colonel himself that will be wearying ferry much to be seeing you. Oh yes indeed, it would be ferry much that he would heff been wearying."
My man Dick had already told me that the Colonel had been knocked down by a runaway horse, and had received some internal injury from which the doctors held out no hope of his recovery. I was therefore prepared to find him in a critical state, yet I confess I was startled by his appearance when I was ushered by Hector into his bedroom. I had expected to see signs of illness, possibly even some of injury or disfigurement; but it was neither of these things that came upon me almost with a shock—the Colonel had grown old, as it seemed, in a day. It was neither sickness nor suffering that showed in his face so much as extreme old age. Years and years seemed to have fallen upon him all at once, and instead of the stern, soldierly face—bronzed, lined, and war-worn, indeed, but vigorous still—I saw, propped up with pillows, facing the dying sunlight of the long summer's day, a feeble old man.
I paused for an instant in my surprise, till an impatient motion beckoned me to come nearer. I stepped forward and took his hand, muttering something about hoping he was feeling better as I did so. He merely shook his head slightly, and pointed to a chair which had been placed close to the bed.
"No, sir," he said, in a voice that had grown strangely thin and broken—"No, sir; I am not better, nor shall I be. I had hoped to have seen you sooner, but allow me to apologise if I have cut your visit short. The matter was urgent, as you can see."
The voice, like the face, had grown strangely old, but the same grave courtesy of manner clung to him still. I made haste to assure him that he had not put me to any inconvenience, and added that I was sorry to find him so great a sufferer.
"Sufferer, sir?" he repeated, and a new expression that was almost a smile dawned on his face. "I am not a sufferer. I have only received marching-orders. At last, sir—at last. It was time."
He stopped, and for several minutes his eyes were fixed dreamily on the golden brightness of the western sky. I thought he had forgotten my presence, and at last interrupted his reverie by saying:
"Your message spoke of business, Colonel. Is there anything I can do for you?"
He withdrew his eyes from the window, and glanced round the room. His eye caught sight of Hector's great figure, as he stood near the door with bent, head, regarding his master with a melancholy look.
"Hector," he said—"Hector, old friend and comrade, leave us now. I will send for you before the end." The almost giant figure turned slowly away, and I thought I saw a tear steal down his cheek as he left the room. "Yes," the Colonel continued slowly— "yes; I took the liberty of asking to see you on business." He hesitated for an instant, and then, as if with an effort, continued: "I have to ask a favour. It isn't much in my line, but it comes to all of us sooner or later to do it."
"Only mention it, Colonel," I exclaimed. "If it is in my power I shall do it with pleasure."
"Thank you," he said quietly; "I thought you would. Please give me that box," he resumed, after a pause, pointing to a despatch-box which stood on the table.
He drew a bunch of keys from under his pillow, and singling one out, motioned me to open the box. It was nearly full of papers, and on the top there lay a long blue envelope, with the word 'Will' written in a bold hand across it. I lifted it, and handed it to him.
"Was it about this?" I asked.
"Yes," he said slowly—"yes, about that. I have asked you to be my executor, if you will do me so great a favour, and also one other matter. I am sorry to trouble you with this, but I have nobody else I can ask, no one at all."
I hadn't quite bargained for this when I had spoken, and perhaps I was a little alarmed at the prospect; but I had promised, and now I could only repeat that I would gladly do what I could. He looked at me as if he were following my thoughts. Then he said:
"It will not be much. My pension dies with me, of course, and I shall have little to leave behind me." He spoke wistfully, as if afraid I might wish to draw back. I repeated my assurance more earnestly, and I dare say showed him that I was in earnest. His eyes rested on my face, and his own grew tranquil again as he did so.
"You will find everything in the envelope to guide you. I don't think it will give you much trouble. In so far as it does, let me apologize now, and thank you in advance."
"Don't," I said hastily, "don't. It is little indeed for one lonely man to do for another. I only wish—but you know I do— that it were anything else."
"Don't wish that," he said quietly. "It was time, surely more than time."
Again his eyes had turned to the window, and the glow of the setting sun rested on his face, and lit it up with a strange brightness.
"You said there was something else," I suggested, after I had waited in vain for some time for him to say more.
"Yes," he said—"yes; I had almost forgotten. You will find the papers in that box; it was about them."
I moved to lift them, but he raised his hand feebly to stop me.
"No," he said, and his voice seemed to have grown weaker still in the last minute or two—"no; not now. You will look at them afterwards, and I think—yes, I think I should like you to publish them. There will be money enough for that."
"It is a book, then?" I asked in some surprise. I had never connected the Colonel in my own mind with authorship.
"It is a history," he answered slowly, "yet not a history, either—the romance of a lifetime, of two lives, both passed or passing away. It has been sacred till now. Now it may be useful."
He paused again, and his eyes were fixed wistfully on the western sky once more. It was a glorious evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and a few light clouds hung softly round the point of his departure. Between them a flood of golden light poured upwards like a great river, gorgeous, but no longer dazzling. The Colonel's eyes were fixed on it eagerly, as if they saw something new and yet familiar there. I watched him in silence, wondering what could be occupying his thoughts at such a time.
"Hector!" he whispered. "Hector! Here!"
I went quietly to the door and beckoned to the tall figure that stood in the passage a few yards away. He followed me silently into the room, and stood looking at the Colonel. His hands had sunk feebly on the bed, and he leant back on the pillows without an effort to support himself; yet his eyes were bright and clear, and his face was full of a strange, still life. His thoughts, I could see, were far away—perhaps among the scenes of the old romance of which he had spoken—and I didn't dare to interrupt them. How long it lasted I cannot say, but long enough for the sunset light to fade slowly in the sky. The golden river was still there, indeed, but it had ceased to sparkle, and the surrounding clouds were turning from gold to crimson. I turned from the sky once more to look at the Colonel, and I started. In his face, too, the light was going out. The eyes were slowly growing dim, and the lines of the face seemed to be settling into a marble stillness. I looked hastily at Hector, but his great head was bowed upon his hands, and I thought his giant shoulders shook with a sob.
"Colonel!" I exclaimed hastily, but he didn't seem to hear.
His dying gaze never left the pathway of the sunken sun, but his lips moved as if they were whispering soft words in an unknown tongue. Suddenly a bright glow shot upwards into the western sky, and a crimson glory, like a celestial blush, spread to the zenith. With a sudden movement Colonel Ambrose sat up. He raised and stretched out his arms, as if in welcome—the eager welcome of a young lover—and exclaiming, "Eureka! Eureka!" in tones that were strong and clear, yet soft, and full of tenderness, he sank back on the pillows once more. I looked into the Colonel's free. The light had gone out of his eyes; he was dead.
I have done what I could to fulfill my promise. I found that Colonel Ambrose had been right. He had left little behind him to arrange, and the terms of his will had made that little simple. The will was very short, and soldierly in its simplicity. It directed me to pay any debts he might leave behind him, and to pay the sum of one thousand pounds to his friend and servant Hector McTavish, who was also to be at liberty to select any articles he might choose from the testator's personal effects. All the rest of his estate he left to me as residuary legatee. I had no trouble worth mentioning. I paid the few trifling debts that were owing. Hector received his legacy, which I advised him to invest in an annuity. He went home to the Highlands, I believe, and took with him the Colonel's bamboo chair, the great bronze axe that hung on the wall, and Cerberus.
I found that when I had sold the furniture there were still about five hundred pounds left, and the box of papers. I read the papers, as the readers of this book may now do for themselves. The five hundred pounds enabled me to make the task an easier one for them than it was for me, as the writing was old and the ink faded.
I began this by saying that I owed the reader, as well as myself, an explanation; now I have made it as far as possible. Hector had gone home before I read the papers, or I might have learned something from him, and if anybody is anxious to know more than the book will tell him he must look for him. For myself I have no means of knowing whether the adventures related in the story really took place beyond the facts I have mentioned. One thing only I will say in taking leave of the reader. If he had stood beside the Colonel's bed, as I did, on that summer evening, and seen the light in the Colonel's dying eyes, he would have said, as I do now, that, whether the creation of fact or of fancy, it was the vision of the lost Eureka that welcomed him on the golden pathway of the sinking sun.
I HAD been foolish enough to let the Doctor persuade me to join him in one more expedition, which he assured me would be the last, and it was in no amiable temper that I had found myself dragged out of bed at three o'clock in the morning to start upon a three days' march through a Ceylon forest. A few belated bats were flapping their way home to the depths of the forest as we plunged into the jungle. Their flight was announced by the crows, whose musical cry was the signal for the silence of the forest to start into life. From each branch that overhung the track, and from the dense jungle that hemmed it in on either side, there burst a sudden gush of song. The rich notes of the dial-bird[182] mingled with the distant flute-like song of the oriole, and from the recesses of the forest the deep, mellow call of the jungle-cock filled the air with music. Then the insect life of the forest awoke. Huge dragon-flies, startling in the metallic brilliance of their colours, flashed past us, and a thousand gaudy moths and butterflies floated and danced in the streams of sunshine that found their way through the screen of leaves overhead, like huge painted motes in the golden tide.
Our party moved silently along the track, even the horses treading softly, as if unwilling to disturb the universal jubilee of song. We followed one another along the mossy path in Indian file, the white turban of our guide showing a little way in advance, and appearing and disappearing against a background of green leaves. The Doctor came next, so absorbed apparently in the purpose of the expedition that he seemed hardly to see or hear the sights and sounds that had almost reconciled me to the undertaking. I followed the Doctor, and was followed in my turn by Hector, Mackenzie's faithful servant and companion, whom we had mounted on the biggest horse we could find in Trincomalee, which nevertheless looked absurdly out of proportion to his gigantic rider. Two native attendants, each leading a baggage- mule, closed the procession.
At noon we halted beside a stream that crossed the track, and here we rested for three hours during the hottest part of the day. I don't know what Mackenzie did, but for my part I fell asleep, soothed by the murmur of the stream, and oppressed by the weight of the stagnant air, and I didn't awake till it was time to start again. By that time the afternoon was well advanced, and the heavy weight of the sultry atmosphere had lightened. There was a rustle and a shiver among the leaves overhead, and the breeze, though it failed to penetrate the depths of the jungle, served to stir the air, and give some relief from the heat. Gradually the afternoon drew towards evening. The sunshine ceased to penetrate the leaves, and a gray shadow fell over the green depths of the forest. Everything seemed to be melting into a uniform purple tint, and a misty haze crept into the hollows; the sun was going down. All nature seemed to know. The songs of the birds had already ceased, and now even the occasional calls were hushed. There was a rustle and a twitter on every bough, as the life of the forest composed itself to rest. Far off, in the depths of the jungle, there sounded a cry—harsh, impatient, hungry—the cry of a beast of prey. A single bat whirred swiftly across our path. It was time to encamp. A second day, and then a third, were mere copies of the first, till I began to feel as if I was destined to wander through these beautiful but monotonous shades for the rest of my life to satisfy the curiosity of my friend the Doctor.
Nothing short of a twelve years' friendship with Mackenzie would have induced me to come at all. I had already wasted nearly two months of my leave by going from place to place with Mackenzie in the hope of at last inducing him to go home, as he had more than half promised he would, with me. There was not a better fellow or a cleverer surgeon in the Company's service than Allan Mackenzie, or a more obstinate believer in his own theories and opinions, and on this occasion I felt as if I were destined to be the victim. The Doctor was a learned, and of course enthusiastic, student of Oriental antiquities, and when we were quartered at Agra he had become intimate with a very learned Brahmin, named Lalla Ram, and with him he had discussed his favourite theory that Greek mercenaries had played an important part in the history of India about the time of Alexander the Great. As usual, Mackenzie's enthusiasm had proved infectious, and after an infinite amount of research amongst old records, they had settled the matter entirely to their own satisfaction. Unfortunately, Dr. Frazer, of the Bengal Staff, who was a rival authority on antiquities, and, needless to say, a Scotchman also, entirely pooh-poohed Mackenzie's theories, and laughed at his authorities. The result had so far been a series of expeditions in search of original manuscripts, culminating in this visit to the famous but now almost deserted Buddhist monastery at Minihiri, in the famous library of which the Doctor had persuaded himself he was sure to find a Greek record of some sort, such as he had sought in vain on the mainland, to confound his opponent and establish his theory.
I had used every argument I could think of to persuade the Doctor to give it up as a bad job, and not to waste any more of his leave and mine—the first either of us had had in fifteen years of service—on a wild-goose chase after a possible manuscript; but in vain. At last I had agreed to make this last attempt, on the distinct understanding that when he had failed here he would give it up, and carry out our arrangement to go home together. I considered myself pretty safe, and my principal consolation now lay in plans that might to some extent make up for lost time when we got back again to Trincomalee.
We reached the end of the forest on the evening of the third day, just as the daylight was dying away in a soft green tint above the western range of hills. The path had come suddenly to an end, and we found ourselves on open ground, with here and there a solitary tree of vast size standing like a giant sentinel on the skirts of the forest. The hills rose before us, dotted and crowned with clumps of forest, and a little to one side there lay a wide sheet of glistening water, which appeared to lose itself among the hills.
The guide reined in his horse, and, extending his arm and pointing to the lake, exclaimed: "Minihiri Rama!" After a moment's pause he led the way to the shore, and along it for perhaps half a mile, till, rounding the shoulder of a hill which sloped steeply to the lake, we found ourselves among a confusion of heaps and masses of what looked like ruins that rose darkly on both sides of the path we were following. The only light now came from the stars, but even by their glimmering and uncertain light the scene was one of melancholy decay. Here and there great trees, many of which appeared to grow out of the ruins, cast darker shadows on our path, and here and there, too, some huge mass of masonry rose dark and threatening above the track. Our guide stopped at last in front of what looked like a vast rock, which towered, black and precipitous, above us, and raised a long shrill cry that wailed among the ruins and died away on the lake. He had repeated the cry several times, waiting between each, before a light showed itself suddenly against the black front of the rock, and in another instant two figures appeared above us carrying lighted torches. Their closely-shaved heads and faces and yellow tunics proclaimed them Buddhist monks, and at a signal from Mackenzie we dismounted. Without one word of inquiry or of welcome they held the torches while Mackenzie gave the guide directions for encamping, and then they turned and led the way. The lights played on the angles and crevices of the great rock as we scrambled up a steep path which led close along its base, till at last the sudden disappearance of the torchbearers round a sharp angle warned me to hurry after the Doctor, who was following them closely.
A few steps brought me to the corner, and I saw that one of the monks had begun a rough ascent over a flight of ruinous- looking steps that were much worn and broken at the edges. The second monk had halted, and silently motioned us to ascend to the spot at which his companion appeared to wait our arrival. I obeyed his motion without a word, for silence was somehow in the air of the place. The silence, only broken by the crunching of a decaying stone under Hector's ponderous weight, the lights and shadows, and the strange figures of our guides, combined to produce an effect on the imagination not unlike that of some ghastly nightmare.
Picking our way carefully over the broken steps, we reached the guide at last, and then he turned and led the way across a platform to the face of the cliff, where the light of the torch showed a square-headed doorway of great size, which seemed to have been hewn out of the solid rock. He waited till his companion joined him, and then, standing aside, allowed him to lead the way into the profound darkness within. The passage in which we found ourselves was wide, and seemed, as far as I could make out, to be lofty, and, like the doorway, it had evidently been hewn laboriously from the substance of the rock. It was black, and its faces and angles sparkled in the torchlight with a strange glassy brightness. After a few yards we came to steps. I looked at them as we began the ascent, and I noticed that, although they too seemed to have been cut out of the solid rock, their edges were worn and polished as if by the tread of countless feet. I counted forty steps, and then we were in a passage again, and now the flaring of the torch showed that we were in direct communication with the outside air. In another moment it was explained, as the light fell on the open doorway of a room or cell, at the end of which I could make out a square black opening, which I took to be a window, staring out blankly into the night.
We passed down the passage between long rows of cells, every one exactly alike. All seemed to be empty, and not one had a trace of furniture or any sign of human occupancy, only the same polished black floor, the same black roof and walls, the same narrow doorway and window, through which the night-wind whispered of the forgotten past.
We mounted another flight of steps, and then the passage opened into what appeared to be a hall of great size and splendid proportions, as far, at least, as the flickering light of the torches enabled me to judge. Anything more sombre than the dense blackness of floor and walls it would have been hard to fancy, but there was certainly something grand and imposing in the long rows of square black pillars and in the suggested height of the cavernous-looking roof. Our guide passed on before us, and it was with a sudden start that I saw the light of his torch fall upon the figure of a very old man seated on the floor close to one of the pillars, in the very attitude so familiar as that of Buddha himself. Till our arrival he must have been sitting in total darkness, but so far as appearances went the sudden arrival of either the lights or the company didn't appear to have disturbed him in the least. I had never before seen so remarkable, or indeed so venerable, a figure, and for nearly a minute we must have stood looking at him in silence. He was evidently very old. Not a single hair remained either on his head or face, except a few snow-white eyelashes that glistened curiously against his dark olive skin. The look of age came, I think, mainly from the lines on his face. The brow was broad and lofty, but seamed and carved with a thousand delicate wrinkles, and the corners of his eyes were knit and puckered into a vast number of the smallest possible folds that gave them a quaint expression as they appeared to gaze at something so intently and yet to see nothing at all.
After a pause, one of the torchbearers stepped forward, and bowing low before this singular figure, spoke a few words in a guttural whisper. Low as the tone was, the old man evidently heard and understood, for a new look dawned slowly in his glassy eyes, and an expression of intelligence spread over his face as he glanced first at one and then another of our party. Then he extended one of his withered brown hands to the monk who had addressed him. The man grasped it, and helped him to his feet; then he turned to us at once, with a look of kindly though dignified welcome. Mackenzie took a step forward, and bowed reverently to the old man, and Hector and I followed his example. He bowed in acknowledgment, and spoke a few words in a low, clear voice that sounded strangely musical, though neither Hector nor I understood the meaning. Fortunately the Doctor did, however, and replied at once, while a look of pleased surprise lighted up the monk's face as he listened and evidently understood. After a few minutes of conversation, during which several questions seemed to be asked by the old man and answered by Mackenzie, the latter drew a folded paper from his pocket, and, after touching himself with it on the forehead, handed it to the stately monk. I thought he looked surprised, but after a single glance at us he opened and read it As he did so his face lighted up with quite a new expression of cordiality, and he turned to the Doctor, and pronounced two words, which Mackenzie has since told me meant "my brother." A few minutes of eager questioning followed, during which the look of extreme old age almost disappeared from the monk's face in its recovered look of human interest. Suddenly he seemed to recollect himself, and with a dignified motion of his hand invited us to be seated. The invitation was one which presented somewhat unusual difficulties to both Hector and myself, although Mackenzie proceeded to tuck his legs under him on the bare floor with an ease and readiness which we failed to imitate.
The abbot, whose name, it appeared, was Maha Seni, probably noticed our difficulty, for he spoke half a dozen words to one of the attendants, who had hitherto stood like the statue of a torchbearer carved in ebony, and he instantly turned away and disappeared with his torch down the vista of pillars. The other remained motionless, holding his torch aloft, but with his eyes fixed on the floor, as immovable as the pillar at his side. A few minutes passed, while the venerable abbot read over more carefully the paper in his hand, and Hector and I tried uneasily to get accustomed to the cramped position of our limbs, and then a sound of soft footfalls coming out of the darkness reached my ears. In another minute or two a procession of shadowy figures detached themselves one by one from the darkness, and advanced into the circle of light produced by the torch of our unmoved attendant. I recognised, them at a glance for monks, each with the shaved head and yellow tunic that distinguished our guides, and each, like them, absolutely silent. Some of them carried mats and pillows, and others had wooden platters containing fruits and rice. The torchbearer brought up the rear of the procession, and silently indicated where each was to set down his burden.
In a few seconds the mats had been spread beside us on the floor and the pillows heaped on them invitingly, the dishes of fruit and rice-cakes had been placed within reach, and the monks had disappeared as silently as they came. I need hardly say that we readily accepted Maha Seni's invitation to make use of the pillows and partake of the simple supper. While we were eating, and for some time longer, Mackenzie and the old abbot kept up a conversation on the subject, as I learned afterwards, of the document of which we were in search. But at last our host appeared to notice that Hector was nodding heavily, and rising once more with the assistance of one of the attendants, he put an end to the interview.
We had followed his example by rising, and at a word from Maha Seni one of the torchbearers came to life again, and led the way towards the farther end of the hall. We passed into another passage, and again ascended a flight of steps, only to find ourselves once more in a corridor like the one we had passed through when we came. In one respect this was different: we had reached at last the inhabited part of the rocky hive. As we passed the long succession of cells we could see that some, at least, were occupied. There was no light, indeed, in any of them, but as the torchlight was cast through the open doorway, we caught glimpses of shadowy figures seated or lying on the floor. Without bedding, or cover, or even a mat between them and the rock, they appeared to sleep well.
Our guide halted at last at the entrance of a larger cell than any of those we had seen, and as he stood aside to let us enter, his torch showed that preparations had already been made for our accommodation. The black walls had been hung with white draperies that swayed softly in the breeze, and at three places on the floor mats had been laid, and were heaped with pillows of large size and soft material. Our guide remained standing motionless with his uplifted torch in the doorway, while we threw off some of our outer clothing and arranged the pillows for the night. Then, with a low obeisance, he turned away, and the soft sound of his naked feet on the rocky floor, and the waning light from his retreating torch, alone told us that his task was completed.
There was something ghostly about the silence, yet none of us cared to break it. I lay and watched a star which shone through the window opening, and felt rather than saw the slow, undulating movement of the hangings on the wall. Very soon the regular breathing of my companions told me they had fallen asleep, and for a minute the sense of solitude grew almost overpowering. I rose, and found my way to the opening in the rock that formed the window of the cell, and leaning on the broad, square sill, I looked out into the night At my very feet, though far below me, lay the ruins of what had once been a great city. Vast heaps of shapeless masonry, overgrown by trees and shrubs, lay scattered far and wide under the glimmer of the stars. Beyond them the lake lay black and still, reflecting back a thousand stars. Two thousand five hundred years ago, Mackenzie had said, these ruins had been the capital of a kingdom, and the lake had just been formed by damming back the waters of the mountain streams in this narrow valley. Two thousand five hundred years! and still the artificial lake was left, and the last remnant of the silent monks still haunted the empty halls and corridors of the great monastery. I don't know how long I gazed into the night, and dreamed of the distant past, but, at any rate, it calmed and soothed my nerves. With one last look at the dead city and the starlit lake, I crept back to my pillows, and fell asleep to dream that I was a Greek mercenary of the time of Alexander the Great.
THE morning sunshine fell on my face and woke me. I sat up, only to find my two companions in the same attitude as myself. Hector was rubbing his eyes solemnly, as if far from certain that even now he was really awake, and Mackenzie was glancing curiously around him at the strange apartment. My thoughts went back instantly to the night before, and the curious figure of the old abbot, and I asked the Doctor whether he had appeared to know anything of such a manuscript as he was looking for. He told me at once that Maha Seni had never even heard of such a people as the Greeks, but he had said that the library was full of ancient manuscripts, and some that he had seen were written in strange characters, unlike those of any language of India.
We were still discussing the chances of any of these turning out to be what Mackenzie was in search of, when the figure of one of our last night's guides appeared in the doorway. With a low obeisance, but without a word, he motioned us to follow him, and in a few minutes we found ourselves once more in the great hall into which we had been introduced the night before. It seemed to be the dining-hall of the monastery, for already we found it occupied by fully fifty monks. They were a singular company. The level morning sun streamed in long bars of gold across the smooth black floor, showing a line of shaven heads, and dark faces as utterly without expression as it is possible to imagine. All of them were clothed exactly alike, in a yellow linen tunic, which crossed one shoulder and left the other bare, and all were equally silent and motionless. Beside each there was set on the floor a wooden platter of boiled rice and a drinking-cup of water, and the whole scene reminded me irresistibly of some curious picture of the East. It was a little company for such a hall, which could have accommodated a thousand such figures with ease.
Without casting a glance to right or left, our guide led us to the centre of the hall, where once more we were welcomed by the venerable abbot. Mats and cushions had been provided for us, and platters of fruit and rice-cakes were set beside us on the floor. We were no sooner seated than the abbot raised his hand, which seemed to be the signal for the morning meal. In an instant, by some curious sympathy, every one of the silent and apparently absorbed party seemed to know, for they dropped their beads simultaneously, and applied themselves to devouring with keen appetites the heaps of boiled rice on their platters. The task was soon ended, and then, as each one finished, he rose noiselessly and glided away amongst the pillars like a ghost.
While we ate our breakfast the abbot and Mackenzie resumed their conversation of the night before, and when we had finished Maha Seni was once more assisted to rise from his mat, and signed us to follow him. The old man led the way in silence, but with a step that was firmer and more active than I had expected. We passed along several corridors, and mounted more than one short flight of steps, until at last we reached another hall. It was large and lofty, though by no means so spacious as the one we had left, and the window openings were much larger, though in other respects its general appearance was much the same. One difference caught my eye at once, however. On three sides the wall was honeycombed from floor to roof with square holes, that might measure a foot each way, rising regularly, tier above tier. It was evident that this was the library whose fame had lured Mackenzie so far in hopes of finding something to bear out his theory and confound his opponent. The ends of dirty-looking rolls could be seen sticking out of a thousand rocky niches, most of which seemed to be nearly full of writings, and my first thought was how hopeless a search for any particular one was likely to be among so many. Seven or eight monks were already seated on the floor silently poring over the writings that lay spread on their knees.
The abbot paused when he had advanced a few steps into the hall, and looked round as if trying to recall some long-lost memory. Then he began to move slowly down one side of the hall with his eyes fixed on the long rows of niches overhead, as if in the hope of recalling some one in particular. I watched the old monk with interest, though I could hardly help smiling as I thought how impossible it would be to distinguish between things so exactly alike. It did seem hopeless, and yet as I watched him I became conscious of a certain excitement. Mackenzie, I could see, was hardly able to restrain his impatience as he accompanied him step by step. Maha Seni himself showed no sign of excitement. His eyes never wandered for an instant from the long rows of niches, nor did his effort to recall his lost recollection appear to flag for a moment. After a time, I confess, mine did, and it was with something like a start that I saw him stop at last, as if something had enabled him to pick up the lost thread of memory. He put his hands to his brow for an instant, and then walked almost directly across the hall to its farthest corner, followed closely by Mackenzie and the attendant monk. Here he stood for a moment, and then pointed silently with the long staff he carried to one particular niche on the very topmost row. The Doctor had already made one step forward, when he checked himself, as the abbot spoke two or three words to his attendant. The monk stepped to the wall, and inserting his bare toes dexterously into one of the niches, climbed to the top, and took from the niche to which Maha Seni continued to point the only two rolls that seemed to be in it. Neither Hector nor I could quite restrain our impatience as the monk brought the two dingy looking rolls to the abbot, and it was evident to me that the Doctor had the greatest difficulty in keeping his hands off them. Whether the old abbot noticed our eagerness I cannot say, but he merely turned away, signing to the attendant to follow him.
I thought we should never get back to the great hall as I followed the deliberate steps of Maha Seni, and, of course, it must have been worse for Mackenzie, who was in a perfect fever of excitement; but it was useless to show impatience, which might only give offence. If the abbot himself felt any curiosity, he gave no sign; but no doubt a hundred or more years of such a life would account for more than that. He led us back to the place where our mats and pillows still lay as we had left them, and having motioned to us to be seated, took one of the rolls from the monk and handed it to Mackenzie. I watched the Doctor with an amount of curiosity that surprised myself, as he proceeded to untie the dingy brown roll with fingers that trembled with excitement. It was certainly more curious-looking than pretty or even imposing in appearance. A flat piece of black, unpolished wood formed a sort of cover on each side, which was fastened at each end by a cord that ran through holes in the covers, and was then tied in a bow. The whole thing was covered with a fine gray dust, and the cord, whatever its original colour, had faded to the same gray tint.
The Doctor untied the cord at one end with elaborate care, but whatever the substance may have been originally, the lapse of centuries had effectually destroyed it, and it crumbled to dust in his fingers. Then he slipped back the upper slab and disclosed a smoothly polished surface of dingy greenish brown colour, which seemed at first sight to be entirely blank. I bent closer to Mackenzie, and then I was just able to make out a few faint gray scratches that ran in irregular lines along the leaf. I glanced at my companion's face and read his disappointment.
"Illegible, after all, Mack?" I said, a feeling of disappointment for which I could hardly account coming over me as I spoke.
The Doctor said nothing, but his hands trembled as he held it up that he might get a stronger light upon it.
"Yes," he said at last, laying it down again; "and it isn't even Greek, I fancy, whatever it is, so it doesn't matter so much."
The abbot had been watching Mackenzie's face with quiet interest, and had evidently read the verdict without the need of language, for he motioned to his attendant monk, who at once stepped forward and exchanged the roll he carried for the one at which the Doctor was still staring so hopelessly. I noticed that there was no deposit of dust on this one, and also that it was tied with twisted silk cord, which still retained some of its colour. It untied readily, and as Mackenzie cautiously pushed back the cover I started, for I seemed to recognise the familiar forms of some of the Greek letters in the writing that straggled along the leaf. The edge of the leaf had crumbled away irregularly, but, as far as I could see, it had not encroached on the writing, over which the Doctor was now bending with a look of absorbed attention.
"Can you make anything of it, Mack?" I asked, almost breathlessly, while Hector's earnest eyes and even the old abbot's intent look repeated the question.
The Doctor held up his hand.
"Wait," he said. "Give me time, can't you?"
We sat and stared at him as he got out a strong glass and examined the lines of faded letters more closely for several minutes. Then his face lighted up, as he exclaimed:
"Aha, Frazer, I was right, after all! Here it is—'Anaxagoras, the son of Konon the Athenian.'"
"But what about him. Mack?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, it'll take me some hours to tell you that. One doesn't decipher an old Greek manuscript in a minute, I can tell you, though I must say this is about as well written as any I ever saw. You had better leave me alone while I do it, though—I'll get on quicker alone."
He turned to Maha Seni, and I suppose explained, for the old man seemed to comprehend at once, and directed his attendant monk to show us the way to our followers outside. It didn't take so long to thread the ghostly corridor and stairs by daylight, and it was with a feeling of some relief that I found myself once more in the open air, though surrounded on every side by the masses of ruined masonry, overgrown with its covering of plants and creepers. Hector and I found our way down the giant steps up which we had toiled so laboriously in the dark the night before, and found our party encamped under the shade of a great fig-tree that grew out of a heap of shapeless ruins. At any other time I should have found no difficulty in spending a day in examining the ruins and trying to fancy to myself what the place and its inhabitants had been like in the distant age when the city was built and the civilization which it represented was still young. But it was a harder matter now. Mackenzie's strange discovery had produced an effect upon me such as I wouldn't have believed possible if I had been told of it beforehand; and it seemed absurd enough that I, who had laughed at and abused him by turns for the last month because of his credulity, should now feel, as I did, a sensation of excited curiosity out of all proportion to the importance of the discovery so curiously made.
Hector and I wandered about the ruins, and down to the margin of the lake, both of us, I think, affected by the same nameless feeling that something strange and unexpected was to follow on the Doctor's discovery. I could see my gigantic follower glance curiously at me from time to time, as if anxious to know how far my feelings agreed with his own. Hector, however, was a man of few words, and although Mackenzie treated him far more as a friend than a servant at all times, his military training prevented his ever presuming upon it by speaking unless he was first spoken to.
"Well, Hector," I remarked at last, as we stood by the shore of the lake, "this is a curious business, isn't it?"
"Indeed, Major, and that will be just what she was thinking, too. And what wass it that the Doctor he will be finding in the leaves whateffer, would you be thinking now?"
"Heaven knows, Hector! Something about these old Greeks he is always talking about, I suppose."
"And it will be ferry likely. Major, she wass thinking. The Doctor, he will be the ferry clever man. Oh yes, Major; much more cleffer he will be than Dr. Frazer; and it iss many things that he will be knowing, mirover—oh yess, ferry many things."
"Well, Hector," I said, as we turned to go back to the encampment, "I only hope he won't find anything that makes him want to go farther."
Hector made no reply, but followed me, a step or two behind, as was his usual custom when he was with Mackenzie or myself; but from the passing glance I got of his face as I turned away I thought that, like myself, he was far from certain we had seen the last of our wanderings. I didn't care to have my fears on that score increased by an expression of his opinion, so I dropped the subject, and went back to our guides under the shade of the fig-tree. Time hung heavy on my hands, however, and as hours passed on without bringing the Doctor, I found it more and more hard to restrain my impatience.
Fortunately I grew drowsy at last in the still, sultry atmosphere of the place, and finally fell asleep, only to dream a strange succession of visions, in which the dead city lived again, and the tramp of the Greek mercenaries of whom Mackenzie was always talking resounded through the streets.
It was Mackenzie's familiar voice that woke me at last from a sleep that must have lasted several hours.
"Well," I exclaimed, "have you finished it at last?"
"The translation? Oh yes; though, I can tell you, it wasn't quite so simple as perhaps it looked," he said.
"Well, man," I continued impatiently, "was it what you were looking for? Does it throw any light on these blessed Greeks of yours?"
Mackenzie laughed, a sign of unusual satisfaction with him, for he didn't laugh often.
"Well," he said, "I hardly know what I was looking for, to tell the truth, Ambrose. But what I have found is something more than satisfactory. Come along, man, and you shall hear it for yourself; then you can tell me how it strikes you."
"Why not read it here? I can't say I care about that hall of shadows. It's just a little too suitable for these relics of the past, do you know, Mack."
"Oh, never mind that. Maha Seni will certainly expect me to read it before him, though, of course, he won't understand a word of it, and I have made a translation of it for his own reading. At any rate, we owe him something for having helped us to a discovery that should make us famous."
"Famous? Well, it may make you famous with the antiquarian societies, old man," I said, laughing; "but all the fame either Hector or I will get out of it won't demand much gratitude, I fancy."
Mackenzie looked at me for a moment, as if he would have liked to argue the point; then he turned away, remarking dryly:
"I don't know so much about that; but, anyhow, I have left the translation in the hall, so you may as well come back and hear it read there, if your curiosity will carry you so far."
I don't think half a dozen sentences were exchanged before we were once more seated amongst our cushions in the great dining- hall of the monastery, where we found Maha Seni poring over a paper, no doubt the translation which the Doctor had mentioned.
"Now then, Mackenzie," I said, "let's hear what this discovery is which is to immortalize us."
"I'm not sure that this is literally correct," he said, as he unfolded several sheets of paper with great deliberation; "but I will guarantee it near enough for all practical purposes, and I think you'll admit that it tells its own story pretty clearly."
"Story?" I said. "Doesn't it profess to be true?"
"Oh yes, true enough, Ambrose, as you'll agree when you've heard it. It's a narrative, quite in the style of our old friend Xenophon; so I have ventured to call it the 'Diabasis of Anaxagoras' by way of giving it a name."
I glanced at Maha Seni. The old man appeared to be quite engrossed with his reading. I looked at Hector. He had settled himself comfortably, and his face expressed a quiet curiosity.
"Fire away, Mackenzie," I said; "let us hear what Anaxagoras has to say for himself."
The Doctor glanced at me and Hector, and began to read.
"ANAXAGORAS, the son of Konon the Athenian, being Captain of the guard to Alexander, son of Philip, King of the Macedonians, and Captain-General of the armies of the Greeks, came to India in the 121st Olympiad with the King. Alexander, then having advanced as far as the great River Hyphasis, and having received the submission of many princes of the country, returned to Babylon and died there.
"Now, the King being dead, and no man knowing who should be his successor, Anaxagoras made his request to Perdiccas[183] that he might return to India the second time and subdue the country. Perdiccas, nevertheless, having need of him, refused his petition. Anaxagoras then, having obtained the favour of Kallista, the wife of Perdiccas, received from her the signet ring which her husband had been accustomed to wear until he had obtained the ring of Alexander, and departed secretly, taking with him much treasure. Perdiccas, indeed, when he heard thereof was greatly enraged, and commanded that he should be pursued and brought back. Nevertheless, as no man knew by what road he had departed, and seeing that there had departed with him more than a hundred chosen men of the King's guard, and also swift horses, he was not greatly sought for, notwithstanding the commands of Perdiccas.
"Then Anaxagoras, when he had journeyed far on the road towards India, turned aside to certain cities wherein Alexander the King had left garrisons. Having come there, he showed the ring of Perdiccas, and declared that he had the authority of the successor of Alexander to raise an army, both of horse and foot soldiers, wherewith he might extend the dominions of the great King to the River Hyphasis. He also offered much pay and many spoils to all such as would accompany him. By these means he induced not a few to accompany him, and with them he marched onward to the next garrison, and having told them the same things, he persuaded them also to go with him.
"Having by these means collected an array of 2,0000 heavy- armed and 1,000 light-armed foot soldiers, and having with him more than 800 horse-men, he crossed the River Indus below the city founded by the King and called Alexandria after his name, and arrived at the River Akesines, having previously overthrown the native kings of the country in battle. This river also he crossed after the manner of the country, on platforms resting on inflated skins, putting to flight those who endeavoured to oppose him. Here also, having assembled the soldiers, he told them that there were still two rivers to cross before they should arrive at the Hyphasis. These things nevertheless he said falsely, so that the soldiers, having advanced further into the country and being unable to return, might be willing to go wherever he might lead them.
"Having therefore marched for many days through a rich country, the other rivers being on the left hand, where they joined the Akesines, the soldiers at length began to murmur, and refused to proceed any further. Anaxagoras, therefore, having gathered them together, addressed them in a speech, disclosing to them his design, and pointing out that on the one hand they could not return home with safety, and on the other that great riches and many spoils awaited them if they would go forward. The soldiers having heard these things, were greatly moved, and the assembly broke up in disorder. Anaxagoras, nevertheless, having secretly persuaded the leaders, and being assisted by Antalkas, the priest of Apollo, who foretold that great success would attend the expedition, persuaded them that it was better to go forward than to retreat through a hostile country, which, moreover, he had caused them to lay waste.
"On the next day, therefore, Anaxagoras having offered a hecatomb to the god, Antalkas the priest also having declared that Apollo was favourable, the army resumed its march. Now, on the fourth day they reached the edge of the desert, and Anaxagoras, having been informed by a prisoner that it was eleven days' march across, assembled the soldiers, and told them that six days' march would bring them to the great river. He commanded therefore that, laying aside all unnecessary baggage, they should take with them only such things as were needful, and especially food and water. He also promised them great spoils as soon as they should have passed the desert. He caused also many wagons that should have carried spears to be laden only with food and water. This he did secretly, and thus he began his march.
"This desert is the hottest of any desert places; it is also full of serpents and wild beasts, great and fierce, insomuch that all who straggled from the army perished. By the advice of Antalkas the priest the journeys were made by night, so that the soldiers might get such shelter as might be possible during the day. By these means, indeed, many evils were averted. Nevertheless, on the sixth day, the food and water that was carried by the soldiers being consumed, and many having perished by reason of the heat and the serpents, the soldiers began again to murmur against Anaxagoras and Antalkas the priest, and refused to go any farther. Anaxagoras, therefore, having again assembled them together, exhorted them to proceed, telling them that while it was true that he had deceived them as to the length of the journey, he had provided food and water whereby they might accomplish the greatest undertaking ever achieved by man, from which even Alexander the King had turned back.
"Upon hearing these things, indeed, the soldiers were filled with anger; but when they had consulted together, they agreed that it was less dangerous to go onward than to return, and the same night, having received food and water, they resumed their march. Now, on the tenth day, the water being all consumed, and many of the soldiers having perished, certain of them, being filled with despair, sought to kill Anaxagoras. These having been hindered of their purpose, and the sun having now gone down, Anaxagoras addressed them boldly, and promised that all who with him would make one more march should be preserved. Many of the soldiers, hearing these things, resumed the march; but some there were who remained behind, and others fell by the way, concerning whom, whether they died from thirst or by the bites of serpents, no man knoweth until this day. Now, at the rising of the sun we perceived that the desert was indeed passed, and soon after we came to a stream, whereof we drank. We also obtained food at certain villages, the inhabitants having fled at our approach.
"Having then remained here five days, Anaxagoras assembled the soldiers, and having numbered them, found no more remained but 1,521 heavy-armed, and 724 light-armed foot soldiers, besides 165 horsemen. These also he addressed, promising them great riches and honours as the rewards of steadfastness. Now, on the next day we continued our march through a rich country, in which there were many villages and much people, who also fled before us. As often as the sun became hot we halted under the shade of certain great trees, having branches descending into the earth, and again we continued our march when the sun went down. Thus did we go forward for seven days, and on the eighth we came in sight of a great city near at hand.
"Now, when we had come in sight of the city, Anaxagoras commanded the soldiers to halt and see what would happen. Soon we perceived many horsemen and foot soldiers coming forth out of the gates. Their numbers were very great, and, moreover, they had with them elephants, great and wonderful. Anaxagoras, therefore, having drawn up the soldiers in the Theban array, awaited their approach. He also commanded them to avoid the elephants, but in case they could not be avoided, then he ordered the light-armed soldiers to endeavour to put out their eyes with darts. Now, the enemy advanced to the attack, their foot soldiers, a very great multitude, being in the centre, and the horsemen, of whom there were many thousands, on the two wings. The elephants also approached, going before the army singly at internals not very far apart. Now, when they came near, the soldiers, at the command of Anaxagoras, raised the Paean, and advanced at a run to meet them. Seeing this, the slaves who were in command of the elephants urged them to go forward; but they, being alarmed by the noise of the shouting, refused to obey them, and being also assailed with darts, retreated in haste, overturning many, and throwing the army of the enemy into great confusion. As for our soldiers, they continued to charge, which, when they beheld, they shot a few spears and arrows and took to flight.
"Now, when we were about to pursue them, Anaxagoras caused the soldiers to halt. By this means, too, we were saved from destruction, for we were assailed immediately by the horsemen, who pressed upon us with great fury, insomuch that we had almost been thrown into confusion. Our leader, nevertheless, restored order, and charged at the head of the soldiers against the horsemen, who, after a short conflict, also took to flight. Many of our men, however, were slain in the fight against the horsemen, and even Anaxagoras himself would have been killed but for one of our horsemen, who with great bravery rescued him, being himself wounded in the act.
"The battle being ended, Anaxagoras sought diligently for the horseman who had preserved his life, and having found him, caused him to be carried to his own tent, that his wounds might be healed by the skill of Antalkas the priest. Whereupon, having removed the armour from the unconscious body, they found to their great amazement that it was the body of a very beautiful woman. Now, when Anaxagoras himself had been called to look thereon, he knew that it was Kallista, the wife of Perdiccas, who had even followed him from Babylon in the disguise of a horse soldier. Upon this Anaxagoras was greatly rejoiced, and Antalkas, having asked counsel of the god, declared that he should take Kallista to wife, promising also that from them there should spring a progeny of kings more enduring than any the world had seen.
"Now, there fell in the battle twenty-two horsemen, besides sixty-five heavy-armed and seventy-two light-armed foot soldiers. On the next day there came messengers from the city to offer terms on behalf of the King of the land to the leader of the strangers. These brought presents, and likewise offered great payment and much booty if the strangers would enter into his service and fight for him against his enemies. The messengers likewise warned Anaxagoras that if he refused these offers, all his skill and bravery and that of his followers could not preserve him from destruction, being few in numbers in the midst of a nation great and hostile.
"Now, when Anaxagoras had understood these things by means of an interpreter, he assembled the soldiers and laid the matter before them; and after many had spoken, Antalkas also, the priest of Apollo, arose and declared that it was not the will of the god that they should remain in this land, but in a great country lying towards the rising sun. His counsel, therefore, was that we should in the meantime accept the proposals of the King, and await the direction of Apollo. To these things therefore the soldiers agreed, being now wearied with many long marches, and desirous of rest and pleasure. Anaxagoras also, when he had called the messengers, accepted the offers of the King. Now, peace having been made, the people of the country became very friendly and bestowed upon us much provisions and many presents. Their King also treated Anaxagoras as a great prince, and the leaders of the soldiers with much honour. The name of this King also was called Ravenes.
"Having therefore remained where we were for two months, we marched thence against certain enemies of the King, being accompanied by a great army, both of horsemen and foot soldiers and many elephants. After a march of more than a month, we reached the country of the enemy, and for two years were engaged in many battles. During this time also we captured many cities and conquered much country. But the war being now ended, we were not recalled to the royal city, as we had expected, but were placed as a garrison in the country which we had subdued, at which the soldiers murmured greatly. There was also much murmuring because of our share of the spoils, seeing that we had been the foremost in every battle, and had ourselves taken every town. These things, indeed, were laid by Anaxagoras before the King, yet were not the complaints of the soldiers remedied.
"Now, it happened that the King of the country, part of which had been conquered by us, having heard of these things, sent messengers secretly to Anaxagoras, asking him to desert the ungrateful King Ravenes, and to come to his assistance, and promising many and great rewards. He also offered much payment to the soldiers, and many things, including many beautiful women for wives, to the leaders of the army. Now, when these things had been considered, it was agreed that we should desert the service of Ravenes and should give the country back again to the prince from whom it had been taken by our assistance. These things also we did, being assisted by the soldiers of the King against whom we had formerly contended.
"Now, when the country had been restored, and a very great multitude of the people of King Ravenes had been slain in battle, peace was made, and we were treated with great honour by the prince for whom we had fought, and also by his people. Afterwards it came to pass that the eldest son of the King, being desirous of extending the dominions of his father, proposed to Anaxagoras that we should attack a certain people who possessed the sea- coast, and also an island, great and fertile, which lay beyond a narrow strait near to the mainland. This island also was promised to Anaxagoras and to us for a possession, over which we should rule on payment of an annual tribute to the King. Now, after much consultation, and after Antalkas the priest had ascertained the will of the god, we agreed to what had been proposed, and set forth upon the expedition.
"The men of the south coast were brave and skilful in war, and they were not subdued until many battles had been fought. Nevertheless, after two years of warfare they were defeated, and their King, having been shut up in his citadel, destroyed himself by fire that he might not fall into the hands of his enemies. After this, having obtained certain vessels, we crossed over to the island which had been promised us for a possession, and this also we conquered, with all its people and its wealth, after many battles. Now, it came to pass that, the great island being subdued, and peace being restored, Anaxagoras demanded the possession of the same, according to the agreement which he had made with the prince before the expedition began. To this, nevertheless, the King would by no means agree, but instead thereof offered much gold and treasure. But when these things were reported to the soldiers, they were full of anger, and proposed to march against the Prince, and having slain him, to seize the island; some, nevertheless, doubted whether, being now few in numbers, we were able to undertake so great a thing.
"Antalkas, then, the priest of Apollo, having consulted the god, stood up and spoke thus to the assembled soldiers: 'Ye sons of the Greeks, beloved of Apollo, listen to my words. Eight years have passed away since the day that ye crossed the River Hyphasis; ye were then in number more than 8,000 men. Since then ye have fought a hundred battles, ye have destroyed many cities, ye have conquered mighty kingdoms, so that now ye number little more than 800. These things, nevertheless, were the will of the gods. Now, therefore, it is needful that ye consider well whether ye are able to accomplish that which ye now design, otherwise ye will bring destruction upon yourselves. Look well, then, men of Greece—heroes, indeed, covered with immortal glory, but nevertheless men, liable to death, and now but few in numbers among a host of enemies—what ye are able to do to this treacherous Prince. Neither need ye think that if ye submit to the wrong which he would do to you ye shall therefore remain in safety. The Prince knows that ye now are few; he knows also that he has deceived you. To remain here, therefore, is to prepare to die, neither can ye hope to return to Greece like the heroes who survived the war against Troy. Vast kingdoms, solitary deserts, and mighty rivers lie between. Now, therefore, sons of the Greeks, as ye cannot return, and it is not possible to remain here safely, ye ought to determine that ye will go forward. Before you lies the sea, ruled by Oceanus, and beyond it are the isles of the blessed. There ye may found a mighty empire without war, and there ye may rest in peace from all your labours.
"'Do ye ask me, men of Greece, how that land may be found? I answer that the god himself will point the way. Follow ye, therefore, the guidance of the god. Make terms with this treacherous Prince, and obtain from his gratitude or his fears all things needful for your journey. Take with you also your wives, if ye have wives, or if ye have none, take to yourselves the fairest daughters of the land. Take ye also provisions for the voyage, and likewise cattle and seeds, that ye may rest and prosper in the new land which the sun-god giveth to his children."
"Now, when Antalkas had made an end of speaking, Anaxagoras and the other leaders agreed to his words as to those of Apollo himself. A reply, therefore, was sent to the Prince that we could by no means consent to accept his gifts and to remain his servants, but that, if all things needful were provided for us, we were willing to depart from his country and to see him no more. Now, when the Prince had heard these things he joyfully agreed to what was demanded, and having seized three great ships that had come from the land of silk, he delivered them and their crews into our hands. He provided also all things whatsoever were demanded by Anaxagoras and Antalkas the priest—provisions and cattle and seeds, and likewise many fair women, whereof, at the command of the god, speaking by the mouth of Antalkas, each soldier chose but one—being anxious that we should be gone. Now, therefore, all things being now ready, and the women and the cattle and the provisions and seeds having been embarked, and it being now the tenth day of the month Gameleon, we are ready to depart, following the path of the rising sun to the new land promised by Apollo.
"By command of Antalkas the priest this record is laid up in the temple of Buddha, near to the place of our departing, for the instruction of the generations of men that are yet to come."
Mackenzie stopped, and we sat looking at him silently. None of us moved, and for the moment I confess I didn't care to shake off the strange impression that had grown upon me as he read. It was as if I had been listening to the echoes of a voice silent for twenty-two centuries, as if the fingers of the long-dead priest of Apollo were solemnly beckoning to us across the ages. Perhaps the place had something to do with it—the place and the company—but, at any rate, for the moment it was overpowering.
Mackenzie himself was the first to break the spell by folding up the paper with that special care which people use about trifles when their mind is wholly occupied with other things. Then he glanced from Hector to myself without speaking.
"And is that all?" I asked, in answer to his look.
"Yes, that is all; indeed, like most Greek narratives, it is tolerably complete."
"Well, yes, I suppose it is. A strange story, too, isn't it, Hector?" I said, turning to our silent companion.
"A ferry strange story it would be, Major, whateffer," Hector replied, "but it iss not finished—no, indeed. Major; it iss a ferry long way from being finished."
"Finished or not, Hector, that seems to be all, so the rest is left to our imagination."
Hector said nothing more, but looked curiously at Mackenzie, as if he expected him to say something. I glanced around me—at the figure of Maha Seni, sitting motionless in front of the pillar; at the black roof and walls of the sombre hall; at the statue-like figure of the attendant monk, holding still the two ancient manuscripts under his arm, who might have been carved in ebony so far as any sign of life went.
"Let us get out of this vault, Mackenzie," I exclaimed; "the place is enough to choke one."
I rose as I spoke, and both my companions followed my example. At a word from Maha Seni the monk awoke to life again, and led the way to the open air, of which somehow I seemed to be in need.
WE passed that night at the monastery, though I cannot say I slept. The story I had listened to amid such strange surroundings weighed on me like a nightmare. The ghostly hangings on the walls of our cell seemed to have grown more ghostly than ever. The sighing of the night-breeze through the deserted corridors seemed to bring with it the echoes of the voices of countless generations of monks who had haunted them thousands of years ago. Through it all, and somehow behind it all, my ear seemed to catch the low hum of the great city once more, and through the hum the tramp of the mailed warriors of Macedon.
The flash of a torch and the soft whispering footfall of our silent guide roused me at last from a half-waking doze, and I knew that it was nearly dawn and time to resume our journey. We found Maha Seni seated in the great hall as when we saw him first, and the wondering question passed through my mind whether the old monk never slept, but sat in that dismal place in rapt contemplation day and night. At any rate, he now rose to say good-bye, and it was with a strange, involuntary feeling of reverence that I saw the old man solemnly raise his hand as if to bless us by way of farewell Not a word was said. Silently we bent our heads before him, and then silently turned away. Our guide went before us with his torch, and the picture that after all these years remains with me still is that of the aged abbot— descendant, as Mackenzie assured me, of a hundred kings—leaning upon his staff and giving his parting blessing to the strangers. Our party were waiting for us at the foot of the ruinous mound by which we had ascended when we arrived, and few more singular pictures could be conceived than that of our attendant standing with uplifted torch, the towering rock behind him, and at his feet the ruins of the dead city on the silent shore of Minihiri Rama.
Our return journey was entirely uneventful The same oppressively beautiful forest arcades, the same wealth of life and beauty, so profuse and varied that it seemed to bewilder and weary the senses, attended us on our three days' march. We had been a silent party as we came, and we were hardly better company as we went back again. The Doctor was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and for my part I had an uncomfortable anticipation that in some way or other I was destined to find the result of our expedition a barrier to carrying out my common-sense plans for making the most of my leave. It was true that all we had found was no more than a record of the most distant past, and, except for antiquarian purposes and for the confusion of the unbelieving Dr. Frazer, in which I fully sympathized, had really no bearing upon the present; but yet, as I glanced at Mackenzie, apparently lost in thought, I could not get rid of the feeling that I had by no means heard the last of the Greeks of Anaxagoras.
I left the party at the hospitable mess-table at Fort Donnelson on the evening after our return with the fruit and wine still before them, and found my way into the cooler evening air. Without any special purpose, I climbed to the highest bastion of the fort, where I found Hector seated upon a cannon, looking out silently across the bay. I took a seat on a gun-carriage, and almost involuntarily my eyes followed his It was a wonderful scene, such, indeed, as can only be seen at such a time and place. The broad waters of the inner harbour lay as smooth as glass, reflecting back the last sunset lights that were dying slowly in the western sky, and as I watched a sudden red flush shot upwards like a great crimson river, throwing a wonderful light upon the waters that stretched away to the eastward, and seemed to grow and lengthen before my eyes.
Neither of us spoke a word while it lasted, but as it died slowly away I exclaimed:
"That was beautiful, Hector, was it not?"
"Oh yess, Major. She would heff been thinking that it wass a ferry good light whateffer, but it would be far better lights nor that she would heff been seeing at home—yess, indeed, far better nor that."
"At Ruanachan Bay, Hector, where your cousin saw the mermaids combing their hair in the moon light, eh?"
It was the voice of Mackenzie, who had come up in the gathering darkness unobserved; but there was nothing startled about the tone of Hector's reply.
"Oh, yess, Doctor; and it will be Ruanachan Bay that iss a ferry good bay whateffer. And eff it will not be mermaids that Duncan McIvor will be seeing, then what wass it, I should like to know?"
"What was it indeed, Hector?" Mackenzie said, laughing. "But what light were you speaking of? I saw no light as I was coming up."
"A very strange and beautiful reflection on the water," I said. "It came up quite suddenly and stretched away to the eastward across the harbour."
"To the eastward?" Mackenzie said quietly, and then stopped. "Well," he continued, after a moment's pause, "have you made up your mind Ambrose? Are you prepared to follow up our great discovery?"
"Follow it up. Doctor?" I said. "I fancy we've followed it as far as it goes; what more do you want to do now?"
"You know well enough, Ambrose," he said quietly; "but to put it plainly, are you willing to go with me to find the Greeks of Anaxagoras?"
"Nonsense, Mack! You're dreaming, man!" I exclaimed impatiently. "The Greeks of Anaxagoras have been in Abraham's bosom—or Neptune's—these two thousand years and more."
"Well, then, their descendants?"
"How do you know they left any?" I asked.
"I don't know, of course, but I believe they did. If they were not drowned, they certainly did. Whoever heard of a migration such as that leaving no trace?"
"But for two thousand years, Mackenzie! Think what that means, man!"
"What's two thousand years in the history of a people, after all? The language may change, and the customs, but the race doesn't change; or, if it was isolated from other races, it might change very little."
"Look here, Mackenzie," I said, after a pause, "why not be content with the discovery you have made?"
"Why not?" he echoed. "Because it is nothing as it stands Anybody might have found an old manuscript; and if I announced it to the scholars of Europe, five out of six of them would declare it to be a clumsy forgery. What we have found is nothing but the first step to a great discovery."
"What great discovery do you mean?" I asked.
"Can't you see what I mean, man? What did Columbus discover? A continent inhabited by savages. But who has discovered a buried civilization? Who has found a people among whom we may hope to find the language, learning, and art of ancient Greece surviving still?"
"And do you dream of finding this?" I asked, looking at him in honest amazement.
"Dream, man? I do more than dream it—I shall do it. If you will join me, we shall do it together; if not still I shall do it."
There was absolute conviction in his voice which was impressive, and the time and place increased the effect to an extraordinary extent. I was silent for a minute, then I felt that I must once more raise a protest on behalf of common sense.
"But my dear fellow," I said, "where, in the name of fortune, do you expect to find them? In the time of Columbus you might have expected to find anything, but now—the world is explored now. If these people really existed, we should have heard of them before now."
"No, Ambrose, the world isn't half explored yet. Who knows what there is in Central Africa, or Asia? Who has ever tried to penetrate the heart of Australia?"
"But you wouldn't go on a wild-goose chase over the unknown parts of the earth on the chance of meeting with a lost race of Greeks?"
"No. I would follow them to the rising sun. That was the course of Anaxagoras, and it wouldn't be possible to have a plainer course marked out for us to follow. We know the month in which he sailed, we know the port from which he started; a seaman could hardly have made it clearer. Even without a compass the Greeks couldn't have missed it, and we can follow it exactly."
"Yes, and where would it land us?" I asked.
"Look at the sun when he rises tomorrow. The broad track he will mark out on the ocean will be the path of the Greeks, and it will lead us—as no doubt it led them—to the land of the sun, which we have learnt to call Australia."
I had guessed it before. I, too, had thought of the oracle of Antalkas, and had seen how difficult it would be to miss that great southern land by steering for the sunrise in the southern summer. Australia—the name was familiar enough in 1832, but what did we know about the country? Yes, it was possible. If Anaxagoras and his followers really sailed on the course they proposed, if they reached land in safety, if they were neither destroyed by savages nor perished for want of food, they might have founded a nation, and Mackenzie's dream might prove to be more than a dream.
It was just possible; but if so, could it be worth the risk and the labour necessary to prove it true? Mackenzie spoke of the glory and credit we should gain, but it was quite likely he was over-sanguine; still, there was pretty sure to be both excitement and adventure in the attempt. Surely it might be worth trying; yet I hesitated.
There was a long silence this time, broken only by the low sighing of the evening breeze through the tops of the palm-trees that fringed the beach below. It was interrupted at last by Hectors slow, deep voice asking a question:
"And wass it to Australia that the Greeks would be going, Doctor, wass you saying, whateffer? They wass telling me—at least, Donald Macdonald he would be telling me—that Australia iss a ferry good country, whateffer. If there wass no black peoples there, nor any white peoples either, mirover—oh yess, a ferry good country he would be telling me it wass."
Mackenzie laughed.
"But you know, Hector, the Greeks were not black," he said.
"Oh no, so I will heff heard before. Doctor; but it wass Donald that would be saying that the white peoples they would not be any better nor the black peoples, except it would be for the colours of them—oh no, not any better at all."
The Doctor didn't seem to be anxious to continue the discussion, and Hector said no more; so the silence settled down upon us again as I debated with myself what I should say or do.
"Have you thought of any way of carrying out this idea of yours, Mackenzie?"' I asked at last.
"Oh yes, that can be easily arranged."
"Do you think it can be done with tolerable safety and without a ruinous expense?"
"A good deal more safely than tiger hunting, and at less expense than twelve months' leave in England."
I drew a long breath that was almost a sigh.
"I did think of having a look at all the places again," I muttered regretfully.
"Where's the good, Ambrose? I know you've nobody there now you care much to see, and you don't know what fifteen years does with old acquaintanceships. I've tried it. Depend upon it, you'll enjoy yourself a hundred times more here. If you must go, let us find the Greeks first, and we shall have something to talk about when we get there. Come now, old friend and comrade," he said, rising from his seat and laying a persuasive hand on my shoulder— "come now, say yes, and let us be comrades in this as we have been so often before."
"What, tonight, Mackenzie?" I asked, laughing uneasily at his earnest tone.
"Yes, tonight; why not? If we are to succeed, we have plenty to do, and not even one day to lose. Come now, Ambrose."
Still for a moment I held out. Mackenzie's words and tone were persuasive, so was the pressure of his hand on my arm, and hardly less my own inclination, yet somehow I hesitated still.
"And Hector?" I asked irresolutely, half turning to where his figure loomed large in the darkness.
"Wass it herself, Major? She would not be so ferry sure about the Greeks whateffer; but if the Doctor he will be going, she would be going with a ferry good will too—oh yes, with a ferry good will, whateffer."
"Very well, Mackenzie," I said desperately, "very well. I believe it's a mad business altogether; but if you have determined to go, I suppose we may as well sink or swim together, as we have done a good many times already. Here goes! Let us follow the wraith of Anaxagoras, as Hector would call it, I suppose."
I rose and turned to Mackenzie, and in the darkness his hand sought my own. In that grasp I was pledged to the great adventure of my life. And the sighing wind that came from the eastern sea brought me no warning of fate.
I FOUND that Mackenzie had almost taken it for granted that I would join him. In the single day that had passed since our return he had made inquiries, and had even gone so far as to bargain for the use of a vessel for the expedition. It was a small brig, named the _Pelican_, which had been in the trade with Calcutta, but had been getting too small for the increasing business, and could therefore be chartered for as long as we might require her services. Having once agreed to go, there was nothing for it but to throw one's self heartily into the work of preparation, and the next two or three weeks was a busy time for us all. We had let it be understood that we were going on a voyage of discovery to the west coast of Australia, and although we were looked upon by the officers of the garrison, as well as by the few civilians we knew, as little short of crazy, they took a certain amount of interest in our adventure. As to the real object of our expedition we were careful to say nothing, but allowed our enthusiasm for discovery and science to be made the standing joke of the mess at Fort Donnelson until we were ready to sail.
By March 25 all was ready, and at last we were off. As I stepped from the small boat to the deck of the brig I was conscious of a strange feeling that I was entering upon the most important undertaking of my life, and yet I was not aware of any reason why it should be so. My life for the last fifteen years had been an adventurous one, and this voyage seemed but a trifling risk beside many I had run; and yet I was oppressed by a feeling such as I had never felt before. It was not fear, nor was it anxiety about the future, but rather a solemn sensation that the step I was taking was somehow one from which there was no return.
The night was perfect. The dark waters of the bay were moved but hardly rippled by the first touch of the land-breeze, which came off shore full of the whispers of the palm-groves, and rich in the faint suggestion of spices. The mass of the fort rose black against the sky, each bastion clearly marked against the horizon, and far away to the west the jagged line of the Kandyan range rose, gray and indistinct, against the line of sky. As I set foot on the deck the half-door leading down to the cabin opened, and the hearty voice of the skipper preceded him in a dialect of broad Scotch, which five-and-twenty years of life in the Eastern seas had done nothing to mitigate.
"Ye're welcome aboord the _Pelican_ gentlemen. A'm thinkin' it'll no be lang or we'll be gettin' a bit slant o' wind tae gie us a start."
By the time the boat had been hoisted on board, and a few turns of the windlass had brought the anchor short up, we had made our final arrangements in our berths, and found ourselves on deck once more. There was no change so far to justify the skipper's expectation of a breeze—indeed, it was so still that I started at the first sound of a voice behind me.
"Ay, ay, sir, it'll come oot wi' the tide, a'm thinkin', an that'll no be lang noo. Can ye no feel a cauld dampness in the air?"
It was the Captain's voice, and, glancing round, I saw him standing with Mackenzie on the opposite side of the deck.
"Yes, now you mention it, I think I do," said the Doctor. "Do you suppose we'll get enough to carry us clear of the land?"
"Weel, a'm thinkin' it's as like as no; thae mountains look grayer than or'nar', and that's maistly a sign o' wind."
I glanced at the distant mountains, and was surprised to see how near they seemed. There was a low bamboo chair beside me, into which I threw myself to wait for the promised wind, and while I waited I abandoned myself to dreams. It was the Captain's voice that roused me.
"It's comin' the noo," he said in a brisk, alert tone, which had the effect of rousing me at once. "Ye'll obleege me, Mr. Jameson, if ye'll gie the watch a bit ca'."
I sprang to my feet as the loud voice of the mate shouted to the sailors in some Indian dialect.
I must have dreamt or dozed for some time, for a glance was enough to show that the tide was running out. The sky to the eastward glowed with a faint gray light that crept upward from the horizon and blotted out the stars. Already the lascar sailors had answered to the call of the mate, and the quick patter of naked feet, the loosening of ropes, and the creaking of blocks and spars, showed that the orders shouted from time to time were being obeyed. Then came the sharp click of the capstan and the measured tramp of bare feet on the deck as they heaved the anchor, while every moment the breeze came more freshly off the shore. The click of the capstan ceased; there was the sound of running feet, the clang of ropes thrown on the deck, and the sullen creak of the yards as they swung slowly round. The head of the brig swung to the breeze; the palm-trees, the fort, the dim outline of the shore, swept past like some great diorama, and the voice of the mate came aft from the forecastle, "There's way on her, Captain." We were off.
Mackenzie was standing beside me as the _Pelican_ swung into her course and we headed east. At that moment the broad disc of the moon rose slowly from the ocean, casting a broad trail of silver across the water as if to meet us. The Doctor laid his hand upon my arm.
"There, Ambrose," he said, "the track of Anaxagoras."
"Well, let us hope the omen is a good one," I rejoined, "but I am no great believer in omens myself, Mackenzie."
He turned away and joined the Captain.
"A nice breeze this, Captain," he said; "I only hope it will last."
"Weel, a wudna jist say, but if we can only get away faur enough sooth till catch the monsoon, ye micht be nigh Australia afore ye weel kenn'd ye had started."
"And whereabouts would it take us to on the coast, Captain, if we ran before it?" he asked, a little anxiously.
"Tak ye? Weel, maist ony place frae the near end o' Torres Straits till maybe eighteen degrees sooth on the west coast."
Mackenzie said no more, and after a pause the Captain cleared his throat and resumed:
"As ye're goin' exploring it's like ye'll hae fixed on the preceese pairt o' the coast ye'll be seekin' tae begin at, a'm thinkin'."
"Well, no; not exactly. The northwest coast was our idea, as it seems to be quite unexplored. I suppose you know nothing of it yourself?"
"Weel, a'm thinkin' a dae, though it's no muckle. A ance pit in there for spars efter a hurricane that maist feenished us aff the nor'-west coast."
"'And what sort of place did you find it?"
"Weel, a canna say much for the place, though there was a good harbour, and, what was mair, a fine river, whaur we got the spars we were lookin' for. A'm thinkin' it micht be mair agreeable inland, for it wasna muckle tae boast aboot on the coast."
"Did you see anybody?"
"No a leevin' saul, an' hardly a bird or a beast."
"So you have actually been on shore on the northwest coast of Australia?" Mackenzie said thoughtfully.
"Ashore? Ay, that was I, an' some five or sax miles up the river besides. A wudna wonder gin we were the first white men there. Ony way, that river's no on ony chairt o' the coast that ever a saw."
"Do you remember the latitude of that river, Captain?" Mackenzie asked, after a pause.
"No, sir; a wudna jist like till say that a dae, but a daur say a could come within a degree o't, and it's no ill tae find. There were twa bits o' islands we sailed between that I'd maist ken the look o' in the dark."
"And the river, Captain: do you say it was a large one?"
"Lairge?" the Captain repeated meditatively. "Ay, sir, a'm thinkin' it was middlin' lairge; maybe a third o' a mile across, an' deep as faur as we went up. No, sir; it wasna a wee river yon."
Sea and nothing but sea greeted me next morning when I reached the deck and looked around, expecting to see the coast or at least the inland mountain peaks.
"Was it Ceylon ye were lookin' for, Major?" was the greeting of the Captain, who was walking the deck. "Ye'll see nae mair o't till ye've explored New Holland, an' that'll no be an ower easy job, a'm thinkin'."
"I suppose not, Captain, and as you were the first explorer you ought to be able to form an opinion."
"A'll no say that. Major, though a'm faur frae sure that ye could selec' a better place tae begin at than ma ain river."
"Yes; I suppose there would at least be good harbourage for the brig; but the Doctor's commodore, you know."
"An' faur frae a bad ane either. But, ony way, a'm thinkin' it's maybe worth conseederin'."
Mackenzie and I discussed the question, and after consulting the Captain it was decided to steer for the spot, as nearly as the Captain's recollection would serve him. It proved an easy matter, as we were able to run before the wind the whole way after the first few days, during which we steered southward till we fell in with the monsoon. Day and night we held our course, with all sail set, the sea smooth, and the wind steady. If this, as Mackenzie said, was the course of Anaxagoras, it was an easy one to follow.
I don't know that in my sober moments I had really any hope that anything would come of the Doctor's wild fancy about finding the Greeks, but in his company it was hard to avoid being infected with some of his enthusiasm. It was partly this, and partly the want of anything else to do, that made me fall in with Mackenzie's suggestion and spend most of each day in taking lessons in Greek from the Doctor. When I had left Westminster School I was one of the best Grecians there, and I was surprised how quickly it came back to me. My companion was a wonderful linguist, and seemed very soon to speak Greek almost as freely as English, and for myself it was astonishing what a month of constant practice did, with Menander for a model and Mackenzie for a tutor, to familiarize me with it as a spoken language.
It was on May 10 that we sighted land. We had been warned to expect it, yet when the cry of "Land ho!" in the stentorian voice of the mate woke me one morning, it caused me to start with a feeling that was wholly new. I was on deck in a minute or two. The sun had not risen, but his first rays, striking upwards behind a low bank of clouds on the eastern horizon, formed a golden halo that was strangely beautiful. Gradually the outlines of land seemed here and there to detach themselves from the mist that lay low upon the water. In spite of my common-sense, in spite of my incredulity, it was with a curious sense of expectation that I stared at the misty shore. As for Mackenzie, who had reached the deck almost as soon as myself, there was something in his face which made me feel as if it would be an impertinence to disturb his thoughts. I went forward to the forecastle, where the Captain was examining the shore through a telescope, while Hector sat on the low bulwark beside him.
"Land at last. Hector!" I exclaimed, by way of greeting.
"Oh yess, Major. It will be the Captain that will be sayin' so, and I suppose it will be true. But it iss not much like the land—oh no, it iss ferry little like the land whateffer."
"Weel, man," remarked the captain, "it'll jist be a bit o' New Holland for a $$$$$ an' if ye're gaun explorin' a'm thinkin' ye'll ken the look o' it better yet."
He handed me the telescope as he spoke, with the remark: "A wee bit on the larboard bow, Major. Keep her doon tae the sea- level, and ye'll mak it oot under the fog-bank."
"I have it. Captain," I said; "the land seems very broken."
"It's a' that. Major; but a dinna think it's the coast itsel', but mair likely islands lyin' aff the shore. It wudna surprise me tae fin' oot that a hae seen some o' thae peaks afore; if sae, we'll hae made a graun' land-fa', though it's nae credit tae onybody if it should be sae. Ye had only tae let her gang her ain way, an' she couldna weel hae come onywhere else."
"That's a fact. Captain, and it's very extraordinary, too."
It was Mackenzie, who had joined us, that spoke.
"Weel, a dinna ken aboot extr'or'nar', Doctor. There's no sae mony things that's extr'or'nar' when ye understaun' them. Noo, this is jist natural. The monsoon, ye'll obsairve, blaws at this time o' the year frae the nor'-west, an' as faur as a hae seen, the current gangs wi' the monsoon. No, a canna say it's extr'orn'ar'—no me."
"Do you mean that any vessel from Ceylon would come to about this place if left to herself?"
"That wud she, Doctor—at this time o' the year, ye'll obsairve; onyway, within, maybe, a hunder miles or sae."
Mackenzie made no reply, and my mind went back over the long vista of twenty-three centuries, till I seemed to see the ships of the Greeks drifting on the course we had followed.
Another hour made it clear that the Captain was right, and that what we had sighted had been only a fringe of islands, generally of small size, lying apparently some distance from the mainland. We coasted them at a distance of a mile or two, heading for the north with a good breeze till nearly mid-day without seeing any end of the group. The Captain had never left the forecastle, but continued to watch every new island as it came in sight with untiring attention through his telescope. I, too, was seated on the bulwark watching the long procession of islets as we swept past, when I was roused by an exclamation from my companion.
"Bless ma saul! A could sweer till yon onywhere."
"What!" I exclaimed. "Captain, do you recognise the place?"
"Ay, ay. Major. It's ane o' the bit islands sure enough. A mind the spot weel. Mair by token the auld _Crusader_ vera near gaed ashore on that point. There's a deevlish rin o' tide roon' there."
The correctness of the Captain's memory was soon made evident as we ranged up alongside the little island, and came close enough in to see the water boil and break on the low point that ran out from its northern end. We stood well across to the further island, and then, letting the brig fall off before the wind, ran in between the two. In a few minutes we found ourselves in a gulf that was almost land-locked. Between us and the ocean the fringe of small islands stretched, an almost unbroken barrier against both wind and sea, and the space inside was dotted with other islands, among which we had to thread our way with caution towards the mainland. The sun was setting behind us when we sailed between a high, rocky island and a red bluff on the mainland, and found ourselves in what looked like the mouth of a considerable river. A few minutes more, and the words of command were given to take in the sails for the first time since we had left Ceylon. The yards creaked once more, there was a rattling of blocks and a flapping of sails, and the sharp sound of jib and foresail running down; then the sullen plunge of the anchor, and the harsh rattle of the chain; as it ran noisily through the hause-hole, and the voyage was over. It was Australia at last. The first step of our adventure had been taken successfully, and we could imagine ourselves lying where the junks of the Greeks had lain so many centuries ago. We were face to face with the problem now. Did the problem admit of a solution? If it did, were we to have the credit of solving it?
The great question was, of course, what was to be the next step. We discussed our plans while the Captain and crew were occupied with the hundred operations that go to make snug a vessel which may be some time in port. In spite of his enthusiasm, Mackenzie could be matter-of-fact and practical enough when he chose. We had drifted rather than gone of any set purpose to the place where we found ourselves, and, absurd as it seemed to me when I thought of it coolly, our movements had really been guided by the manuscript we had discovered. After all, we seemed to have had but little to do with it ourselves. We had started with no knowledge of the winds and currents of the Indian Ocean; we had not known till we embarked that the Captain had any personal knowledge of the west coast of Australia; even he had hit upon the place to which he had brought us more by accident than by seamanship. The coincidences were so strange that I am not ashamed to say they influenced me nearly as much as they did the Doctor himself. If the story of Anaxagoras was only true—and when I thought of all the circumstances of our discovery, I could hardly doubt it—there was no reason why the winds and currents that had brought us here should not have done the same for those Argonauts of the distant past.
But if so, there was still the fact that the descendants of the Greeks—if they had, as Mackenzie was so positive they had, left any descendants—were evidently not here. We had only to look around, as both of us had done with anxious curiosity, to see that there was not a sign of inhabitants, either on the islands we had passed, or on the mainland close to which we were lying. The Captain, too, had sailed some distance up the river, and he had seen no signs of life. If they had landed here, where had they gone to? Mackenzie maintained that they had gone inland— perhaps even a long way inland—before they found a country suitable for settlement. There might not even be a trace left, after the passage of so many centuries, that they had ever been in the district, and yet there might be, in case they had tried settling in various places before they moved farther from the sea. We discussed the question for hours and at last we decided to take the Captain into our confidence. At the worst he could only look upon us as crazy, and it was quite possible he might be able to throw some accidental light on the question, or even to make some suggestion of value.
I sat and watched his face that night in the little saloon while Mackenzie told the story by the somewhat dim light of the swinging lamp. The Captain's rugged, weather-worn features were a curious study as he listened. Surprise, incredulity, amusement showed themselves in turns in the expressions that followed one another over his expressive face; but as the story went on I noticed that these gradually gave way to interest, and that in its turn to absorbed attention. When Mackenzie stopped at last, having laid before him our doubts as to how we should proceed, the Captain leaned back in his chair for several minutes without speaking, while both the Doctor's eyes and my own, and even Hector's great gray eyes the farther end of the table, were fixed on his face, like those of men waiting for a verdict When he spoke at last it was almost like a man talking to himself.
"Twa thoosan' years! Ma certy! it's no a wee while yon. Mony a thing micht hae happened, a'm thinkin', in less time than yon. But it's no impossible. The East's no like the West someway. No, a winna say it's a'thegither impossible. Weel, Doctor," he said suddenly, as if aware for the first time that he was speaking aloud, "that's a queer story, an' a'm no sayin' that it's just a very soond warranty for explorin' the heart o' New Holland aether. But a'll no deny that it's as queer a story as ever a heerd tell o'."
"But," said Mackenzie, "why shouldn't they have got to Australia after all, Captain?"
"An' a'm no sayin' they didna, puir deevils, though a'm thinkin' they were a queer sort o' navigators for a lang voyage. No, a'm no sayin' they didna, Doctor; for if they werena drooned, a dinna see whaur else they could vera weel hae come till. But ye'll mind, Doctor, it wisna jist the itner day, an' a'm thinkin' it's ill tae fin' things, let alane folks, that's been lost for mair than twa thoosan' years."
"Of course, we are only looking for their descendants," said the Doctor.
"Gin there's ony left that's no been eaten by the cannibals; though, mind ye, as faur's a've seen—and a've made three voyages tae Port Jackson in my time—a wudna be muckle frightened o' a tribe o' the anes that a've seen—a' wheen pot-bellied craturs, wi' legs like winnle-strays."
"Yes," Mackenzie observed, "so you see it isn't likely they could have all been killed; so the real question is now, where are they most likely to be found?"
"Weel, a'm free till admit there's common-sense in that," the Captain observed meditatively.
"We had been thinking that most likely they would move inland," I suggested.
"It's mair than likely ye'll be richt there, Major, for, sae faur's a've seen't, the coast's no vera invitin' for settlement. Ay, Major, a wudna wonder but ye micht hae till gang a lang way inland or ever ye're likely tae fin' them, even if they're to be fun' at a', aboot which a'm no jist free tae express an opeenion; but, ony way, ye culdna hae a better road. Here's a graun' bit river that'll maist likely tak' ye hunders o' miles withoot tirin' yer feet or weerin' oot yer boots, an' that same micht be a conseederation, a wudna wonder."
"The very thing we were thinking of, Captain; but, you know, it's no part of your charter to sail on Australian rivers."
"A ken that fine. Doctor, an' a'm no sayin' a wud feel a'thegither at leeberty till gang sae vera faur mysel'; but, ony way, ye could hae a boat to sail yersel's, even though we culdna dae mair for ye than that."
"The very thing, Captain! You might go with us as far as you thought right in a second boat, so that whatever becomes of us you could take back some information about the country."
"Weel, a wudna say but there's something in that. Doctor. Ye ken it's no that easy a job explorin' new countries, an' what wi' hunger an' thirst an' maybe sauvages, ye maun conseeder weel that ye're jist takin' yer lives in yer haun's, lookin' for thae Greek folks that's likely no worth the trouble."
"It's a little late to think of that now, Captain," said Mackenzie. "Greeks or no Greeks, we must explore the country before we go back."
"Ay, ay. Doctor; a ken that weel. It's jist pride. An', efter a', a'm no jist sure that it hasna got a good side till it, in spite o' the auld deil haein' a bit haun' in't. It's no sae muckle the Scots folks wud hae dune in the warld, a'm thinkin', gin thae hadna had their ain share o' that same."
"In that case," said Mackenzie, looking at me and then at Hector, "I suppose we may consider it settled. We'll take your offer of the boat. Captain, and we'll go as far as the river will take us; if that fails us, we must take to the land."
I agreed to the proposal in words, and Hector, who had listened to all that passed in silence, nodded his head, and so it was arranged. The little party broke up, and I carried with me to my berth the echo of the Captain's last remark as he said goodnight:
"Twa thoosan' years! Eh, man, but it's a lang time yon."
The echo rang in my ears and mingled with my dreams, and my first night in Australian waters was spent in a dreamland in which the stately figures of the adventurous Anaxagoras, and Antalkas, the favoured of Apollo, were familiar companions amidst the scenes of twenty-three centuries ago.
WE spent the next day in getting ready, and on the morning of the third day we started. The Captain had supplied us with the smallest of the ship's boats, while he accompanied us himself in a larger one, manned by half a dozen of the lascar sailors. A fresh breeze directly from the sea blew into the river as we cast off from the _Pelican_ and waved a goodbye to the mate, who leant over the side to wish us success and a safe return. There was a blaze of sunshine on the water, which ran red and turbid as if from recent floods, and the dull red cliffs on either side of the river reflected it hotly back. We soon found that the stream, although swollen, was sluggish, and offered no great resistance to our progress before the wind. The country was both poor and uninteresting, consisting of low ridges of reddish rock, with scanty grass and stunted bushes scattered thinly over the hollows, but nothing that could be called a tree, and scarcely any grass that seemed fit for cattle to eat.
It took us two hours or more to reach the place where the Captain had procured the spars for his vessel when he had been here before, and here we landed to make the acquaintance of the first real vegetation likely to have been seen by the Grecian adventurers, if, indeed, they had ever been here at all. It didn't take long to see all it had to show. A hollow, hardly big enough to be called a valley, ran back from the river between ridges of sandstone, and in the bottom a little clump of straight but stunted trees had found apparently a scanty subsistence in the sandy soil. Four or five had been cut down, and bore testimony to the goodness of the Captain's recollection of the place. The country improved slowly as we sailed on. The ridges became lower, and the spaces between them more wide. These little valleys began to show grass and a few trees, as well as the low shrubs we had seen near the coast, and as the afternoon wore on the land grew almost flat, and seemed to be covered thinly with a bronze-green grass, which grew in tufts.
Mackenzie hardly spoke, but his eyes glanced keenly from point to point in search of anything that might suggest the presence of human beings. The Captain, who kept his boat alongside ours, watched him curiously, and at last remarked, as he saw him rise to get a better view:
"Na, na, Doctor. A dinna say a ken muckle aboot Greeks—no tae say Greeks that's been deed an' gane for twa thoosan' years—but a'm thinkin' they were no ill tae feed if they stoppit here long."
Even Mackenzie laughed. There could be no doubt about it; the Captain was right.
We anchored for the night as the last of the daylight was dying low in the western sky behind us. To the east and apparently some ten miles away, the rolling sandy country through which we had followed the course of the sluggish river all day seemed to end in what looked like an abrupt range of hills, the outline of which showed dark and rugged against the evening sky. By the Captain's reckoning we had sailed fully fifty miles since we started, so that we were steadily penetrating into the heart of the unknown continent. By the Captain's advice we slept on board the boat in case of an attack by wild beasts or savages during the night.
I found it no easy matter to sleep, but gradually the low gurgle of the water as it passed the boat, and the soft whisper of the breeze among the stunted shrubs and low trees on the river banks, soothed me to rest. Something awoke me at last, and I sat up, wondering confusedly where I was. It was the note of a bird—a strange, melancholy note that came from the bank, and was taken up and answered, and passed on farther and farther still, till it seemed as if the faint echoes of the cry came back from the eastern horizon. My eyes followed the direction, and I saw that it was the first welcome of the dawn. There was a clear, cold, gray light in the eastern sky, and I could trace clearly against the whiter background the line of the hills we had seen the night before. I looked at them with a keener interest, for something seemed to tell me that beyond that ridge we should find what we were looking for.
The wind was in our favour still, and the more nearly we approached the hills the more clearly we could see they marked a change of country. The Doctor pronounced them limestone, and it was evident from the new luxuriance of the vegetation that covered the range that the soil was wholly different from that of the miserable coastal region through which we had travelled so far. The nearer we came to the hills the more marked was the contrast, until, when we reached the spot where the river broke through the range, the abrupt cliffs that rose on each side were covered with so dense a growth of shrubs and climbing plants that it gave the passage the appearance of a romantic glen. It was narrow, but the breeze had grown stronger, and in spite of the current the boats sailed quickly between the gray walls of rock that rose abruptly from the river.
A simultaneous exclamation of pleasure broke from Mackenzie and myself as we cleared the passage and got a glimpse of the country beyond the hills. The scenery had changed as if by magic, and now the morning sunshine lighted up a succession of low hills and shallow valleys covered with grass, and dotted with clumps of trees that gave it a park-like appearance, forming a strange contrast to what we had seen before. On the right, and less than a mile higher, another stream or small river ran into the main river at the bottom of the valley, which appeared to slope gently up to the range of hills we had just passed. But for our first exclamation of pleasure neither Mackenzie nor I had spoken a word, and the first expression of opinion came to us from the other boat, in the Captain's voice, as he shouted, "Weel, Doctor, a'm no sayin' but this is mair like a place whar folks could mak shift tae get a leevin', though a canna say a see ony signs o' thae Greeks o' yours. What d'ye say if we pit in tae yon bit river ahead an' streetch oor legs wi' a bit walk?"
In ten minutes more both boats had left the main stream for the smaller river, which ran through the valley shaded by great trees that cast broad shadows on the clear water and grassy banks. We had pulled down our sails and trusted to the oars as we explored the new stream, and again it was the voice of the Captain from the boat in advance that broke the silence.
"Weel," he shouted, "a wudna say but yon wad be as gude a place tae land as ony ither; mair by token, it looks no that unlike a regular landin' place, if there had been onybody tae mak it, or use it ance it was made."
The suggestion was enough to quicken our movements, and in two or three minutes we had reached the spot. It was as the Captain had said. It might have been a low wharf running along the bank for a quarter of a mile, constructed of huge blocks of rough stone without mortar, but it was so overlaid with earth and moss that it might have been no more than a ledge of rock more sharply cut than usual. We landed and examined it carefully, but we discovered nothing more, and the Captain shook his head as he remarked:
"It micht, an' again it michtna, ye see. Rocks like yon's no muckle tae gang by; if it wez a bit eemage noo, or maybe a temple, or the like o' that, ye'd hae something tae gang by; but Nature diz queer things wi' stanes."
Even the doubt, however, made us eager to explore the place farther, and leaving both boats in charge of the sailors, we started. The stillness of the valley was oppressive, and yet I didn't seem to care for the company of others. I wandered aimlessly up the gentle slope towards the abrupt range of hills that bounded the valley on the west, rather for the sake of being alone than from any special curiosity about the place itself. The harsh voice and jocular comments of the Captain grated on my ear with a new feeling of annoyance, and I failed to take any interest in the Doctor's investigation of a shapeless hillock crowned by a clump of trees which appeared to absorb his attention. I had nearly reached the top of the slope when I turned and looked back. I could see where the Doctor was still engaged, more than a quarter of a mile away, while Hector stood near, and the Captain had wandered off in the direction of another hillock at no great distance. It was strange to notice how the long slope was dotted over with hillocks like these, some crowned with trees, but the greater number mere grass-grown heaps; and now, as I looked at them from above, it occurred to me suddenly that there was a certain curious order about them. From where I stood they appeared to fall naturally into two parallel lines extending from the little river to the top of the long incline which I had reached, and perhaps fifty yards apart. At first the discovery suggested nothing to my mind, but as I looked it seemed to dawn on me what it might mean—a street. No sooner had the though occurred to me than my imagination seized on the idea and made it real. The shapeless mounds grew into palaces and temples; the street was thronged with people in the dress of ancient Greece, and once more I seemed to myself to hear the tread of the soldiers of Macedon. It passed as quickly as it had come, but it left the almost unconscious question in my mind, "Where did the street lead to?"
I turned quickly and faced the high ridge of cliffs that shut in the long slope to the west, and the answer to my question came to me at once. I stood at the summit of the regular slope, and between me and the cliffs the ground dipped by another slope to the foot of the crags that rose abruptly to a height of several hundred feet. The face of the cliff was almost bare, but at one point, directly opposite to the place at which I stood, my eye was attracted by a single tree of vast size which grew close to the gray wall of rock, and threw a dark shadow both on the ground and cliff for some distance around it. Was it only a shadow, or was there, as I fancied, something more? It looked like a hollow in the rock—perhaps the mouth of a cave. If so, the avenue—if, indeed, my fancy had not deceived me—had led to the cave, and something might be found there to settle the question of our search. The thought came to me with the force of a conviction. I turned once more and shouted to Mackenzie, who was still busied where I had left him. He looked up at my shout, and I pointed eagerly to the cliff behind me, and beckoned to him to come. It was evident that he understood I had made some discovery, for he left the heap and came hastily up the hill, followed by Hector and the Captain.
"What have you found?" was the breathless question which the Doctor sent before him as he got near me.
I waited till had reached me, and then, pointing to the great tree overshadowing the cliff, and then backwards at the slope up which he had just toiled, I said: "I am not sure, Mackenzie, but I think there's a cave there, and I fancy this was the avenue that led to it."
He looked first at the tree, and then down the slope with its long succession of shapeless heaps, and in an instant his imagination had grasped my idea. He grew pale with excitement as he exclaimed, "It is, Ambrose. Come on!" He led the way without speaking, and the rest followed him in silence. Even the Captain seemed to be infected by the excitement of the moment, and as for Hector, he strode along with his eye upon the Doctor as if he felt responsible for his safety. A walk of less than five minutes brought us to the spot, and we stood in the shadow of the great tree, the trunk of which grew little more than twenty feet from the cliff, though its branches were thrown far outwards over the slope. The first glance suggested the idea that it had originally been one of two that had been planted on either side of the dark entrance before which we stood; but if there had ever been a second tree there was no sign of it now, and the huge spreading branches of the giant that survived had entirely occupied the place where it should have been.
We stood for a minute or two before the entrance, which was thickly hung with festoons of creeping plants, and almost blocked by a rank growth of shrubs and ferns. A little silvery stream of water ran from the thicket and found its way through a channel along the foot of the cliff. At last we pushed our way through the undergrowth and entered the cave. The heavy shadow thrown by the guardian tree made it seem very dark at first, and it was a minute or two before we could see more than a dim outline of the place. The roof was low, and for the first few yards the ferns and bushes occupied the ground, but as we pushed farther in the floor grew bare and sandy, and as our eyes got accustomed to the feeble light we could see that the sides and roof were smooth and regular. The little stream trickled through the middle of the cave, and I could hear a tinkling sound coming from the darker depths beyond us which gave me the impression that it ran over rocks. It was strange, but after the first twenty steps or so the light, which had almost deserted us, seemed to grow stronger, and after proceeding cautiously for a few yards more we reached a sudden bend where the cave went off at a tolerably sharp angle, and seemed to grow higher in the roof. The party followed Mackenzie's example and paused at the angle to look curiously around in the dim gray light at the proportions of this new section of the cavern. It was the Captain who broke the oppressive silence of expectation which had fallen upon us, though he only expressed the idea in my own mind.
"Eh, man, it's a queer spot, an' a'm no sayin' but what it looks as if the haun's o' man had been aboot the makin' o't some time or ither."
It did look like it, though the dim light and the ghostly gray stone might have been deceptive. One thing was certain, however; the light, which had grown stronger since we turned the corner, found its way into the cave at the further end.
"Come along, Mackenzie," I whispered to the Doctor, as I took the lead and followed the passage.
"It was straight for perhaps fifty yards, and then once more it turned abruptly. The light had grown stronger the further we went, and the sound of dripping water falling upon stone had grown more distinct as we neared it step by step. Now, as I turned the corner, the explanation broke upon me at a single glance. Beyond the turning the passage ended in an entrance, and beyond that again the cave rose suddenly to the height of some great building. The place was light with the light of the outside day, which seemed to find entrance through a hole in the rock far up, near the highest point of the roof. One bright shaft of sunshine shot downwards through the crevice, and fell slanting like a golden spear across the cavern, till it rested on something at the further end, which I was unable to see clearly from where I stood. I looked around in mute surprise for a minute, till I was roused by the Captain's voice once more.
"Losh me, sirs! Gin ye ask me, a dinna think there's muckle doot that somebody maun hae gi'en Nature a helpin' haun' here. See till yon eemage, noo."
The Captain's eyes had proved better than either Mackenzie's or mine. Now that our eyes followed the pointing of his hand we could see that there was something like a gigantic human figure at the spot where the arrow of sunlight fell. After a moment's hesitation, we crossed the cavern, the floor of which was covered with very fine white sand, till we stood before it. It was a giant figure, evidently shaped from a stalagmite, of which I now noticed there were several at that end of the cave, and the ray of sunshine fell full upon the head and face, which, though wasted and defaced, still seemed to my fancy to bear a faint, shadowy resemblance to the sculptured faces of Grecian art. So strong was the impression made on me by the face, and perhaps still more by the attitude of the figure, with its uplifted right arm, that I echoed Mackenzie's sudden exclamation,—"Apollo!"
There could be little doubt it had been meant for an image of the sun-god, and the more we examined it the more certain it appeared. The art was rude, as if somebody had called to mind and tried to imitate with unskilled hands the art of Greece, but there was enough to convince us. It was the work of man, or at least man had tried to improve the work of Nature, and that man had been a Greek. It was old—so old, indeed, that even Mackenzie could give no guess at its age; but that it had been meant for a statue of the deity in a cave temple of Apollo seemed to both of us clear beyond question. I confess I gazed with something of superstitious awe at the place and the statue; I was even conscious of a sort of shudder, such as might have been caused by the shadowy hand of the long dead Antalkas stretched out to me across the centuries.
It took hours for Mackenzie to complete his examination of the cavern, or to convince himself that there was no hope of finding an inscription of any kind that might throw some light on the date at which it had been used. At last he was obliged to give it up, comforting himself by the reflection that nothing of the kind could have been expected to survive twenty centuries, even if it had ever existed. It was late in the afternoon when we left the place and retraced our steps to the boats. We traced the line of the avenue, and looked with a reverent curiosity at the shapeless mounds, sole remnants of the long dead Grecian city in the unknown regions of the great South land.
THE question which we discussed that night as we sat round the fire we had made on shore from the branches of the trees that overhung the river was no longer whether the Greeks had reached Australia, but what had become of the people who had built the city and carved the Apollo? The Doctor's opinion was that for some reason they had deserted the place at which they settled first, and moved farther inland, and, after a long discussion, I agreed with him, and even the Captain withdrew his objections. A great drought, or a plague, such as had caused the desertion of cities in classical times, might have been the reason, and in any case it was nearly certain they would not have attempted to go by sea. The city, he pointed out, had been inhabited for many years, to judge by the extent of its remains, most likely for centuries, and all connection with the ocean would have long become only a matter of tradition. On the other hand, the river with which they were familiar offered itself as the natural road by which they could penetrate into the interior, and there, he asserted, we should be sure to find their descendants, if we only went far enough, I had no better theory to suggest as to the past and no better plan to propose for the future; while Hector was sure to accept with blind faith anything the Doctor said, so long as it didn't interfere with the beliefs and superstitions of his own people.
Next morning we parted from our friend the Captain, who had decided that his duty required him to go back to the brig. As the boats parted company at the junction of the streams, and we faced the current with a full sail, his last words came to us across the water:
"Weel, tak' care o' yersel's. It's no a'thegither a canny job ye're aifter, a'm thinkin'; but a'm no sayin' a wad mind takin' ma chance alang wi' ye, gin it were na' for the brig. Weel, here's wishin' ye luck!"
The Captain's lascars bent to their oars, and we went down stream with the current. Fortune seemed to favour us, for the strong westerly breeze followed for the next five days with scarcely a lull, and by the Doctor's reckoning we must have penetrated nearly three hundred miles inland. The country through which the river ran, if not so poor as that on the coast, was by no means inviting for settlement, and throughout the five days' sail we failed to see a sign of human occupation. A few—indeed a very few—birds, and now and then some small furry animals, at a distance too great to distinguish what they were, were all the living things we had seen, and it was easy to agree with Mackenzie that there was nothing in the country through which we had passed to tempt a migrating people to halt and settle themselves. We had seen nothing nearly so inviting as the few miles of limestone country where we discovered the cave, and it was evident that the district of good land had been so limited, that if population increased considerably, some successor of Antalkas the priest might easily have persuaded them to go further in search of the good land promised by Apollo.
In the meantime the river had been growing shallower. Sometimes it spread far and wide over the low land, and it had only been with a good deal of trouble that we had decided on the course of the main channel. By the morning of the eighth day it was evidently no longer a hopeful undertaking. Great beds of reeds and rushes made it almost impossible to see where we were going, but as far as we could see the country appeared to consist of wide, swampy flats, with here and there a low tongue of land, covered with melancholy-looking trees, hung with festoons of some funereal creeper, which at a distance looked like crape. On the southeastern horizon we could distinguish higher land that seemed to be wooded, and some of the low points we passed appeared to lead up to it.
After some discussion, we decided to leave the boat and try to reach the hills. We did this the more readily because any change seemed likely to prove a relief from the experiences of the last two days. The question was what should we attempt to carry, and by common consent we reduced it to the smallest compass. Some food, very little clothing, one or two tools, and some scientific instruments formed Mackenzie's burden; while I substituted my favourite pistol and ammunition for the instruments, and Hector carried our extra supply of food. Each of us had been supplied by the Doctor's forethought with a calabash of native Ceylon workmanship, large enough to hold two quarts of water, which hung by a strap across the shoulder, and Mackenzie assured us that we should find these more than sufficient baggage should we have far to go on foot.
It must have been nearly mid-day before we found a place where the channel approached one of the low ridges of land that seemed likely to lead unbroken up to the higher ground, and even then it was not easy to get the boat close alongside the shore. We managed it at last, and then we discovered that sometimes the river was far higher than now. The bank up which we scrambled must have been seven or eight feet above the river, and we found that not long before the water had reached to within a few inches of the top. We secured the boat to the exposed roots of a tree that projected from the bank, as our rope wasn't long enough to reach the tree itself.
"Well, I suppose that will have to do, Hector," I said, as we turned away, "but I wouldn't bet much on our finding it there when we come back if there's another flood like the last one."
"Oh yess, Major," Hector replied cheerfully, as he prepared for a start, "it iss the rope that would be a ferry good rope whateffer, though she would not be saying that it will be the next week nor the week after that, mirover, that we shall be wanting the boat. Oh no, Major; she would not be feeling so ferry sure off that."
I think at the moment both Mackenzie and I were of Hector's opinion, but neither of us said anything in reply.
The change was a pleasant one after the long confinement on board the boat, but we soon found that the track we had to follow lay over rough ground. The long tongue of land which we had selected was seldom more than fifteen or twenty yards wide above the water, and there were places even now where it hardly rose clear of the stagnant-looking fluid that spread far and wide over the low land. Every here and there clumps of melancholy trees and dense low scrub covered the ridge, and made travelling both slow and toilsome. The distance to the hills proved to be greater than we had supposed, too, and it was only by using great exertions that we succeeded in reaching the slope of the higher land by the time the sun went down. The range of hills, now that we had reached them, didn't seem to be very high, and it was a relief after our long tramp to find them by no means steep, and although they were covered with forest on the upper slopes, it was quite free from undergrowth, and presented no difficulties in the way of travellers.
We had hoped to reach the top of the range of hills before it grew too dark to form some idea of what lay beyond, but in spite of all we could do twilight had closed in upon us while we were still toiling up the western slope. At last even Mackenzie, who had been the most anxious of the party to reach the top, proposed that we should encamp for the night where we were, as we couldn't hope to see anything even if we got there. I could have found it in my heart to object, although I was tired enough to be glad of a rest, had it not been evident that the Doctor was right. I had persuaded myself that we should find what we were in search of beyond the hills, or at least that we should discover something to show conclusively that we were on the right track, and I was ready to start at each sound of the forest that reached us as we sat around the fire Hector had made from the dead wood he had been able to find in the darkness.
Nothing happened to tell of the presence either of men or wild animals in our neighbourhood. For an hour or more after we had eaten our supper we sat and talked of what there was likely to be beyond the hills, and we even discussed how we could best approach the inhabitants if we should find in the morning that their settlements were in the valley immediately beyond the range. Our exertions of the afternoon, however, gradually began to tell on Mackenzie and myself. Little pauses took place in our conversation, and we started at the sound of the next word. The figures of the others seemed to come and go in the firelight, and the smoke seemed to hide their faces. At last I lost sight of the others altogether, and must have fallen asleep.
It was from a dream in which I had met Anaxagoras and a venerable figure, whom I took for the priest of Apollo, that I suddenly awoke. For a moment or two I felt puzzled as I looked upwards and saw the branches and leaves overhead in the gray light of the dawn, then I remembered, and with the memory, sat up and looked around. As I did so, something moved a little way off, and next moment disappeared with a bound into the shadows. My quick exclamation roused both Mackenzie and Hector, who lay stretched on the ground beside me, and in a few minutes we were ready to proceed. It would be time enough to eat, we agreed, when we had reached the top of the hills and satisfied our curiosity as to what lay beyond them. We pressed on up the slope, hardly exchanging a word in our excitement, and scarcely observing the signs of increased life that greeted us on every side.
It was no great distance the top of the ridge, but even when we had reached the crest of the hill, and begun to descend the slope on the other aide, we could see nothing for some time owing to the dense screen of leaves that closed us in. At last the forest ended suddenly, and for a moment we seemed to be looking down upon a great lake, which stretched, gray and indistinct, as far as we could see. An exclamation broke from the Doctor and myself at the same moment as we looked at the unexpected scene, and then it dawned on me that what we saw was not water, but only a morning mist.
"It's only a mist after all, Mack," I exclaimed, with a sense of sudden relief.
The Doctor's face looked grave and a little anxious, I thought, as he replied:
"Yes; but I don't much like the look of it, Ambrose. I'm afraid it's desert."
It was Hector's voice that broke in upon my sudden sensation of disappointment and alarm.
"Oh yess, Major," he said, "and it will be a ferry good light that will be on the mountains, whateffer. And it would be the snow that would be making it, she would be thinking—oh yes, it will be the snow."
The mountains! What could Hector be thinking of? I raised my eyes involuntarily from the country that lay at our feet, and looked beyond the wide sea of mist, and—yes, Hector was right. High up on the eastern horizon, beyond the mist and the dark line that formed its background, the rising sun, clothed with a halo of gold and crimson, showed a long line of rugged peaks that sparkled as if with the gleam of snow.
A SIMULTANEOUS exclamation of surprise and admiration burst from Mackenzie and myself, and then we stood and watched it silently. The wonderful halo which had first attracted Hector's attention spread and deepened as we gazed; the peaks, and even the upper slopes of the mountain chain, came out in sharp contrast to the shadows that still lay in the lower hollows. Clouds of fleecy mist that lingered and clung to the ridges and chasms flushed to a rosy pink colour, and then melted away, and at last a sudden blaze of golden light burst like a great river through a vast rent in the mountain barrier, and streamed towards us across the plain. The sun had risen.
After a moment's effort to face it, both Hector and I turned away our dazzled eyes; but Mackenzie only shaded his face with his hands, and continued obstinately to gaze at the gorgeous spectacle. At last even he seemed to find the effort too painful, for he turned impatiently away. Nobody spoke for several minutes, and my eyes wandered over the wide plain that stretched from the foot of the ridge on which we were standing to the vastly higher mountain chain beyond. The gray haze which had given it so strange a resemblance to water at the first glance had thinned away and disappeared before the first burst of sunshine, and its main features could easily be made out. It was not, after all, a perfectly level plain, but rather a low, undulating country, like a long succession of ocean swells in calm weather, and it seemed to be very thinly covered with some kind of plant that didn't look like grass, and yet seemed too low for bushes. As I looked at it I felt sure Mackenzie had been right, for the only impression it gave was one of heat and drought. I turned to him with the question:
"What are we to do now, Mackenzie?"
"Do?" he said. "There's only one thing to do. We must do as the others did before us."
"Do you mean to say they crossed that?" I said, glancing at the glowing plain that lay at our feet.
"Crossed it!" he said impatiently. "Of course they crossed it. We have seen no signs of their having turned back, have we? Isn't it clear they must have gone on?"
My eyes wandered over it again till they reached the foot of the distant chain.
"But think of it, Mackenzie," I said. "Suppose there's no water— and it looks like it—how was it possible? And then those mountains—how could they have crossed them? They must be ten thousand feet high."
Mackenzie shaded his eyes and looked fixedly at them again for several minutes before he attempted to answer me.
"No," he said at last slowly—"no, I don't think we shall find much water now; but who can tell what it was like when they crossed? Why, many a city of two thousand years ago, not to speak of fields and streams, is covered with sand today. It may have rained, and rains here might be heavy enough to leave lakes for a time. As for the mountains, it is no mystery how they crossed them. They followed the path of the rising sun. Did you not see the great pass through which the sunlight came at sunrise?"
As he was speaking I had followed his example, and, shading my eyes with both hands, had forced myself to face the almost intolerable glare of the level light. The sun was higher now, and the effort not quite so painful; but yet it was not until I had persisted for some time that I could feel certain I actually saw anything clearly. Then I seemed to see what Mackenzie meant. Between two giant peaks that towered into the blue sky, and from where I stood looked close together, there was a vast rent or chasm, through which the first blinding flood of sunshine had forced its way. I followed the chasm down and down till it seemed to separate the mountains to the very level of the sandy plain. Now I could see what Mackenzie had been thinking of as he gazed at that strange rift in the mountains, and I, too, was able to picture to myself the wandering descendants of the Greeks standing, perhaps, where we did, and, like ourselves, seeing the sunlight burst through the mountain pass. To them, no doubt, it must have seemed like the summons of the sun-god inviting them into the promised land.
"How far off do you take it to be?" I asked, after another pause.
"If you are right about the height of the mountains, and this spot should be about six hundred feet above the plain, I should say it would be about sixty miles. We could manage that in two nights, Ambrose. I don't think we should attempt it by day."
"Very well. Mack," I said, "I suppose we had better chance it. It's a case of in for a penny in for a pound, Hector, I fancy."
I turned as I spoke to our silent retainer, who stood behind us listening to the discussion with a grave face.
"Oh yess Major; and she would be thinking that it would be a ferry good thing to try it, whateffer. For she will heff been thinking that the hole in the mountain will be a ferry curious place, and she would like to be seeing what there will be on the other side off it."
I think it was Hector who settled it so far as I was concerned. He was so slow to express any opinion of his own, that his admission of curiosity came on me as a surprise, and I gave in at once. The day which followed our decision seemed a long one. There was nothing to be done but to wait, and in the meantime to get what rest we could to prepare us for what was pretty sure to prove an exhausting journey. I shot a large parrot, which we cooked and ate, but for the rest of the day we could do little else but sit under the shelter of the trees, which came but a little way down the slope towards the plain. Hector found a good spring of water on the other side of the ridge, at which we were able to fill our calabashes before it was time to start.
At last the sun gained the western slope of the range, and we watched the shadow creep slowly out from the foot of the hills across the gray plain at our feet. Then we started. We reached the bottom of the slope as the last glow of sunlight was fading from the sky. Gradually as we descended the bushes had grown more scanty, until at last even the tufts of grass disappeared altogether, and not a sign of vegetation was left but a low, prickly plant, which crept close to the sandy soil, and partly hid it with its gray-green leaves. We halted at the edge of the waste, and looked for any sign that might speak of human beings having been there before, but there was none. Then Mackenzie pointed out the direction in which we must cross the plain so as to reach the gap in the mountain range, which we could no longer see from the lower level on which we stood.
It was fortunate, as we quickly found, that our boots were strong, as it would otherwise have been almost impossible to make our way through the prickly plants that everywhere crept among the sand. Even as it was they entangled our feet, which at each step sank half way to the ankle in the soft sand; but in spite of these drawbacks we pushed on steadily, though a good deal less quickly than I had expected. The sunset glow had died out of the sky only to be succeeded by the light of ten thousand stars that shone and sparkled as I thought I had never seen stars sparkle before. We had noted those that pointed most nearly to the quarter of the horizon we were making for, and so through the long hours of the night—for of course it was now winter to the south of the equator—we struggled on over the monotonous waste of sand. The silence was intense, unbroken even by the sound of a footfall, as we followed one another in Indian file over the yielding ground, and I could distinctly hear the ticking of my watch as I plodded on.
We had been going for hours, until it seemed as if the night were never coming to an end. The labour had begun to tell both on Mackenzie and myself after the first three or four hours, and although we had halted for a rest about midnight, it had seemed to make us feel the exertion more when we started again. We drank as little water as possible, but as the night went on I felt my thirst growing painful, and more than once had recourse to my supply. Very little had been said from the first, and as the hours crept on we fell into absolute silence, and contented ourselves with devoting all our energies to doggedly ploughing our way through the heavy sand, into which we seemed to ourselves to sink more deeply at every step. I think I suffered most; for I was a much heavier man than the Doctor, and although Hector weighed half as much again, his almost gigantic strength did not appear to admit of his feeling fatigue like an ordinary mortal.
I was nearly exhausted, and it seemed to me in the dim light that Mackenzie was beginning to stagger at times, when I noticed him stop. I came up with him and followed his example, and Hector, who brought up the rear of the party, did the same.
"It's coming," Mackenzie whispered huskily, as he pointed to the east.
I looked up, the first time I had done so for an hour or two I should think, and noticed a pale gray light spreading upwards from the east, before which the stars had already lost some of their brilliancy. It was day. As the light increased I looked anxiously on all sides, and the first thing that struck me was how little progress we seemed to have made, in spite of all our exertions. There was something ghastly in the appearance of the level waste of gray-looking sand over which we had toiled so laboriously, now that we saw it in the colourless white light of dawn. There was a strange tint of livid white over everything that made me shudder as I looked. Far away to the eastward I could see the dark outline of the mountains towards which we were journeying, but I could no longer fancy I was able to see the base of the chain, and so the striking effect of the great gap was almost lost. Behind us, and, as it seemed to me in the imperfect light, not very far away, I could distinguish the low range we had left, and glancing from one to the other it was impossible to make myself believe that we had accomplished half the journey.
But the light was growing stronger, and the thought occurred to me with a sensation of terror that we should soon be exposed to the full blaze of the sun, which was already throwing long streamers of light into the sky as heralds of his coming. The same thought seemed to have occurred to each of us, for I noticed Mackenzie looking anxiously around, and even Hector glanced uneasily at the brightening sky.
The Doctor had resumed the march doggedly after a few moments' halt, but it was certain none of us could keep it up after the sun had once risen to any height above the horizon, and the question in each of our minds was how we should fare during the long hours of fierce sunshine that must follow. I looked wearily in all directions, but I could see not a hope of shelter—not a tree, not a bush; nothing but the rolling billows of gray sand. I looked helplessly at Mackenzie, who had stopped on the crest of a wave of sand, and seemed to be looking anxiously at something to the right of our course. When I reached his side, he grasped my arm, and pointed to something that looked like a heap a little higher than the surrounding sand.
"I think it must be a rock, Ambrose," he whispered huskily. "We must try for some sort of shelter before the heat comes on."
I nodded in reply, and we turned aside and made for the place. It was in the lowest part of the next hollow, and as we got near we found the sand even more loose, and softer than we had found it before. Our feet sank deeply in the drift, and tired as we were, it was all could do to reach the spot. But already the first rays of the sun were flashing hotly across the sand, and we felt that it was a matter of life or death to gain some shelter quickly. We reached it at last. "A rock!" I gasped out the words as my eye caught sight of a black corner that jutted out of the sand-drift that had overwhelmed it. Getting on the western side of the heap, which was some five feet high, we went on our knees and set to work to scoop away the loose sand from the bottom. After half an hour, which I still remember as the most painfully laborious I ever spent, we had succeeded in hollowing out a space in which we could all three find shelter under the lee of the rock. We crept into it wearily, and after a drink from our little store of water, we lay down as near to the rock as we could squeeze ourselves, and I, at least, soon fell asleep.
It must have been a good many hours before I awoke; for it was a stifling sensation of choking heat that roused me, and when at last I had opened my swollen eyes, I found that the afternoon sun was pouring down upon us in a flood of dazzling radiance. I felt as if my clothes were burning into my flesh as I sat up; but, in spite of the heat, neither of my companions had moved. In a minute or two, however, they both awoke, and then we all three joined in a hasty effort to obtain some shelter on the opposite side of the rock. Fortunately it required less exertion to get shelter enough to serve for the afternoon hours, and when we had secured it, we lay for several hours in the hot sand awaiting the passage of the creeping sun in its course through the western heavens.
As the afternoon crept on, the burning heat which had seemed to fill the air grew less intense, until at last the sun went down behind the low hills over which we had come, and the dark shadow fell across the plain. We roused ourselves, and contrived to eat something, while we drank as sparingly as possible of our stock of water, which seemed already to have shrunk to alarmingly small dimensions. The twilight was settling darkly once more when we started for our second night's march, and turned our faces resolutely towards the shadowy line of the still distant mountain range, though I had no hope that we should reach it before the heat would again make it impossible to travel. I confess it was with a shudder that I thought of another day of such heat as we had already experienced. And what if there should be no shelter?
We did our utmost to push on, as the same feeling of dread of another day in the desert was present to us all, and for the first few hours, at any rate, we made good progress. Gradually, however, the deep sand made the effort more severe, until, long before daybreak, I had begun to feel as if it was all I could do to drag one foot after the other. We had been as sparing of our water as we could, and yet, hour by hour, we could feel that our calabashes were growing lighter, and I, at least, had a horrible conviction that mine was nearly empty. It was no longer a question of discomfort or even of ordinary suffering; the matter was growing serious, and it was with a feeling of almost tremulous anxiety that I watched eagerly for the first sign of the day. It came at last: first the slow whitening of the eastern sky, then the flickering arrows of whiter light that shot upward through the heavens, and last the brightening flush of the rosy dawn.
My eyes had rested eagerly on the line of the mountain-chain in front, at first no more than a darker shadow between us and the east; but gradually it began to take shape, and stand out more clearly in the increasing light. It seemed so near us that I grasped Mackenzie's arm with a hoarse exclamation of intense relief. But as it grew lighter I was horrified to see that little by little it seemed to be moving away, till, when the first actual burst of sunshine darted into the plain through the great chasm in the chain of mountains, I recognised, with a choking sensation, that we were still a good twenty miles away. I cast a single quick glance at my companions, and then I looked around. Was there any hope of shelter? Away to the left—perhaps a mile away—there was something dark that seemed to stand up from the sand, and broke the deadly uniformity of the plain. I pointed it out to Mackenzie.
"It may be a shelter of some kind," I said, "if we can only get there."
"We must get there," was the Doctor's emphatic reply, when he had shaded his eyes and looked in the direction I had indicated. "It's a matter of life and death. My water's all but done."
We wasted no more words. I led the way now, and the others followed me. It needed the conviction that our lives depended on it to carry us through; but somehow we managed to stagger on. The level sunlight blinded us; the burning rays struck hotter and hotter on our heads and faces; we staggered dizzily as we walked, dragging our feet after us; but we did it at last. By the time I had reached the spot I could hardly see, and I had drunk the last drop of water that lingered in the bottom of my calabash. Even with that my throat and lips felt so parched and dry that I could hardly articulate a word, even in the painful whisper in which I had spoken last. I had been right, however. Whatever it was, I could see as we got near that it threw a shadow on the sand. This conviction was enough for me, and I pulled myself together in one last effort to reach the shelter, plodding painfully along, with eyes fixed on the sand which seemed to blaze before me. A hoarse, guttural exclamation from behind startled me. I stopped, and looked round. It was Mackenzie, and he caught me by the arm as he tried painfully to speak and failed. Then he pointed at something before us. I turned, and, shading my burning eyes, I looked. There, not thirty yards from where we stood, was the shadow I had dimly seen already; but now I saw that it was cast by the wall of a ruined building.
The surprise was so great that for the moment we seemed to forget our exhaustion, and almost sprang forward to examine it. The sudden return of energy only lasted for a few seconds, indeed, and we dragged ourselves over the few intervening yards with as great an effort as before; but some of the excitement remained to lend a new interest to the discovery. Yes, it certainly was part of a building. The sand was heaped high against it on both sides, but yet the wall rose several feet above it. It had been a building, and one, too, of considerable size. It was old and weather-worn, with rounded edges and blunted angles; but the great blocks of stone had been cut by tools and squared by the labor of man. We looked at one another in silence, and read the same thought in each other's eyes: we had found another trace of the people for whom we were seeking; but once more the trace was a ruin.
We crept under the shadow of the wall for shelter, and in spite of the excitement of our discovery, in spite, too, of our burning sensations of thirst, we must quickly have fallen asleep. My exhaustion must have been unusually great, for it was many hours before I stirred. When I awoke it was already far on in the afternoon, but thanks to the angle of the ruined wall, the sun had not reached us. I cannot say I felt refreshed, for my eyes burned and smarted, and my throat was swollen and throbbed with a choking pain which seemed to extend over my body and limbs, but yet I was stronger than when I lay down. I pulled myself together, and rose to my feet. Then I ventured out of the shelter of the wall, and peered anxiously around. The mountains lay basking in a blaze of golden splendour; but in every other direction the plain extended as far as the eye could reach. There was not a sign of the low hills we had left, nothing to break the deadly uniformity of the blazing sky and the burning plain of sand.
There was but one way of escape—we must reach the mountain barrier. But how was it to be done? Twenty miles at least over the treacherous sand, and not a drop of water. Even in the few minutes that had gone since I awoke the burning pain in my throat and limbs had got worse, and I seemed to choke with each attempt to swallow. How was it possible to toil through the soft sand? And yet—to die in this horrible place, where life seemed to be extinct, where not an insect hummed, where not a bird crossed the dreary wasted! I looked round me despairingly as the thought passed through my mind, and as if in answer to it I caught sight of a black speck in the distance. I watched it eagerly as it grew larger. At last I made it out; it was a bird—a large bird—and it was coming towards me with a strange, heavy, uncertain flight, such as I had never seen before. My interest grew more and more intense as it came nearer yet, until at last it was near enough for me to see it clearly. A strange, clumsy bird, such as I had seen somewhere in a picture. What could it be? I crept back and woke Mackenzie, and dragged him out to see what it was. He stared at it helplessly for a minute or two, and then his drawn and haggard face lighted up with an expression of hope as he tried to whisper a word. I cannot say I heard it; but suddenly, by some curious intuition, I knew that the word was 'pelican.'
We watched the bird as it came nearer and nearer, flapping its way slowly towards the spot where we stood looking breathlessly at its motions. Then suddenly we saw it circle round, and settle some way off. Mackenzie looked at me as if to tell me to wait. Then he went back and roused Hector, who sat up, looking utterly confused. He then pointed to the calabashes that still hung at our sides, and beckoned us to follow. We made our way like three conspirators, creeping guiltily among the ruins towards the place where we had seen the bird alight. Till then we had had no idea how far they extended, but now it seemed as if we should never reach the end—heaps after heaps; buried, or almost buried, under the drifts of soft white sand; here and there a corner protruding; now and then a larger piece of ruinous wall. Still we crept on, till it seemed to me that we had found a second city of the past.
At last a sound reached our ears. It was a faint sound, but then, at any rate, it was impossible for us to mistake its meaning; it was the splash of water. The sound seemed to put new life into my limbs, and with a gurgling exclamation I ran forward. In another minute we had reached the spot. It was a corner of the ruined wall. Here the bird had reached a large nest, and here she had emptied the supply of water she had brought for her young ones.
THE pelican was not unfriendly. After the first appearance of anger and alarm, she gathered her young under her wings, and allowed us to share the water without opposition. There was fortunately plenty for all, and when we had quenched our thirst and filled our calabashes, we left her and her brood to enjoy it. It was marvellous what that draught of water had done for us. Our appearance, indeed, was deplorable—at least, I can speak for both my companions; but with the water new life had taken possession of us. We were able to speak again, though with some pain, and only in hoarse whispers, and we were also able to eat. Our curiosity, too, had returned, though it was only Mackenzie who faced the afternoon sun, that he might examine some of the ruins.
As soon as we could do so we set off again, heading, as before, for the mountain gorge, which we were now able to see in the evening light, like a great chasm between the hills, through which we could catch a glimpse of the eastern horizon. We travelled steadily onward through the darkness, feeling that we should soon have passed the worst of our troubles, which strangely lightened the labour of ploughing our way in the soft ground which had exhausted us so terribly before. After a few hours, the ground grew firmer too, and still farther on in the night I found myself walking through grass of some kind. We had passed the desert. I should have rested and waited for daylight before going farther, but Mackenzie urged me on, and so we kept going until morning.
It had seemed as though morning would never come. For three hours or more I don't think my eyes had been withdrawn from the sky for more than a minute at a time, and yet when it came at last, it felt like a surprise. It was different from the others we had seen, for the first warning of the day appeared high overhead, while all was dark in front of us. Even Mackenzie consented to wait a few minutes to ascertain the meaning of this. We had supposed that we had been heading straight for the gap in the mountains through which at sunset we had seen the eastern sky, and we had expected to see it at the first sign of morning. We had not long to wait. The light overhead increased rapidly, and at last we made out that a heavy white mist hung over the hills in front, out of which the higher slopes of the range stood clear and dark, looking so near that they seemed almost over our heads. We could see the plain behind us stretching away into the dim distance; but in front the fleecy cloud of mist swam before us, lighted with gleams of colour where the sun began to penetrate it, but too thick and bewildering for our eyes to see anything beyond.
As we stood trying to make something of the moving shadows in the mist, it suddenly burst asunder and began to roll up like the drop-curtain of a theatre, and before we could follow the rapid changes with our eyes, the blaze of the rising sun met us face to face. We had kept a straight course after all, and the sunlight was pouring through the giant cleft in the mountain-range. For a few minutes it was utterly bewildering, and even when our eyes grew a little better able to face the blinding glare of light, the scene was so new and strange that we could scarcely understand it at first. My first impression when I looked at the gap in the range had been correct after all; it not only divided the range, but it did more. What we saw before us looked like a deep mountain glen that dipped abruptly below the level at which we were standing. The sunshine poured into it, and yet somehow it looked shadowy and dark. We had not stopped too soon, for another hundred yards would have brought us to the edge of the ravine, but now we pressed forward eagerly to see what it was like. In five minutes more we had reached it.
It looked as if the mountain had been torn asunder by some vast force which had gone even below the surface, but how far below it we couldn't even guess. The white mists clung about the edges of the ravine and drifted slowly about in the hollows. As we looked down, figures seemed to rise up and wave long arms, and then disappear again in the shadows. It was Hector's voice that first broke the silence which seemed to have fallen upon both Mackenzie and myself.
"Oh yess, Major," he said, "and it iss a ferry strange place it will be—a ferry strange place, whateffer."
There was no doubt Hector was right, and I think both the Doctor and I looked anxiously for some way of continuing our journey without exploring the depths of the shadowy ravine. We looked in vain. I could find no escape from my first idea, that it had been formed by some great convulsion which had burst open the mountain-wall from top to bottom. High above us we could see the vast cliffs on either side, perhaps a quarter of a mile apart, torn and rugged, and at the same time black and bare of grass or shrub, even in the hollows and fissures, looking as if even now they only needed to be brought together once more to fit as closely as ever. It was evident that there was no way of going round the ravine.
Our eyes came back from the search to the dark hollow before us.
"Not much choice here," I said reluctantly. "Not much, indeed. It's either over the mountain or through the ravine, and as we're not strong enough for the mountain, we must take the valley, I suppose."
"I suppose there's a path of some sort," I replied, going closer to the edge of the hollow.
"Of course there is. How else could they have got through? It should be a pretty good one too, if a whole tribe travelled it."
"She wass thinking it would be hereabouts, Doctor," Hector said from a spot at some little distance, where he had wandered looking curiously along the edge of the hollow. "Oh yess, there would be a ferry good path—a ferry good path, whateffer."
A very short examination proved that Hector had made the discovery of the entrance to the ravine, and we prepared to follow it at once. It might easily have been overlooked, for there was a vigorous growth of plants and bushes along the edge and on the almost perpendicular sides of the chasm that hid it from any but a close search.
"Stone steps," I exclaimed when I caught sight of the spot.
The place was close to one angle of the great rent in the ground, and it was evident that immense labour had been spent on the work. Each step was as broad as a small platform, and was formed by excavating the solid rock so as to make almost a gallery, over which the cliff projected a good many feet. The work was carefully done, and although the edges of the steps were worn and guttered in places, it looked as if this had been the slow work of running water trickling for ages from ledge to ledge.
We ventured upon the first ledge with caution, but a closer inspection showed that nothing could be less likely than any failure in the solidity of the work—indeed, it was as solid as the mountain itself. It was very old, no doubt, and it looked as if centuries might have passed since last human feet had stood on it. Crevices had been ploughed on the once smooth surface by the rain; little deposits of dust had gathered there; seeds had found a lodgement, and grown into grasses that had flourished and decayed, till in time plants and shrubs had taken root and flourished. We seemed to see the long history of ages upon ages as we trod carefully upon those wide terraces of stone that stretched, step after step, into the shadows below. Here and there a great tree-fern had found a crevice in which it could grow, and here and there some kind of palm hung nodding over the abyss. The place didn't incline us to talk, for, indeed, there was something oppressive in the silence that seemed to grow deeper as we went down. Not a bird twittered among the leaves; not even an insect or a moth, such as we had seen at the top, followed us as we groped our way down that almost endless stairway. It had grown perfectly still. The breeze didn't move a leaf, or whisper among the dense vegetation which grew thicker and more luxuriant the farther we went. The place seemed dead.
I hadn't thought of counting the ledges at first, but after we had gone down so many steps that it seemed strange we hadn't reached the bottom, I began to do so, and then it seemed as if they would never end. It took us hours to do it, because each step was more or less blocked by plants that grew luxuriantly, especially at its outer edge, and the farther we went down the more luxuriant the growth became. Sometimes it was even hard to make sure that we were still on the rock terraces, the soft cushion of earth and decayed plants had so completely covered them. I had counted 237 steps, each of them fully a foot lower than the one above it, when at last we reached the bottom. The last step ended in a bank of soft earth, out of which there grew a confusion of flowers and ferns, which, as I stooped to look at them, seemed to me to be almost colourless, and I noticed, to my surprise, that they had no scent whatever.
It was a strange place in which we found ourselves—a glen, overgrown with trees and flowers and ferns, but pale and almost colourless for want of sunlight, and absolutely without a sound of life. The effect upon ourselves was strange too, for when we spoke it was in an awestruck whisper, as if we were afraid of disturbing the silence of the spot. We pushed on as fast as we could. I think each of us had a fear of being caught by the darkness. As it was we found it dark enough. The place was full of shadows. They lurked under every tree and bush; they hung about the black cliffs, that seemed to grow closer and closer overhead when we looked up; they closed in before us and behind, as if they had been watching us. Our footsteps made no sound, for the place was cushioned with the thickest and softest of moss, in which our feet sank deeply at each step. There was nothing that could be called a path through the wilderness of tall palms and ferns, but as each of these appeared to stretch itself upward in search of light, it was never very hard to force a passage between their stems.
We stopped once at an underground stream that crossed the valley, and here we ate the last of our provisions, and indulged in a long draught of the water, the first cold water we had tasted since we started on our journey. Our halt was a short one, for we made no secret to ourselves or each other of our unwillingness to face a night in the place. Even with all our efforts, I had begun to fear that the darkness would overtake us before we could get out, when we reached at last a place that seemed to mark some change. Mackenzie, who was walking first of the party, stopped and peered around in the half darkness, and as we came up with him, we did the same. The place was open and clear of trees, though there were lower bushes and flowers growing out of the mossy soil that carpeted it. At a little distance on every side there seemed to be shadowy buildings and pillars, among which the tree-ferns and palms had grown in masses and clusters, till it was no easy matter to distinguish in the twilight darkness which were trees and which pillars. We looked curiously around, and I noticed at the end farthest from me something that looked like a statue standing behind a stone table or altar. When we got close to it, we could see that it had been a gigantic stone figure; but either through the lapse of time or the softness of the stone, the features of the face had disappeared and there was only the stump of an uplifted arm remaining.
"Apollo again!" Mackenzie exclaimed. "This must have been a temple."
We examined the place carefully, and found, as the Doctor had expected, that it was here the steps began leading upwards out of the great chasm. They proved to be exactly like those at the other end by which we had entered the hollow. It was laborious work creeping upwards from step to step, and nothing but our determination not to spend the night in that death-like spot could have enabled us to accomplish it. It seemed like hours from the time we started before we began to notice a change in the atmosphere from the close, heavy air of that stagnant valley to something like the freshness of the upper world again. Even then we had not reached the top. It seemed to me either that there were more steps at this end of the ravine or that I had failed to count correctly at the other end, for that strange staircase appeared to be positively endless. The light waned, and grew grayer and more shadowed; the gallery, out of which the broad steps were hollowed, grew darker and darker; the great ferns and palms and shrubs grew every minute more indistinct and ghostly; and yet we had not reached the top.
It was all but dark when we did so at last. I had taken the lead, and was a few steps above my companions, when, having pushed my way cautiously through a dense tangle of shrubs, I suddenly saw a wider horizon. It was dim and gray, indeed, and even the giant shoulder of the mountain that rose close at hand looked little more than a darker outline against the darkness of the sky; but, at least, it was the sky, with here and there a star that twinkled feebly overhead.
"Come on, Mackenzie!" I shouted hoarsely. "We have managed it at last."
In a minute or two the others had joined me, and we strained our eyes in hopes of seeing something to guide us where to go next.
THERE was nothing to be seen. For a few minutes we strained our eyes in the attempt to make out some sign of life—something that might at least suggest the presence of human beings, but it was in vain. Dark as it had been when I reached the top of the great stair, it had grown darker already. I could no longer trace the shadow of the great mountain wall; I could barely see the dusky figures of my companions, who were standing close beside me. When I looked back an impenetrable curtain of blackness closed me in; when I strained my eyes to see what there was in front I was baffled by the ghostly dimness that covered everything. For some minutes I could make nothing of it, until I suddenly remembered the mist we had met with on the other side of the great chasm.
"It's that confounded fog again," I exclaimed.
"I suppose so," Mackenzie's voice answered through the darkness. "The sooner we get out of it the better. We can't afford to risk any fevers just now."
"All right. Doctor," I said as cheerfully as I could. "Straight ahead, I suppose? I'll whistle to let you and Hector know whereabouts I am."
After the first few steps the walking was easy. The bushes and shrubs, that had grown so densely near the mouth of the chasm, grew thinner, and after a few minutes gave way to what felt like coarse grass, which didn't interfere with walking. The ground, too, sloped more and more before us, until after a very little while it had grown so steep that I had to be careful of each step I took, in case I might miss my footing and roll down the hill. We discussed it as we went, for after the very first I found talking easier than whistling, and the only conclusion we could arrive at was that we were descending into a valley on the other side of the mountain-chain.
We seemed to have travelled a long way, and yet there was little or no change. I thought the air felt lighter and less chilly, indeed, but it was as difficult as ever to penetrate the shadowy darkness that hemmed us in. Again and again something seemed to grow out of the darkness, and I would hesitate and put out a hand to ward off some unknown danger, but as surely as I did so it melted away, and left only the vague emptiness of the mist to baffle me once more.
Suddenly something rose close in front of me, and as I stretched out my hand, it rested against the trunk of a tree. At the same moment Hector's voice exclaimed:
"And it would be a tree, Major. Oh yess, and very many trees, mirover, it would be."
We stopped by common consent, and then I noticed for the first time that I could see the shadows of other trees in front, and could even distinguish, though faintly, the figures of my two companions a few yards away on either side of me. It was very dark still, but it was evident that either the fog was clearing or that we had got nearly beyond its limits. After a short consultation we decided to go on a little farther, in the hope that we should get rid of the fog altogether before we attempted to get the rest which we were all badly in need of. We didn't need to go far, for before we had groped our way another hundred yards down the slope we could feel that the air had cleared, and we were able to make out the general outlines of the trees and rocks by which we were surrounded. Fortunately the ground seemed to be dry, and though there was no deposit of leaves, it was generally smooth and fairly soft, and we were too nearly exhausted by our long day of work and excitement to be very particular. In five minutes I could hear by their breathing that both my companions had fallen asleep, and after a few dreamy speculations as to what we should find next morning my own ideas grew confused, and I suppose I fell asleep too.
It was a loud and sudden noise that woke me, and as I started up, the first thing my eyes rested on was a large white bird seated on a branch almost directly overhead. A bright bar of golden sunlight fell across his head and lighted up the brilliant rose-coloured crest as if with a halo. His bright eyes rested on me, but he seemed more curious than frightened as he leaned forward and gave another harsh scream in a tone that rang through the wood, and was answered by a dozen other calls from among the foliage. I was still staring at him when the sharp report of a gun behind me made me start, and as the bird fluttered to the ground Hector's voice remarked in a cool tone:
"Oh yess, she wass thinking it wass a ferry good bird—a ferry good bird, whateffer, Major, eff she would be cooked for breakfast."
Both the Doctor and I agreed with Hector when we had succeeded in making a fire and roasting the cockatoo in the ashes. It seemed a delicious morsel to us then, and it certainly went far to restore us to something like our usual vigour, which the last four days had impaired. By the time we had finished we were eager to proceed with our journey, and we lost no time in making a start.
The slope before us was not nearly so steep as that we had descended in the fog of the night before, but it was still steep enough to make travelling easy work, and we felt that we were making good progress, whatever it might lead to. The forest was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I had been accustomed to the Indian jungle, with its boundless profusion of rank undergrowth and creeping plants, but here the forest was comparatively clear and open. The trees were generally tall and very straight, except where the ground was rocky, and they stood close together, shutting out the fierce rays of the morning sunshine, except here and there where a bright splash of light fell like a bar of gold across our track. There was life, too, on every side. At every few steps we were greeted by the harsh screams of the cockatoos, whose white plumage could be seen dancing among the leaves high overhead; parrots and parakeets called and chattered to one another as we passed; strange-looking animals darted through the trees with a swift, leaping motion, such as none of us had ever seen before; lizards ran at lightning speed up the tree-trunks on our approach, and striped snakes glided away into the depths of the forest with the swiftness and silence of thought as we came near.
The change was so pleasant that we hardly noticed how time slipped by as we travelled on and on through the apparently endless arcades of trees, and down the long slope, which seemed as if it would never end. Now and then we stopped and discussed the possibility of climbing some one of the higher, trees so as to form some idea where we were, and how soon we were likely to reach the bottom of the deep valley into which Mackenzie assured us we had been descending ever since we got out of that dismal rent in the mountain, but in each instance we concluded that not one of us was likely to prove very successful in the attempt. The sun had been mounting higher and higher overhead, and in spite of the shade which the forest afforded, the heat had increased till we had made repeated inroads on our supply of water, and the question of where we should be able to replenish our stock began to force itself upon my attention. Mackenzie, indeed, laughed my anxiety on the subject to scorn, as he insisted we must soon reach the bottom of the valley, where there was sure to be a river of some sort, but I could see that even he was utterly at a loss to understand how our arrival there could have been so long delayed.
The forest had grown very still. Even the rustle of the leaves high overhead that had given a sense of coolness to the air in the forest depths had entirely ceased. There was a kind of hush in the atmosphere that was oppressive to the senses, and it seemed to me that a strange shadow was creeping over the forest, and that even the patches of sunshine had lost something of their brightness. We all agreed that it looked like a storm, but there was nothing to be done but press on in the hope either of finding shelter, or of getting a view of the country that might serve to guide us where to go.
We were hurrying along, each of us casting anxious glances upwards and from side to side as we went for some indication of the coming storm, when Hector, who had unconsciously taken the lead, stopped suddenly as if to listen to some sound. We hurried up to him with the question, "What is it, Hector?" He only held up his hand for an instant, as if to warn us to keep silence, and Mackenzie and I bent our beads and listened with all our senses. After a moment I seemed to hear something. It was like a long- drawn howl that began low and rose to a higher note with a strange cadence that was melancholy but not unmusical. I had never heard anything exactly like it before, but I felt sure it must be the cry of some animal. The most curious thing about it was, however—and I could see that it struck Mackenzie as well as myself—that the sound, whatever it was, seemed to come up from below where we were standing. The cry rose once more, louder, and I fancied nearer than before, and then it died away in faint echoes through the woodland slope above us. I looked at Mackenzie.
"What do you make of it?" I asked rather helplessly.
"It's the cry of some beast," he said, assuming a confidence which I don't believe he felt at the moment. "It comes up from the bottom of the valley; we must be close to it now."
"All right. Doctor," I said, "the sooner we get there the better. Perhaps we may get shelter from the thunderstorm that's coming in your valley, though somehow I hardly expect it."
As I spoke I started off at a quick pace, and after a moment's hesitation both my companions followed me. I had scarcely started when the strange wailing note rang out once more, and this time I felt sure it came, not only from below, but also from the right hand. I turned instinctively towards the sound, and almost ran down the slope in my eagerness to solve the mystery.
I noticed a singular thing as I went, though I hardly considered what it could mean; the slope down which we had travelled so long had ended in ground that was almost, if not quite, level, and still the long howling cry seemed to come up from below. The forest was growing thinner, too; there was no longer bright sunlight, but the shadows were no longer so dense, and in another minute I could see the full daylight where the wood appeared to end. For just a single moment I hesitated. I almost shrank from seeing what there might be to see, for already my imagination had been at work filling in the picture of the valley of which Mackenzie had spoken confidently, with all kinds of discoveries, new and strange. A few steps more and I should see it all. At that moment the long, melancholy note rose once more, and this time not one but several together, and I seemed to recognise it— it was a dog, or rather a pack of dogs of some strange new breed that howled but didn't bark. I had half turned to tell my companions, who were not far behind me, when I was almost blinded by a flash of lightning, which was followed in an instant by a crash of thunder, so sudden, so deep, and so intense that I felt myself stagger back as if I had received a blow.
It must have been several moments before I recovered from the shock sufficiently to open my eyes, for when I did so Mackenzie was almost at my side.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed, as he saw me look up. "I was afraid it had blinded you."
"No," I almost shouted, in my excitement. "No; I'm all right. Come on."
We were not twenty yards now from the edge of the forest, and already I could see between the scattered trees the open sky beyond. It looked strangely dark and misty indeed, but it was evident there were no more trees to interfere with the view. I turned, and was going to run, when Mackenzie grasped me by the arm.
"Don't run, Ambrose," he exclaimed, in an agitated tone. "Take care. There's something I don't understand about the place."
I halted involuntarily. "Why, what do you mean?" I asked him,
"Only that you might fall over," he answered, with an uneasy laugh. "I think it's a precipice."
The Doctor was right. In a few steps we had reached the edge, which was only a yard or two beyond the last of the trees. The view was so unexpected that it came almost like a second shock to me. In all my pictures I had never dreamed of anything like this. The view was a wide one; indeed, it stretched as far as the distant horizon, where it was closed in by a dark range of mountains, on which a black cloud rested, but which looked as if they might be as lofty as the range we had passed. The country between lay literally at our feet. Far below us—many hundreds of feet, at least—what looked like an all but level plain lay spread out before us, through the middle of which there ran a considerable river, that glittered like steel in the strange, bluish light of the heavy sky overhead. Forests and fields, cities and buildings, were scattered far and wide over the plain, and far away to the right there was a great sheet of water, into which the river seemed to run, and on the shore of which I thought I could make out, under the heavy thunder-clouds, the outlines of a city, larger and more imposing than anything in the foreground of the picture.
Not a word passed between us for several minutes, as our eyes travelled over the view, and it was with a sort of gasp that at last I turned to Mackenzie, and exclaimed:
"The Greeks, Mackenzie! You were right."
He grasped my hand and shook it, but he seemed unable to say a word. Neither of us had thought of Hector in our excitement, but now we were reminded by his exclamation.
"Oh yess. Doctor and it would be a ferry good place, whateffer, only she will not be saying that she will be caring ferry much for the dogs neither—oh no, she will not care for the dogs so ferry much."
It was evident that our companion had reached a place that commanded a view of something more than we had seen, and we hastened to join him. He had reached the top of a ridge of no great height, running down through the forest to the edge of the precipice, and was standing within a few feet of its extreme point. His great figure stood out against the sky like some heroic statue, with one arm lifted, as if to point out something beyond him and below. We had forgotten in our excitement the cries we had heard, which, in fact, had led us to the place; but now, as we came up with Hector, we seemed to be greeted by a sudden burst of noise, as if from a score of throats at once. Following the motion of his pointing hand, we stared with a kind of fascination at the scene below. There, as it seemed at our feet—only, as we afterwards learnt, some twelve hundred feet lower than the tableland on which we stood—we could see what appeared to be buildings of considerable extent, surrounded by well-kept grounds, in which there were clumps of trees, and through the very middle of which a broad river of water, that looked black, rushed forth with a roar that came up in a sullen murmur as far as the top of the cliff. As we looked down it was dwarfed to the proportions of a toy temple and an imitation river indeed, but yet we could see distinctly where the torrent seemed to burst up from below the dark building, and in what looked like a stone enclosure at each side of the entrance we saw what Hector had called the dogs. They were dwarfed to little more than spots of blackness, but in spite of that they looked like dogs; and as we stared downwards at them we couldn't doubt that they saw us, and that the long, wild howl that rose below was their welcome or threat to the strangers.
We were still gazing in fascinated astonishment when the cloud closed in around us. Great banks of mist rolled in between us and the lower world, and flash after flash of lightning, more vivid than any I had seen even in India, blazed and flickered in streams and sheets on every side. The peals of thunder seemed to roll and break against the front of the precipice with a solemn roar that swallowed up every other sound, and left the ear feeling jarred and stunned, as if it would never again hear anything else. The sensation was new and strange. A few great drops of rain fell upon and around us; but it actually seemed as if the storm was below us.
It must have lasted for half an hour; and then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. There was one blinding flash of lightning, that seemed to linger and flicker across the sky, and then to disperse in fifty little streams of blue light. It was followed by a peal of thunder, that rolled and volleyed and echoed from every quarter of the heavens at once; and then the thundery billows of cloud broke up into fragments, and rolled up the mountain slopes above us. It didn't seem more than a minute or two till the sunshine was pouring into the great valley below us so hotly that everything appeared to swim in a dazzling halo of light, and it was all we could do to distinguish the spot we had been examining so eagerly when the storm came on.
It gradually grew clear once more, and the first thing I saw distinctly was a line of white specks, that moved slowly across the front of the black building and gradually disappeared at one side.
"It must be a temple!" I exclaimed. "And that was a procession, Mackenzie."
The Doctor nodded, with his eyes still fixed on the spot, as he replied:
"Yes; but I wonder if they can see us up here, or how we shall be able to get down to them?"
As he spoke, the same wild, melancholy howl we had heard before came up from the black animals by the side of the dark river.
"She would be thinking that it wass the dogs that would be seeing us, whateffer; and she would not be saying that they were ferry glad, mirover," Hector remarked, as he stooped over the edge of the cliff to see them more clearly.
To judge from the sound, I thought Hector was right.
"THERE must be a path somewhere," Mackenzie said thoughtfully, after he had looked from side to side along the great precipice which stretched as far as we could see to north and south, like a huge battlement shutting off the mountain slope from the country below.
I confessed to myself, as my eyes followed his, that I could see no sign of one. It looked as if the whole country below us had sunk by a single movement, shutting in the valley from the outside world by a ring of impassable cliffs of rock, and I suggested that this might have been what had happened to the Doctor. He only laughed.
"What!" he said, "since these people came? My dear fellow, look at these rocks; see how they are worn and rounded and furrowed by the weather. Not two nor twenty thousand years went to the doing of that. No, we have only to look for the place, and we shall find out how they got into the valley, depend upon that, unless they have destroyed the path."
I was no geologist, but no doubt the Doctor was right about the rocks, for even I could see when I looked at the edges of the great rent that they were smoothed and rounded and worn into a thousand little channels and hollows that told of the lapse of time.
"Very well, Mackenzie," I exclaimed; "let's begin at once, for I suspect we shall not get much to eat till we find it. I'll go this way, and you and Hector go the opposite way," I added, "and whoever finds it first shall whistle three times for the others."
I was eager to be doing something, and I had started before I finished speaking. I hardly knew why I selected the right-hand direction for my share, unless it was that it promised to bring me more exactly above the place where the curiously dwarfed black building stood almost against the face of the precipice. It was not very far to the right of the spot at which we had first come in sight of the valley, but yet it took longer than I had expected to reach it. As we had seen it first we were looking along the face of the cliff, and we didn't see that it drew back into a kind of hollow before it reached the place. Of course I had to go round this hollow, and I was puzzled to account for the fact that it corresponded with a hollow in the slope so deep and well-defined that it struck me at once as looking like the bed of what might once, ages ago, have been a river running down the slope of the mountain. The hollow bed, which was covered with great trees, with here and there a huge boulder rock half sunken in the earth, ended at the point where the precipice was farthest withdrawn from the uniform straight line, which it had seemed to us, looking at it from one side, that it kept all the way.
The hollow was far less smooth than the rest of the slope, and near the edge of the precipice the ground was thickly covered with bushes and shrubs, tall ferns, and stunted palms, which obliged me to be cautious in approaching the edge. As I did so, however, I saw that it must be almost directly above the spot at which the river ran out of the cliff, and it only needed that I should kneel and bend over to enable me to see that this was literally the case. As I did so, the idea came to me suddenly that perhaps this river had once run on the surface and so made the bed down which I had come, and that was followed by the thought that perhaps it had something to do with the curious alcove hollowed out in the great wall over which I was looking. I was still wondering if there could be anything in the fancy when my eyes rested on the bottom of the cliff, and I felt sure that it was by no means as precipitous as I had fancied. As I saw it now, the bottom of the rocky wall seemed to be many feet farther out than the place from which I was looking. If so, here was the place to look for a path.
I ran my eye hastily along the face of the cliff below me, but at first I could see nothing like a path on its weather-stained face. It was scarred and seamed with hollows, out of which grew plants and shrubs that clung to the rock and made it hard to see it distinctly, but as I looked at it fixedly, it seemed to me that I could trace something like a more regular growth of plants in a slanting line that crossed more than once below me, winding down towards the foot of the crag. I stared at it until I grew certain of it, and then I crept on hands and knees along the edge, looking for the top of the track. I had almost given it up, when I came at last on a great bare shelf of rock that stood out from the precipice, and shelved downwards at a sharp angle towards one corner. I looked at it and hesitated. Should I venture on it? There was nothing to hold on by; no shrub nor grass—nothing but the smooth bare rock, and I couldn't see its lower corner. If I ventured upon it, could I get back again?
It was only for a minute or two. I felt certain there was a path, and this seemed the only possible beginning; I would venture it, at any rate. I crept out inch by inch. The spot seemed to be in mid-air. I seemed to see the black building, the rushing river, even the black specks we had taken for dogs, directly below me, only they seemed to be miles and miles below, and the roar of the black-looking river shook the rocky ledge till it trembled again. Still I crept on down the slope, clinging with my fingers desperately to the smooth surface of the ledge. At last I could see it. Yes, there was a path. It was partly hollowed in the rock, which overhung it, as it had done at the steps into the great chasm in the mountain through which it had come. It was steep; it looked broken in places; it was choked by shrubs and bushes; but still there was a path. I only went far enough to reach it, and with the help of the bushes to turn back, and then I climbed once more to the top and made the trees re- echo with the three whistles on which we had agreed.
They came at last, though not before I had grown so impatient that I had started to meet them, and then we prepared to descend. Once more I crept out upon the sloping rock, followed by Mackenzie, who was decidedly the worst mountaineer of the party, while Hector brought up the rear, stepping with all the confidence bred in a man brought up among the crags and cliffs of the western highlands of Scotland. The path was very much the worst we had yet met with on our travels, and in many places it was hardly safe to pass even in single file. It was evident that at some time, probably very long ago, it had been wider, and it even seemed that it might have had a wall on its outer edge, as there were remains of stonework here and there at the widest parts. For the most part of the way, however, it was now nothing more than a narrow path that sloped downwards to its outer edge, which was worn and crumbled into holes and fissures by the long action of running water.
I continued at the head of the party, for even if we had wished it, we could hardly have passed one another on the narrow ledge, and I was congratulating myself that I must have got at least half way to the foot of the cliff, when, stopping for a minute and taking the opportunity of looking below, I saw that at last our motions were being observed. I had grown so much accustomed to the wailing howl of the black guardians of the place that I had almost ceased to notice it, but now as I looked cautiously over the edge of the path I could see a crowd of figures in white robes of some kind standing motionless, and, as I fancied, looking upwards. They were dwarfed to the smallest proportions, and looked more like dolls than men; but even at that distance there was something unmistakably human in their attitudes—they were staring upwards, and they were doing so in amazement. I waited till my companions joined me, and pointed them out to them, and I found we were all agreed that the only thing to be done was to meet them with perfect confidence, Hector remarking quietly:
"Oh yess, Major; and it will not be such ferry big peoples that they will be, whateffer. Oh no, she will not be afraid off ferry many off such peoples, mirover."
The nearer we got to the bottom of the cliff the more I felt disposed to endorse Hectors view of the case. I began to think it was not altogether the effect of distance that had made the crowd of white figures look so small, and I thought with some satisfaction of the impression likely to be made on a race such as I began to fancy these descendants of the Greeks by a man like Hector, or even by my own six feet of height. The thought perhaps had something to do with my almost involuntary action in drawing myself up to my fullest height, and marching with great deliberation down the last two hundred feet of the long descent. In the meantime the crowd seemed to be all but paralyzed with amazement or curiosity, for they stood motionless, watching our approach with upturned faces, as men might watch an eclipse. There might have been fifty of them, and they were crowded together at the foot of a flight of steps that mounted to the entrance of the building we had taken for a temple. Steps and temple alike were jet black, and shone with a dull gleam in the bright sunshine; but for the moment I was more interested in the men themselves.
Hector had been right, for they were certainly below the standard of ordinary European height, and I notice that their faces were not white, but of various olive-tinted shades. As far as I could judge of them in the flowing robes they all wore alike, they seemed well-formed and active, and their features were finely and delicately formed. Suddenly, as I looked at them, one who appeared taller, and of a markedly lighter shade than the others, stepped to the front of the little crowd, and, lifting both hands above his head, began to sing. It was a strange, wild chant, and it was instantly taken up by the others, each one imitating the leader by raising his hands in the same attitude, which I now recognised as having in it something of appeal. The howling of the animals had stopped as if by magic at the first notes of the chant, and from where we stood on the path, not more than forty or fifty feet above the crowd of priests, and perhaps twice as far away, we could no longer see the dogs at all. I felt a little puzzled what to do, for I strongly suspected they took us for some kind of supernatural beings, and I didn't feel very sure how I should act the character; but nothing was to be gained by hesitation, so I raised my right hand with as much dignity as I could assume and moved slowly on.
The path ran at an easy angle across the face of the cliff and almost parallel with the river which ran between us and the priests, but the wall of rock ran out in a sort of natural bastion beyond, shutting us off from the place where it ran out of the cliff, as well as from the enclosure in which the dogs were confined. I can't say I felt altogether comfortable at the prospect of having to cross the river before reaching the band of worshippers, as I now supposed them to be, because I hardly saw how to do it without some loss of dignity, even if the river should not prove too rapid for swimming, but as there was nothing else to be done but trust to the chapter of accidents, I marched on as calmly as possible. The path led round the face of the bastion, through which it had been partly cut, till it was almost concealed in the rock, and it was not till I got to the farther side that I could see how it ended. When I did so I hesitated for a moment, and I dare say I should have stopped if it had not been for Mackenzie, who was close behind me, whispering:
"For Heaven's sake don't hesitate! They take us for deities now, man, so we must risk it."
It looked awkward enough at first sight, and it hardly grew better at close quarters. Just beyond the bastion the path sloped downwards, and grew narrower as it passed across the channel of the river, which rushed in a foaming torrent out of a low, arched cavern, with a strange gurgling roar, making the rock above tremble and shiver with the shock. The path seemed to cross about twenty feet above the stream, and it was both narrow and worn; but making a virtue of necessity, I nerved myself for the task, and to my surprise I found it much less difficult than it had seemed. Even Mackenzie managed to reach the other side without any loss of dignity, such as would certainly have been caused by showing any sign of fear under the observant gaze of so many spectators. A few steps only beyond the river and the path ended on a large flat slab of rock almost exactly like the one with which it began, except that this one was fortunately nearly level and was more than big enough to accommodate us all three without crowding.
It wasn't till I was fairly upon this ledge that I understood the full awkwardness of our position, but then I saw that I was standing directly above the spot at which we had seen the black animals who had from the first greeted us with such unfriendly howlings. It was clear enough now that they were placed there as guardians of the path by which we had come; and now that I could see them closely they looked more than sufficiently formidable. They were not dogs—at least, they were not like any dogs I had seen before, though perhaps as like dogs as any other animal I had ever met with—and only two of them actually guarded the narrow path which led directly from the foot of the short flight of black steps, at the top of which I found myself standing, to the entrance to the temple opposite. These two, however, seemed both able and willing to bar the way effectually, and already they were leaping and straining fiercely at the heavy chains of bright metal that held them in their desire to reach us where we stood above their heads. They were formidable animals too, larger than any but the very largest breeds of European dogs; they had great wolf-like heads and huge slavering jaws that gnashed with great white teeth as they strained at their collars in the effort to reach us. Their densely black colour and wild eyes added a good deal to the impression, and the savage howls they emitted from time to time, the whole band within the enclosure joining in the chorus, were infinitely more terrible than any bark, however fierce, could have been.
It was impossible to pass them, as they were chained one on either side of the path, the first commanding the bottom of the steps, and the other having the full range of the narrow pavement two or three yards further on. I stopped and looked at them, utterly at a loss what to do next. For a moment I thought of the possibility of summoning the priests, whose chanting could still be heard through the howling at intervals, and I wondered vaguely what the proper Greek words would be in which to command them to interfere, but a single glance at the faces before me showed that they were waiting eagerly to see whether we should be able to pass the animals, and it flashed across my mind that everything might depend upon our success in doing so. I glanced round at my companions, but I could see that Mackenzie was at least as puzzled as myself, and Hector was merely looking to me for directions. I passed my hand across my brow to get rid of the moisture, which had started out in great drops, and as I let the hand drop to my side it came in contact with the handle of the pistol, which I carried in a leathern case at my belt. The touch came like a revelation; I saw my way at once.
It was fortunate that I had loaded it that morning, and even put caps on the nipples in case of some sudden attack, and I knew that I could depend on the weapon, clumsy as it would look beside a revolver of today. At close quarters I knew it was to be depended on, so placing my hand on the handle, I walked coolly down the steps. The huge brute sprang to the end of his chain and gnashed his teeth in the effort to reach me as I came on, and I could see that every eye among the crowd in front of me was fixed on the scene in expectation. When I was within two steps of the spot at which the animal stood frantically pawing the air, I suddenly drew the pistol, presented it at his head, and pulled the trigger. I did it purposely as rapidly as possible, as I knew that I couldn't miss. There was a flash, and the quick report mingled with a sharper howl, as the brute leaped high in the air and fell in a heap at the foot of the staircase. I stepped quietly over the body and advanced along the path to where the second guardian of the pass was struggling, if possible, more furiously to break from his chain than the first, and, levelling the pistol with a quick aim, shot him through the heart with the contents of the second barrel. With one long-drawn yell, which was re-echoed by the seven other huge animals within the enclosure, he rolled over and over and lay still.
Without casting even a glance at his dead body, I put back the pistol and advanced towards the group of priests who were now crowded together in evident fear of the mysterious strangers. I thought for a moment they were going to run away, but when I was within about twenty yards of where they stood, one of them—it was the same I had noticed before begin the chant—stepped before the rest, and, throwing up his hands over his head, prostrated himself on the ground, while he exclaimed, in words that sounded like a very barbarous Greek dialect:
"Hail, dwellers on Olympus! Welcome to the land of Phoebus Apollo!"
I LOOKED round at Mackenzie, who instantly stepped forward to my side, and, stretching out one arm, replied in the solemn rolling periods of the 'Iliad.'
"Hail to ye also, sons of the Daniai! Ye have travelled far from the homes of your people, but, lo! we have come to see the sons of the immortal gods—hail to you!"
The Doctor did it well, and the grand rolling sounds of the old Greek sounded like a language fit for the deities. I couldn't help thinking it was a pity he wasn't bigger—Mackenzie was not more than five feet eight in height at the most—for I thought it likely that a little more would be expected of a god by a people who were small themselves.
Luckily I was mistaken. These people had preserved the traditions of the old Greek mythology a good deal better than I had supposed, and as it turned out, they instantly identified Mackenzie as Mercury, both because he was spokesman and on account of his size. It was evident, too, that they understood him, for, rising to their knees, they followed their leader in a triumphant chant, which the Doctor told me afterwards seemed to be a hymn of thanks to the gods. I wondered how long they would think it necessary to sing; but after a very few minutes Mackenzie, to whom I had suggested that a little of it would go a long way, stepped forward once more and held up his hand, upon which the chant died off into a tremulous quaver. Mackenzie looked at them fiercely as he asked the question:
"How came it to pass, sons of the Daniai, that ye attempted to bar our way with the howling of dogs?"
The leader of the band of priests explained, with his hands held out in an attitude of prayer, that these were the descendants of Cerberus, whose duty it has been from time immemorial to guard the path which none might pass but the gods. No mortal had ever been able to pass them, but as we had shown, they could offer no obstruction to the deities themselves, who had only to launch a thunderbolt at them to clear the path. Mackenzie explained in a few words to me, and I nodded, on which he turned to the high-priest and told him that the gods were pleased to accept his explanation, but now they had travelled far and would rest; they would also, he added, condescend to partake of the food of their children, that they might see how they fared in this distant land.
I noticed that as he spoke the faces of the band of priests cleared wonderfully, and they rose from their knees at a sign from their leader with an alacrity which made me fancy the position was one to which they weren't much accustomed. They then formed two lines—one on each side—while the leader, bending almost double, led the way between their ranks up the black steps and through the portico of the temple. Once more they raised a hymn of triumph as we entered, and the high-priest ushered us towards the inner shrine. In a very few minutes we had been supplied with mats and pillows sufficient to make us comfortable, and were left to ourselves while the feast was being prepared. We were glad of the chance to discuss the position in which we found ourselves, for the sudden change from almost starving adventurers to deities was too abrupt not to be embarrassing, at any rate to Hector and me. Mackenzie, however, rose to the occasion with a readiness which reminded me of the history of his race in all parts of the world, and he spent the time in trying to make us do the same. I could see that he was right, as everything might depend on keeping up the character accident had bestowed upon us, and I promised to be guided entirely by his advice. Hector, of course, was ready to do the same, and as his part was only to look sufficiently big and solemn we had no doubt of his success. Mackenzie, however, assured me that I was in the responsible position of Zeus, father of gods and men, as I had hurled the thunderbolts that had destroyed the dogs, and must live up to the part. Fortunately, he said, I wouldn't be expected to talk much, and in the meantime he would get all the information possible from the chief priest, who seemed to be a decent sort of fellow.
Our consultation was interrupted by the arrival of the feast, which was brought in and spread on the floor. There was nothing to complain of either as to quantity or quality, although nearly everything tasted strange to us. There was even a sort of wine, almost colourless, but with a taste distantly resembling a very fine cider, and strangely exhilarating when drunk. A look from Mackenzie when he had tasted it warned us to be careful, but our host, whose name it turned out was Dion, after he had got over the first feeling of awe at the presence of his deities, partook of it freely, and became very talkative. I noticed that Mackenzie rather encouraged him, and kept him in constant conversation, though I could understand very little of what was said. The Doctor, however, with the wonderful readiness which had made him about the best linguist in India, seemed after the first to have less trouble in understanding our new friend than the priest had in following his Homeric Greek. It was astonishing how much he contrived to learn in the course of the two hours or so we spent over the feast, and when we were left alone once more we could form some idea of the people among whom we had come.
In the first place, however, we decided to stay where we were for the night. This had been Dion's own suggestion, indeed, for it was evident he didn't feel equal to the responsibility of dealing with our future progress through the country. It appeared that he had sent off a messenger to Atalka, the capital, to announce the visit of the gods to the chief priest of Apollo, who was evidently the principal person in the national priesthood. It appeared that there was a Prince or chief of some kind, but even when he had drunk a good deal of the wine our friend was very cautious to give as little information as possible about him for some reason. We came to the conclusion that we should do well to fall in with his humour, and not to arouse suspicion by letting it be seen too plainly how ignorant we were of this and other matters which, as deities, we might perhaps be expected to know.
In spite of the excitements of the day and the thousand possibilities that might be waiting for us, I think we all slept well in that dismal temple, dedicated, as we found out, to the Furies, and chiefly remarkable for the gloomy blackness of the black marble of which it was built and the severe simplicity of the architecture.
Our friend Dion's measures had evidently been effectual in arousing public interest in our arrival, to judge from the sounds that penetrated even to the inner recesses of the gloomy temple in which we had passed our first night, by the time we were ready for the morning meal provided by our host. Even this, however, scarcely prepared us for the assembly we found gathered together in our honour when we intimated that we were ready to continue our journey. Our appearance at the top of the black marble staircase was the signal for a scene of the wildest rejoicing, in which several thousands of spectators joined with a heartiness which struck both Mackenzie and myself at the time as a little in excess of what we should have expected, though we found out the meaning of it afterwards. Everybody seemed to be in holiday costume, and I was forced to admit in my own mind that they had shown good taste in keeping closely the fashions of their Greek ancestors, which certainly made the most of the troops of girls who accompanied us with graceful dances, and strewed flowers in our path. Privately, I gave Dion great credit for the excellence of the pageant, as I strongly suspected he intended to exhibit us as the special property of his own peculiar temple.
Our journey was a triumphal march, the chief disadvantage of which was that it obliged us to walk at a slow and solemn pace during the greater part of a long day of more than Indian sunshine between crowds of people, who were only kept from pressing upon us by the exertions of the priests, who guarded us jealously on both sides, and after we reached the first town, by a body of troops, armed with long spears and short swords, who might almost have passed for dark imitations of the figures still to be seen in the old Greek sculptures. We were allowed to rest twice at two temples on our way, where we were entertained at feasts by the priests, and had great difficulty in escaping from their too earnest attempts to make us drink largely of the drink of the country, the effect of which was abundantly evident not only among the shouting crowds but even in the ranks of the white-robed priests, who flocked out of every temple we passed to join the procession.
We had expected to reach the chief city, which was called Atalka, before nightfall, but we found that at the rate we were allowed to travel that was impossible. This had evidently been foreseen, if not arranged for, by the priests, who were clearly managing the whole reception, and we could only see the towers and higher buildings of the capital city when the procession was halted for the night at another temple of larger size and greater pretensions to ornament than any we had seen. It was evidently a temple of Apollo, as a giant figure which had some faint resemblance to the Greek ideal of the god stood in the great court behind an altar of white marble. Like all the temples we had seen, except the gloomy one in which we had passed our first night, the main part of this building was wholly uncovered. A row of pillars along each side supported a kind of entablature, from which a sloping roof ran down to a second row of pillars much shorter than the inner row, and so formed the covering of a series of chambers for the priests attached to the temple that opened only into the great central court. The open court in the centre was invariably oblong in shape, and paved with large slabs of coloured marble which were so highly polished as to render walking upon it with shoes on a matter of some trouble. The pillars were usually of white marble, and while they had something of the grace of the old Greek architecture, they had generally an excess of carving, which reminded me of some of the old Hindoo temples in the southern part of India.
Once more we were entertained at a feast in the temple apartments, and again Mackenzie took advantage of the opportunity of privately questioning our hosts, among whom Dion was still included, on a great variety of subjects. After a time, indeed, the three chief priests who had been admitted to our society grew so excited from the excessive use of the liquor, which they called nectar, that we were glad to break up the party and retire to rest. We were conducted across the open hall of the temple, and stopped to admire the scene, now flooded with the soft white light of moon in its first quarter. I noticed that a faint haze of smoke curled upwards into the still air from the altar in front of the great statue, and it struck me for the first time that there was something strange about the construction of the altar itself. It seemed to be a huge block of marble, not white, but rather of a blush-pink colour, and the top was hollowed out into a long-shaped trough, from which the smoke I had noticed curled upwards, though I could see no fire nor any sign of fuel. I paused for a second or two, and as I did so a vague sense of uneasiness passed through my mind, which I could neither account for nor explain. Then I followed my companions, wondering what could have caused the feeling, and yet ready to laugh at myself for wondering when everything was so curiously like a dream.
We had been told that next day about noon we should make our entry into the capital city, where we should be received in state by the high-priest of Apollo, the descendant of the divine Antalkas, and all the chiefs of the people who had been summoned to do honour to the gods, and to hear the will of the deities from our mouths. We discussed matters at great length that night, and Mackenzie gave us the substance of all he had been able to gather from our hosts. It was pretty certain, according to him, that nearly everything would depend upon the impression we managed to make on the high-priest, whose acquaintance we were to make the next day. His name, it seemed, was Ephialtes, and he was looked upon as at least half divine by virtue of his descent from the divine hero and priest Antalkas, who, as well as Anaxagoras himself, had become as much a mythical hero as Theseus or even Hercules himself. Mackenzie surprised me by saying that he had no doubt at all from what he heard that our coming had been expected by the priests, but he was very far from sure that they, or at any rate their chief Ephialtes, welcomed it very heartily. There was something also which we couldn't understand about a prince or princess, about whom he had vainly tried to induce the priests to talk, even after they had drunk enough to make them very communicative on every other subject. He fancied it was a princess, and I confess the suggestion was responsible for many dreams that spoiled my rest during the remainder of the night.
The morning was well advanced before we started for the capital. The crowds were much greater than before, and now the road was guarded by bodies of soldiers, armed, like the first we had seen, with spears, shields, and swords. They also wore what looked like coats of light mail coming to the knee, and helmets of white metal—which we afterwards ascertained to be almost pure silver— which glittered in the sunshine with a brightness that was painful to the eyes. Glancing at them with the eyes of a soldier, I was pleased with their appearance so far as their discipline and the personal activity and alertness of the men went, but I was more than ever struck by the want of bone and muscle in nearly every one of them. Hector put it into words when he looked at the array from the steps of the temple, and observed to me in a low tone:
"Oh yess, Major, and it will be ferry pretty that they will be looking; but she would be thinking that she would not be so ferry much afraid off six or seffen off them, no, nor off eight or ten off them, whateffer."
I glanced at Hector's towering figure, and from him to the dusky warriors in their shining armour, and I smiled. Eight or ten! I would have backed Hector against any twenty of them.
We were not allowed to enter the capital on foot, as we were now provided with a sort of palanquin, carried on the shoulders of four bearers. These were very gorgeously decorated with gold and silver; indeed, the woodwork was almost entirely inlaid with elaborate patterns in the two metals which showed a good deal of taste. I was provided with the first palanquin, from which I concluded that Mackenzie had been right in declaring that I was regarded as the leader of the party; Mackenzie followed next, while Hector brought up the rear, though looking by far the most worthy representative of Olympus of the group. The procession was in all respects triumphal. Troops of girls, dressed in white, and crowned with wreaths of white flowers, strewed leaves and blossoms in front of us; bands of children danced and sang on each side of the palanquins; from time to time we paused where parties of young men played on flutes and other wind instruments, and then as we moved on fell into the procession behind us and played triumphal music in our train.
I had been eagerly watching for the first glimpse of the city of Atalka as for some reason, for which I couldn't have accounted, I felt an almost superstitious presentiment that something was to happen there more interesting to me than all that had gone before. It was with a curiosity that was almost painful that I found myself at last carried through the entrance. There seemed to be no gates, but on each side there was a high wall and double pillars at a distance of perhaps twelve feet apart. The roadway was paved with huge slabs of polished stone fitted closely at the edges, and on either hand there were tall trees and palms alternately throwing pleasant shadows over the broad path. From my seat in the palanquin it was impossible to see much beyond the crowds that hemmed in the path on each side, the foliage of the trees, and an occasional glimpse of white buildings standing back from the road, and generally nestling among trees and shrubs.
The road was perfectly straight, and as far as I could see it sloped upwards at a uniform grade from the entrance of the city. I felt that with so many thousands of eyes fixed on me I must be careful not to show too much curiosity, or I should certainly have turned in my seat to look backwards. As it was, I sat rigidly uncomfortable, looking before me, and only venturing to glance from side to side at the crowds in their holiday dress, and the more distant buildings and groups among the trees. I was able to notice one thing, however, which struck me as interesting. It was here for the first time I noticed that there were two distinct races of people. From the first I had observed that some were many shades darker than others, both among the crowds and soldiers, but in the city there were black men, too. The guards at the entrance were tall black men, with broad flat faces. They were taller by several inches than the rest of the people, and of muscular build. "Slaves," I said to myself. The farther we travelled along the great city road, the more of these men we saw. Those in front, indeed, were all soldiers, armed as the other soldiers had been, except that they had no shields; but I fancied I saw others in the background among the trees of the same colour, whom I took for household slaves.
At last we reached an open space, where the road ended in what looked like a great square that seemed to be filled with people, behind whom rose great white buildings, some of them with pillared porticoes, not very unlike Grecian temples at first sight, and others that rose tier above tier, growing smaller as they ascended, which reminded me instantly of buildings I had seen in Southern India. Our arrival was the signal for a burst of music from bands of musicians, who lined both sides of a broad open path through the crowd that led up to the front of a huge building of sparkling white stone which positively blazed in the sunshine, and seemed to occupy the top of the hill up which we had been marching from the moment we entered the city.
If I had had any doubt that this was the great temple of Apollo of which Mackenzie had spoken, the ranks upon ranks of white-robed priests who occupied the space nearest the building would have removed it. Behind them on either side were large bodies of black soldiers in armour that blazed and glittered with polished yellow metal which we afterwards found to be gold; and behind these again bodies of the lighter-coloured soldiers whom I took to be the descendants of the Grecian settlers.
Our procession marched slowly to the sound of bursts of music that rose and died away in a soft, almost melancholy key, till at last the bearers halted at the foot of a flight of broad steps of what looked like rose-coloured marble that led up to the portico of the great temple. As the bearers set down the palanquins, there was one long-drawn burst of music, and as it died away a little group of five white figures appeared at the top of the steps under the shadow of the great portico. These advanced slowly down the steps, one of them several yards in front of the other four, who marched two-and-two. I knew instinctively that this must be the high-priest of Apollo, of whom we had heard so much that we had begun to look upon him as head of the nation. For a single moment I glanced nervously at Mackenzie, who stood about a yard behind me on the right, as Hector did on the left, and then I turned and faced the descendant of Antalkas, Ephialtes, the high-priest of the sun-god.
I WATCHED the high-priest as he descended the stair to meet us. It seemed to me as I did so that in some strange way there was a contest already going on between me and this man, whom I had never heard of till the night before, and never seen till that minute. In every dignified step he took, in every proud motion of his tall figure, I seemed to myself to read hostility and even danger. Perhaps it was fortunate, for I was conscious that the idea helped me to collect all my wits about me so as to be prepared for whatever might happen. I couldn't help admitting as I looked at him that this man was different from any I had seen before of the people we had discovered. It was not only that he was tall compared with the others, or that his features were bold and strongly formed, of a type which I seemed to recognise as that of the old Greeks, or even that his skin was not darker than that of an Italian or Spaniard: it was something in the man's eye and the firm lines of his mouth which told me that here was a man who would be a dangerous enemy.
Ephialtes never took his eyes off me, I think, from the moment he first appeared in the portico till he reached the foot of the steps and faced me at a distance of a few feet. At first I thought an expression of something like amusement, not unmixed with contempt, flitted across his features as he looked at me, and I fancied it was hardly wonderful if our travel-worn modern clothing and my dusty undress uniform failed to impress him as very suitable for the immortal gods. I don't know that I had ever thought quite so much in my life before of the importance of dress, but as he came nearer I saw that his eyes no longer dwelt on anything but my face, as if he were trying to judge of me by something more important than my dress. It had seemed to take him an hour to come down these few steps. His appearance had been the signal for a sudden silence to fall over the great assembly, and in the hush I could fancy I heard the sound of each step of his sandaled feet on the stair, but at last he stopped. I had been standing with my arms folded across my breast in a way that was habitual to me, but now, as he stopped and looked at me, I suddenly, by an impulse for which I couldn't account, unfolded my arms and raised my right hand. I could see as I did so that a sort of shudder ran through the silent multitude, and was even reflected in the faces of the men before me. Next moment, as if by a single motion, the vast crowd prostrated itself on the pavement. For just one moment I thought an angry spark lighted the eye of the man before me, as he noted the universal action, and then he joined in it so adroitly that it almost appeared as if he had himself been the leader.
"Hail to ye, sons of the Daniai!" Mackenzie rolled out the sonorous words of the classical Greek in his musical but deep bass, which always seemed a little out of proportion to his size. "Ye have done well!"
In the shout that acknowledged the greeting, and rose quickly to a thunderous acclaim, my ear had detected the now familiar voice of our friend Dion, the high-priest of the Furies, who had taken up his position on my right hand and about two yards behind me, but I listened in vain for anything that could be recognised as coming from Ephialtes. The shout, "Hail to the immortals, the dwellers on Olympus! Hail! hail! hail!" had scarcely died away, however, before he had risen slowly to his feet, and, holding out both hands, palms upwards, exclaimed:
"Deign, oh immortals, to enter the temple prepared by the sons of the Greeks in honour of the sun-god, under whose smile they have dwelt during all the generations of men, while they were forgotten of the rest of the gods. Tell us also, oh immortals, by what names ye shall be called while ye sojourn among us."
I had almost smiled as I recognised the adroitness of the first words, casting a reproach upon us, and claiming Apollo as the special protector of his people. But the question was serious. This was a man to be reckoned with, as I had suspected; for it seemed to me that, hostile as it all was, the sting of his speech lay in its tail. For a moment I felt completely at a loss, then the deep tones of Mackenzie's voice rolled past me as he replied:
"Ye do not well to question the will of the gods, O ye priests of Phoebus Apollo. Have not their eyes beheld you? Have not their hands protected you from generation to generation? Now, indeed, ye behold them for the first time. See, then, that ye be worthy. Know that ye behold, in the form of a mortal, Zeus, father of gods and men, and that we who attend upon him are his messenger, even Hermes, and his son Heracles—once like yourselves a mortal."
I had often admired Mackenzie's voice, and I had often joked him about his rather solemn manner, which he had in common with a good many of his countrymen; but I had never till that moment known to what good purpose both could be used. As he reproved the high-priest I could see that a strong shudder passed over the still kneeling crowd; and when he rolled out his proclamation of our titles, I wasn't surprised to see the multitude, and even the four high-priests, who had risen with their leader, prostrate themselves once more in awe of the gods.
Even Ephialtes bowed his head low, though he otherwise stood his ground, and I thought I caught one fierce glance that fell on Mackenzie in the moment of his doing so. Whatever he thought, however, he had the faculty of knowing when to give way, and he showed it now. Straightening himself, and again holding out his hands in supplication, he replied to Mackenzie:
"Honoured indeed are the sons of the Daniai by the visit of the gods; will it please them to enter the humble temple we have erected to their honour?"
Bowing low, he turned away and preceded us up the broad marble steps, under the great portico, and into the vast temple court within. It was evident that all the art and wealth of the people had been lavished upon the piece, and I should have liked to stop and examine the huge pillars of white marble that seemed to be so strange a compromise between the severe taste and chaste beauty of Greek art and the gorgeous and barbaric ideas of India, of which I had seen so many examples; but I felt that, in deference to my new character, I must show no curiosity at first. I could hardly suppress an exclamation of wonder, however, as I came out into the full blaze of light that flashed in all the colours of the rainbow from the floor, walls, and pillars of the vast enclosure in which I found myself as soon as we passed the great doors that opened upon the pillared portico. Not even in India had I ever seen anything quite so gorgeous, or perhaps the fact that here the full blaze of the sun was admitted, while there everything connected with religion was shrouded in shadow as well as in mystery, may have been partly responsible for the effect, and for some moments I paused on the threshold.
It was a vast oblong enclosure, surrounded on all four sides by double rows of huge pillars of variously coloured stone that formed a colonnade, backed by walls of a hundred colours, inlaid with stone and metal, in pictures of gods and heroes. Near the further end was a gigantic statue, apparently covered with plates of gold, burnished so highly that it positively flashed in the sunshine, so that it was almost impossible to look fixedly at it. That it was meant for Apollo there could be little doubt, from its presence there, and the attitude of the figure was something like that of some of the old Greek sculptures of the god, but in nearly every other respect it presented a contrast rather than a likeness to the grand ideal of the artists of old Greece. The face was coarse and inhuman, sensual and fierce, and yet there was a certain mystery about it that made it terrible rather than merely contemptible. The outstretched hand of the god seemed to hold the lightning indeed, but round the arms and around each limb of the figure snakes, lizards, scorpions and still more loathsome forms seemed to creep and writhe in lifelike horror. In front of the figure was a huge altar-stone of a rose-pink colour, round which there seemed to be creeping figures of the same kinds of animal life, each apparently trying to climb to the top, or to struggle with the other's in the effort to get there. The picture was the most horrible I had ever seen in its effect on my mind, and it seemed to be made more intense by the blinding glare of coloured lights in which it appeared to swim before my eyes.
Ephialtes moved on before us with solemn and measured steps till he stood before the altar. For a single moment he bowed before the towering figure, then he turned and faced the vast concourse of people that was pouring in at the great doors behind the ranks of white-robed priests, of whom there must have been at least a thousand, and holding both hands aloft above his head, he exclaimed in a clear, penetrating voice, that rang through the vast building in spite of the noise of the moving multitudes:
"Sons of the Greeks, beloved of the gods! Here, at the shrine of Phoebus Apollo, the giver of light, kneel ye, and adore."
Like one man the assembled multitude fell on their faces and joined in the hymn of praise which was raised by the priests in the front rows of the spectators, who were no doubt attached to the special service of Apollo. The music was simple, but solemn, and the volume of sound which poured upwards like a great torrent had a very impressive effect.
With the single exception of Ephialtes, we alone had remained standing and facing the high-priest, as he did the people. I had never removed my eyes from his face, and it had seemed to me that a variety of expressions, among which I thought I had recognised some doubt and hesitation, but much more hostility and malice, passed over his features and gleamed in his eyes as they met mine. I was determined, however, that he should see no sign of wavering or doubt in me, as I felt sure that the discovery of anything of the kind would be the signal for a display of open hostility on his part. I think he was disappointed, for it seemed to me that a frown gathered on his face, and yet the look of doubt and hesitation grew greater rather than less. Could he be really in doubt as to whether we were the gods we had proclaimed ourselves? From the first moment when I had looked him full in the face I had instinctively dismissed the idea from my mind, and I had seen in each action and word of the high-priest since then proof that I was right; but now as I watched him I couldn't be sure. That he was in doubt I could see; could it be, after all, a suspicion that we might be deities such as we represented ourselves? If I had known the man better I would not have been troubled with that doubt.
The song of praise to the sun-god rose and fell in vast waves of sound, and then it died away. As it ceased, Ephialtes wheeled slowly with his face to the huge image of the god, and spreading his hands in the same way as before, once more broke the silence.
"Phoebus Apollo, giver of light; show now to thy children how best we may honour the deities who have at length deigned to visit our land, which is thine."
I suspected some trick, and I watched him closely, but beyond the use of the words I was sure he did nothing. And yet as he spoke, it seemed to me that the evil eyes of the huge figure opened, and a ray of intense light gleamed for a second or two from each, while from the altar before him there curled up a cloud of blue smoke, which seemed to fold and eddy round his image so as to render it indistinct and apparently yet more gigantic. That smoke, indeed, had a strange power of confusing the sight, for I could almost have sworn that the vast head of the figure moved. The multitude thought so, too, for an awestruck whisper crept through the place.
"The god! The god! He replies!"
The high-priest bowed his head, and then moved slowly round the altar, almost like a man who walked in his sleep, till he stood at the feet of the god. There he stood for some minutes facing it, with his head bent low, and the blue smoke that rose from the altar wrapping him in its folds. I took the opportunity of glancing aside at Mackenzie's face. He returned my glance, and shot the whisper to my ear:
"He's a clever scoundrel, but we're all right for the present; he daren't risk it."
I didn't feel quite so sure about that as Mackenzie, but I nodded slightly, and fixed my eyes again on the figure of the priest as he bent at the foot of the statue at some distance beyond the great altar. To see him I had to look across the altar, and my eyes were attracted in spite of myself by its strange appearance, as well as by the curious wreaths of blue smoke that curled upwards from its centre. As I looked it seemed to me I could make out that the smoke came from a hollow place in the middle of the huge stone, and it flashed across my mind that it must have the same sunken hollow on the top which I had noticed with so strange a feeling in the temple where we had spent the last night. Once more the same shudder passed over me, and I asked myself what it meant. Then I wondered what schemes were at the moment passing through the mind of the man who appeared to be waiting so long for inspiration that I fancied I could hear a rustling of impatience or expectancy growing louder among the vast crowd of worshippers behind me.
I was roused from my thoughts by another quick whisper from Mackenzie which just reached my ear.
"Look out, Ambrose! Something's going to happen that wasn't expected."
I glanced aside involuntarily, and I saw at once what he meant. One of the large doors in the wall behind the pillars had been opened silently, and men in bright armour were filing through it two abreast, while the eyes both of the priests and people seemed to be fixed upon it in eager expectation. For the moment I forgot Ephialtes and his idol, and waited with a strange eagerness for what was about to happen.
THE door was near the east end of the great temple enclosure, and beyond the part of the building occupied by the crowds of priests and people that occupied the western end of the great edifice. As my eye glanced quickly over that great mass of excited faces I felt sure that Mackenzie had been right. Whatever this new interruption of the ceremonies might mean, it had not been expected, and it was regarded with as much interest by the worshippers as it was by ourselves. Wherever I looked I saw only stretching necks and earnest faces, and it struck me that the excitement was greater, if possible, in the dense ranks of the white-robed priests who occupied the front ranks than it was even among the masses of the people behind them. It seemed to me that the high-priest, Ephialtes, himself was most likely the only person in all that vast assembly of at least ten thousand people whose eyes were not fixed on the spot where the guards—with golden helmets glittering in the sunshine—filed through the entrance.
A low murmur, almost a whisper at first spread through the crowd, growing more distinct as it swelled from a whisper like that of the wind in the trees to the volume of articulate sound, and at last I was able to catch the name that passed from one to another; it was the single word 'Eureka!' As it reached me I looked questioningly at Mackenzie, and he in his turn looked at Dion, the high-priest of the Furies, who had clung persistently as close to him as possible throughout the whole proceedings. Mackenzie evidently spoke to the little man, for I could see his dark face flush with pride at being thus directly addressed by one of the deities. In another moment Mackenzie turned and whispered to me the words: "Eureka is the Princess—the daughter of the gods. I begin to understand the situation now." I would fain have asked him what he meant, but I felt that it might be dangerous whilst so many eyes might be watching us in the interests of the high-priest of Apollo. The information he had conveyed to me in those whispered words, too, had given me enough to think about in itself, and it was with a new interest that I watched the long line of mailed soldiers march slowly into the enclosure and form a double line on each side of a wide pathway through the great colonnade. 'The daughter of the gods.' The title was so much more dignified, and at the same time suggestible, than any I had ever heard applied to any Princess, that almost unconsciously I found myself picturing something so far beyond probability that I nearly smiled at myself as I thought of the disappointment that was most likely in store for me when the lady herself should come on the scene.
I hadn't long to wait. Suddenly down the centre of the avenue loft between the ranks of the guards there appeared young girls marching two and two. They wore crowns and wreaths of white flowers, and each carried a basket in her hand, from which she took handfuls of flowers to strew on the pavement. I noticed at once that these girls differed from those we had seen in such numbers on our way, both in being taller and of fairer complexions, and also in the richness of their clothing and ornaments, and in their appearance of dignity. There were twelve of them, and as they advanced out of the comparative shadow of the pillars, I thought I had never seen more graceful figures or more perfect features. Behind them came the Princess herself, attended by two other girls, who held a small canopy above her head. The first glance told me that she was tall and graceful like her attendants, but it also showed that she was veiled under some pure white gossamer-like stuff which covered her head and floated nearly to the ground on all sides. She wore a glittering coronet of gold, set, apparently, with precious stones of various colours that flashed in the light as she moved. I thought I had never seen anything at once so graceful and stately as her walk, and I was conscious of a feeling of keen disappointment that it was impossible to see her face. The whisper of the crowd had sunk to a hush as she appeared, and every eye seemed to be watching eagerly for what would take place next.
The group of girls had paused when they came out into the full glare of the temple court, as if bewildered by the scene, but I thought I could see that their eyes fixed themselves eagerly on us as we stood apart in front of the altar. The Princess, too, had stopped, and from the slight motion of her head I fancied that she glanced first at the great statue of the god, and then at us. Then she seemed to make up her mind, for with a wave of her hand she put her attendants aside and moved forward directly to the spot where we stood. When she had reached within perhaps three yards of the plate she stopped and sank slowly to her knees, holding out both hands as the high-priest had done before, with the palms uppermost. There was a dead silence. A solemn hush, that had grown deeper and deeper, had fallen on the great assembly of people, who seemed to be waiting for some manifestation of the supernatural. I had been in several very awkward situations already since I had assumed my new character of a deity, but this the worst of all. What was I to do? My inclination was to step forward, but I couldn't be sure what a god, and especially an old Greek deity, of whom my knowledge was rather hazy, would be expected to do under the circumstances.
Once more Mackenzie came to my assistance, and in a voice almost deeper and more solemn than ever, exclaimed, in tones that seemed to roll round the great enclosure:
"Eureka, daughter of the gods, welcome! Lift from thy face the veil, that Zeus, father of gods and men, may look on the beauty of the fairest of his descendants."
For a moment she seemed to hesitate, and I saw the four chief priests who had accompanied Ephialtes, and now stood together on one side, look hastily at one another, and then glance anxiously towards the image of the god, where their chief appeared at the moment to be gradually recovering consciousness after his trance- like interview with the deity. Then she slowly raised her right hand and put back the gauzy veil over her shoulders. The action and the first glimpse of her features was the signal for an outburst of applause which began in the front ranks and spread wave upon wave over the whole multitude—"Eureka! Eureka!"
It was strange, but I seemed to have seen that face before. Somewhere in dreamland it must have been, for I confessed to myself that I had never seen anything like it in reality. To say that it was beautiful is not to express what I mean. It was that, but it was something more than that—something so innocent and pure, and yet so full of a calm unconscious dignity, that a sudden feeling of shame came over me as I felt that I was imposing upon her credulity. A flush had spread over her face and brow as she exposed her face, and perhaps heightened the effect of her startling beauty, but I could see that the crown of abundant hair of darkest brown which was drawn in smooth glossy braids from her low broad forehead contrasted well with the clear creamy white of her natural complexion. Beside her subjects, even among her chosen companions, Eureka looked as fair as a lily.
Mackenzie has told me since that the first glimpse of that face completely took away his presence of mind, and for the moment he was lost in the question. Where could she have come from? It was a surprise to me then, and it has been so ever since, that to my mind, so much less ready than Mackenzie's at every other time, the explanation came at once, so that it was hardly a surprise at all. By a sudden impulse I stepped forward, and taking both her hands in mine, raised her to her feet.
"Daughter of Anaxagoras and Kallista, it is thus that I greet the fairest child of the gods."
The words—the old Greek words—came to me at the moment without an effort, and for a wonder, as Mackenzie assured me afterwards, they were correct, and so simple that they were understood even by the crowd that filled the temple.
As I raised her the flush deepened to a blush, and her large, deep-blue eyes fixed themselves on mine with a look that had in it something appealing and irresistible, and as I said the last word I stooped and kissed her brow. As I raised my head my eyes encountered the gaze of Ephialtes, who was at the moment advancing towards us from behind the great altar, and I saw his face turn pale, and an evil glance dart at me, that spoke of hatred of no ordinary kind, out of the inscrutable depths of his flashing black eyes.
How I looked at him I cannot tell, for the touch of my lips to Eureka's brow had somehow affected me strangely. Perhaps I smiled; at any rate, I know that for the moment the hatred of the high-priest, or of a thousand high-priests, seemed a very small thing to me. He had stopped, but now he made a forward step, and as he did so he was greeted by the shout of the multitude, who had apparently recovered from the first surprise of my words and still more my action. Now, however, the applause of the crowd broke forth in one mighty roar, that swelled and sank and swelled again in wave after wave of irrepressible joy.
The high-priest's face grew paler still as that wave of sound seemed to meet him face to face, and his lips writhed so that I felt sure he ground his teeth. As I looked at his working features, I seemed to catch a glimpse of what was behind them, and the thought flashed through my mind. Was he only jealous of his influence and power being interfered with? or had he perhaps a deeper and more human motive still in his dislike to the strangers? Of one thing I felt certain: Ephialtes, though he might be the descendant of Antalkas, shared also with Eureka the blood of Anaxagoras.
It was many minutes before the shouts of the people subsided, and during all the time the high-priest stood and waited silently. When they had died away he advanced towards the Princess and myself with a face that had grown calm again, but with something fixed and stern in its settled lines. Almost unconsciously both the Princess and myself had turned to face him, though still I held her small left hand in mine, and I noticed that her face had grown a little pale as she did so.
"Hail to thee, daughter of Anaxagoras!" the high-priest said solemnly. "Was it well that thou shouldest cast aside the warnings of the gods, and enter the temple of Apollo to thy hurt?"
Eureka raised her head proudly, and there was a new expression of determination, and perhaps of just a little scorn, as she replied:
"Yea, Ephialtes, it was well. How can we pay too much honour to the immortal gods? And how can we honour them more than by incurring danger in their service? Neither were it becoming that fear should enter the breast of the last of the daughters of Anaxagoras."
As she spoke the words, in a clear, musical voice, which rang out through the hush of the great enclosure, the face of the high-priest fell. There is no ether word that can describe so truly the strange and subtle change that came over it as I looked. Surprise, wonder, even fear, and certainly disappointment, followed one another like shadows over his face, though it could hardly be said that a single muscle of his stern features relaxed or changed It was with a curious sensation of sympathy that I saw and heard; for I felt rather than thought that this was but another step in the struggle between Ephialtes and myself, and that in the Princess I had found a new and unexpected ally.
It is possible that some of the priests may have seen and understood what was going on, but the mass of the people saw and heard nothing but the brave attitude and the clear, ringing young voice of Eureka, and once more a shout of applause rose and swelled, and was renewed again and again, mingled with cries of "Eureka! Hail to the Princess, the daughter of the gods!"
I watched Ephialtes' face, and once more I felt that I admired the man. He knew that he was beaten for the moment, and he accepted and made the best of it. Bowing for the first time to the Princess, he replied:
"It is not for me to say. The god whose servant I am may have both given the warning and inspired the mind of Eureka to resist. The will of the god be done. But now I am commanded by Apollo to welcome the stranger deities to his temple, and there to feast and entertain them in his name."
He looked at me as he spoke, as if he expected a reply to the invitation. I was saved from showing the hesitation which I instinctively felt by Eureka herself, who exclaimed:
"Not so, Ephialtes. Not thus shall the father of gods and men be entertained in the temple of another. Not here, but in the dwelling-place of the children of his children shall Zeus be received and honoured with the feast and the dance and song." Turning once more suddenly towards me with bent head, and almost sinking on her knees, she exclaimed, "Oh, Zeus—father both of gods and men, deign to grant the petition of thy servant, and become the guest of the daughter of Anaxagoras."
I had prevented her from kneeling as I grasped her hand with a closer clasp of mine, and once more the words came to me in my need:
"To visit the sons of the Greeks, beloved of the gods, I and my companions have journeyed to the ends of the earth. Where then should we rest save in the dwelling of the daughter of Anaxagoras—the fairest of the daughters of the gods?"
A smile, joyous and innocent as that of a child, came over the face of Eureka as I spoke, and looking up into my face, and from mine to those of my two companions, she said:
"Come then, ye dwellers of Olympus, Already is the feast prepared, and chambers where ye may rest in the humble dwelling of your handmaid."
She turned from the high-priest as she spoke, and still holding my hand, led me back by the way she had entered. My companions followed, and once more the roar of the applauding multitudes shook the pillared colonnade through which we passed.
THE apartment provided for us was a magnificent one. Large, and oblong in shape, the floor and walls of coloured marbles, more striking in colour than any I had seen even in India, it seemed to include every shade, from midnight black to creamy white, and from faintest pink to a flaming crimson. The roof was supported by pillars of white onyx, in which the simplicity of the old Ionic column was no longer spoiled by the barbarous ornaments that everywhere else had been so strange and confusing. It really seemed as if the descendants of Anaxagoras and Kallista had inherited something of the classic Grecian taste in art which in other lands had been modified by the influence of other cultures. The room was lighted by three large windows on one side that overlooked the lake, which we now saw for the first time, and the openings admitted a pleasant breeze that seemed strong enough to ripple the dark-blue waters glittering in the hot sunshine far below. The windows were merely openings in the thick walls of polished marble, but above them on the outside there was a solid canopy of carved stone which shaded the openings and mellowed the light that found its way into the apartment.
Couches had been provided for our use, with pillows and coverings of beautiful but quite unfamiliar materials, and gorgeous colours; and troops of beautiful girls, looking like the loveliest natives of Southern Spain or Italy, but smaller, and with a soft grace in their movements which had about it something serpentine and active that was different from either, attended us with water and cooling fruits. For my own part, what I chiefly wanted was to be left alone, that I might, if possible, think calmly over the events of the day, at once more exciting and critical, as I could not fail to see, than any we had met with before. When at last we were left alone, I found that Mackenzie was even more disposed to think our position a dangerous one than I had been. As he put it, we were in the position of being just three gods too many in the country. The priests of Apollo, it was evident, had practically usurped the control, and by using the authority of their god freely, they had been doing pretty well what they chose, both with the nominal sovereign and with the country. Now that we had appeared on the scene, all this was in danger. It was true that the priests—or, at any rate, Ephialtes and a few of his particular party—didn't believe in us as deities any more than they did in their own god, but the people did, so far, at any rate, and the ruin of the whole plan of government was threatened. Then, he went on to say, he felt certain there was a danger even worse than this, and when I asked him what he meant, he said, "Jealousy." The high-priest had meant to marry the last of the direct descendants of Anaxagoras, and now he was just madly jealous of me because he thought the Princess preferred me, and he fancied I was quite likely to fall in love with her.
There was something that seemed to me strangely cynical about the way Mackenzie put it, and yet I couldn't help remembering the man's wild eyes as he had looked at me in the temple, and in my heart agreeing with my companion, even while I said it was ridiculous. We were still discussing it, when the heavy curtain that took the place of a door to our apartment was lifted aside, and the chief priest of the Furies, our little friend Dion, advanced between two files of the glittering household guards to the doorway. Mackenzie at once ordered that he should be admitted, as he had sent for him. It soon appeared, from what he told Mackenzie, that he was equally certain of the high-priest's anger against us, though he professed that he could not give any reason for it. More than once, however, his eyes wandered from Mackenzie's face to mine, even while they were talking, as if he saw something there which he thought might prove an explanation. Dion's fear of the high-priest was hardly concealed, and yet neither Mackenzie nor I had any doubt that the little man hated him quite as heartily as he feared. There was more than a suspicion in both our minds that Dion's attachment to us was largely caused by the hope that we should exert our divine powers for the destruction of the son of Antalkas, and he didn't hesitate to hint that such a course would be far from unpopular.
We discussed the matter for several hours, but in the end could come to no decision as to what we ought to do or even attempt. Mackenzie advised caution until we should see what Ephialtes was likely to do, and although my feeling was that we couldn't be too prompt in taking the initiative, I was obliged to agree that as we couldn't very well carry out Dion's suggestion that we might blast the high-priest with a thunderbolt, we had better wait and be guided by circumstances. Hector alone, who had evidently been using his eyes to good purpose, although he was at the disadvantage of not understanding a word of the language, even with the half comprehension which I had from my knowledge of Greek and Mackenzie's persistent coaching, suggested the use of active measures by saying in his usual quiet, but impressive tone, "So you will not be wanting me to break the neck off the big priest, Doctor? Ferry well, sir. But what I would be thinking wass, that it will be ferry necessary to break his neck, and eff you and the Major will be thinking so, too, I would do it with a ferry good will—oh yess, with a ferry good will, whateffer." We agreed, laughingly, to postpone the execution of Hector's proposal till matters should appear more urgent, but when I thought of Mackenzie's suggestion about the jealousy of the high-priest, and his designs upon Eureka, I felt that even such a heroic remedy as Hector had suggested might save a good deal of trouble in the end.
The feast was prepared in the great hall of the palace, and we were marshalled to the apartment by fifty of the gorgeously accoutred guards, who appeared to be the bodyguard of the Princess. The hall was like the room assigned to us in most respects, except that it was at least three time as large, and that both walls and roof were painted in colours which, even in the light of the lamps that failed fully to light the vast apartment, looked vivid. The scenes seemed to be meant to represent events in the history of the people, as I afterwards found to be the fact; and even at that first imperfect glance I thought I recognised a cave scene with a gigantic figure upon which the light fell in a single stream from above, not unlike the rock temple by which we had first traced the presence of the wandering Greeks in the new land.
Whatever might be said of our reception in the great temple at noon, there could be no question of the reverential observance that was shown to us in the banqueting hall in the evening. The people never changed the old habits of their race in almost any of the ordinary customs of living, and so we found that couches and not seats were set around the great tables on which the feast had been spread. We were met at the entrance of the hall by Eureka herself, and conducted to the farther end of the apartment, where a table had been placed on a platform surrounded by three couches. As it stood lengthwise across the hall, the seat behind it was longer than those at the sides, which were really the ends of the table, and I found that it was intended that I should take the place of honour facing the whole assemblage of feasters, and my companions the others. There was plenty of space at my table for two persons, and I insisted upon the Princess sharing it with me, both as the hostess and as a child of the gods.
It took some persuasion to overcome her awe of the immortals sufficiently to do this, but when I at last seated her at my side among the cushions, the shouts of the guests proclaimed their sense of the honour paid to the daughter of Anaxagoras. It was like a scene from one of the old classical banquets, of which I read when I was a boy, and I felt almost as if I had been carried back more than two thousand years to one of Alexander's banquets, in which Anaxagoras himself might have taken part. It was like a dream to glance down the long vista of tables and couches on which the guests reclined, crowned with flowers, among heaps of soft cushions bright with dyes as wonderful as the Tyrian purple of old. It was even more like a dream to me to find myself so close to Eureka herself that, except possibly Mackenzie and Hector, no other person in all the assembly could hear a word I said, or even tell whether we spoke at all.
The table nearest the dais on which we were placed was occupied by Ephialtes and his four assistant chief priests, and the corresponding table on the other side by five men who looked like soldiers, though they now wore no armour. Beyond were long rows of tables surrounded by guests; but as I looked down the hall, I concluded that Mackenzie had been right, as there seemed to be more of the priests' white robes than of any other in sight. One thing about the feast arrested my attention. Among a hundred dishes carried round by lads and girls on silver and golden trays to be presented to the guests, there was none which seemed to consist of meat in any form. Fruits and cakes, delicious compounds of which we couldn't even fancy the material, there were in abundance, but there seemed to be none that might not represent in some shape the grains and vegetables and fruits which the sons of the Greeks had taken with them in their ships by the advice of Antalkas, the priest of Apollo.
It was the first opportunity I had had of speaking to Eureka, and I thought myself fully justified in making the most of it. It was wonderful how quickly we learnt to comprehend one another, and again and again I found myself thanking Mackenzie silently for the trouble he had taken to recall my more than half- forgotten Greek to my remembrance on board the _Pelican,_ though now the time seemed to have grown strangely distant. The Princess was quicker of comprehension than I was, and seemed to know what I meant to ask before I had laboriously used half the old Greek words I had been thinking over to express it. Sometimes a laughing light came into her eyes, as if nothing but the awe she felt for the father of gods prevented her from laughing at my slowness; and then, I think, she looked more beautiful than ever. Our acquaintance made rapid progress that evening, and although I learned a good many things about the people who were present, and could guess a good deal more from many a thing she left unsaid, yet I think it was of Eureka herself that I learnt the most.
The feast was enlivened by music, and afterwards by singing. The musicians appeared to be young men; but the singers were for the most part boys and very young girls, who sang, either alone or in chorus, songs in praise of the gods, though generally of Apollo. Troops of girls performed dances in the open space between the tables, and nothing could well have been more graceful than their movements.
I began to think the feast must be nearly over, and indeed to think it was almost time, as the sounds of loud voices and laughter showed that the guests were feeling the effects of the ambrosia which had been freely distributed, when a troop of young lads and girls advanced from the bottom of the hall till they stood at the foot of the raised dais on which our table was placed. Here they divided into two parties, the girls on the right, and the lads on the left, and after a pause began to sing a choric song in alternate stanzas. I could not understand the words, but the music was sweet, and the clear young voices beautiful. When the song was finished, one of the girls stepped into the middle and sang alone; then a boy did the same in turn, and so on till all on both sides had finished. I was astonished at the excitement which the singing created among the guests. Every sound of voices and of laughter had died away, and looking down the hall, I could see a vista of eager faces and outstretched necks as each in turn exerted him or herself to surpass the effort of the singer who had gone before. At the close of each song the applause broke forth in clapping hands and cheers, such as I had heard greet popular singers on the stage in England—and the name of the favourite was shouted again and again. I had watched the face of the Princess, and had been surprised to see the varying shadows that had crossed her brow and dimmed her eyes when the songs were sung; and I even thought that more than once, when the applause was greater than usual, she had shrunk, and a look of fear had come into her clear, speaking eyes.
The last song had been sung by a lad who seemed to be not more than sixteen or seventeen years old, and when he had finished the applause was more intense than any that had gone before it. In spite of my interest in watching Eureka's face, with its quickly varying expressions of pleasure and apprehension and pain, I had been unable to help feeling interested in the singer. It was not only that his voice was clear and full and strong, and that he seemed utterly absorbed in his task with all the abandonment of a true artist; there was something beautiful about the face itself, and even about the lithe young figure, which made me unconsciously compare him to the ideal of his Greek forefathers, the young Apollo himself. As the last note died away, I found myself for the first time joining in the thunder of applause that followed by clapping my hands in recognition of the finest singer and the sweetest song we had heard. As I did so I looked at Eureka, and, with something of a shock of surprise, I saw that tears were stealing down her face as she gazed at me with a look of almost beseeching appeal.
Before I could sufficiently recover from my surprise to think of the words in which to ask her what was the matter, the roar of applause had sunk to a stillness that was almost deadly. I glanced quickly down the long hall and saw from every table faces turned eagerly towards where I sat, and figures half raised from the couches to watch for something expected. I was still wondering what it meant when the tall figure of the high-priest rose slowly from the couch on which he had been reclining, and advanced into the open space in which the band of singers were clustered together. Without a moment of hesitation he moved to where the last singer still stood, a little apart from the rest, as if hardly yet recovered from his exertions, and laying his hand upon his naked right shoulder, exclaimed in a tone that rang through the banquet-hall, now hushed to a silence that was almost painful:
"Hail to thee, Arion! Hail, worthy descendant of Orpheus the divine, acclaimed by the voice of the sons of the Greeks, chosen and sealed by the assent of the immortal gods who are with us here! Phoebus Apollo claims thee through me. The sun-god hath need of thy song."
It was for this that all that great assembly had been waiting. The tumult of applause that followed the words of Ephialtes rose and swelled and rang along the lofty roof and through the colonnades of pillars again and again. I turned my eyes to look at Eureka. She had buried her face in her hands, and as I stooped nearer I thought I caught the sound of a sob.
THE singer had been crowned with a wreath of bright green leaves, among which there sparkled here and there a leaf of blood-red crimson. He had been left standing alone and crowned, and had been the subject of a reverence that seemed almost divine from the assembled guests, who filed before him with many obeisances and offerings. Then we had been conducted once more to our apartment by the troop of guards who had escorted us to the banquet, and had an opportunity of thinking over and discussing what had happened as we lay on the couches provided for us.
Mackenzie had less to say than usual, and Hector merely lay and stared at the open window through which could be seen the moonlight glittering faintly on the lake in the distance. For my own part I was thinking of the Princess. Her face seemed to rise before me with the eyes now laughing and now wondering, and again with the tears that dimmed their brightness. What did it all mean? Above all there was the remembrance of her beautiful flower-crowned head as it bent forward, the face concealed by the hands, and the sobs shaking her with their suppressed agitation. What did it mean? Was it only the excitement of the occasion and the song? or was there something deeper yet that might account for the look of longing yet doubting appeal with which she had looked into my face as we parted? I longed to ask Mackenzie what he thought about it, yet for some reason I didn't. It almost seemed to me as if I should be betraying a trust if I spoke of that look, even to him, and I preferred to puzzle over its meaning alone.
At last he said, rather sulkily, I thought:
"Well, I suppose there's nothing to be gained by staying awake. I can see you're not inclined to be talkative, and Hector's asleep, like a sensible man, already. Let's see what a night's sleep will do for us."
In two minutes he seemed to be asleep, but I lay for hours thinking over the events of the day, and half dreaming of the possible future; and in all the thoughts, and every dream, it was the face of Eureka, either in smiles or tears, that formed the centre of the picture.
The level sunshine was streaming into the room when I awoke, and I found that I was the last of the party to do so. The night's rest had quite restored Mackenzie to his usual self, and he was ready to discuss the events of the banquet without waiting for me to begin. He was greatly interested in the survival of the old Greek customs, but most of all in the ceremony that had closed the performance. He had not, apparently, noticed the Princess's excitement, and was disposed to look on the whole thing as only one more ancient custom that hadn't come down to us in classical literature, and had probably been appropriated especially by the priests of Apollo to the special honour of their own deity. It was Hector who at last suggested the question which had all along been in my own mind, though I had scarcely expressed it even to myself.
"Oh yess, Doctor," he said at last, "it will be all ferry well to be talking about the Greeks, but what I wass thinking wass, what will the high-priest be going to be doing with the boy, whateffer? That would be what I wass thinking about."
Mackenzie looked grave for a moment, as if the question had suggested a doubt, but after a minute he laughed as he replied:
"I'm afraid Hector won't be satisfied till he has found a good reason for breaking Ephialtes' neck; but I don't think he means to do more than make a priest of the boy this time."
Hector looked dissatisfied still.
"Well, Doctor," he said obstinately, "she would not be saying that she would know so ferry much about Greeks, no, nor yet about priests, whateffer; but she would know a man when she would see him close, and she would not be liking the looks off the high- priest last night, and she would not feel so ferry sure that she would not heff to break his neck yet, mirover."
Mackenzie's rather uneasy laugh, and my own more distinct feeling that Hector's ideas were far from ill-founded, were interrupted by the arrival of our attendants, who asked with many reverences whether the gods would condescend to take a bath. I should have been a good deal puzzled to know how to reply, as my notions of gods were not founded on Greek models, but Mackenzie at once accepted the suggestion, assuring them that the deities would have been greatly offended if anything so necessary to their comfort and beauty in the bodily shapes they had thought fit to assume for the time had been omitted by those they had come to benefit and honour by their presence.
We were accordingly conducted to the baths, which seemed to be on the level of the lake, and were hollowed out of the solid rock and lined with marble. Mackenzie dismissed the attendants, informing them that it was not fitting that any mere mortals should behold the immortals unrobed, as the sight would very likely blast their eyes for ever. In this way we were able to regain something of the comfort and cleanliness which our recent journeyings had seriously impaired. That the effect had been good was evident from the looks of surprise and increased reverence which were passed from one to another of our attendants when we came back once more into the full light of our own apartment.
It must have been nearly noon before we were disturbed. Food of the same kind that had been served the night before was brought by our attendants, and large golden cups of ambrosia were presented for our acceptance. Troops of boys and girls sang and danced before us, and so the hours slipped away almost unnoticed as we lay on our couches and waited for some summons. It came at last.
A message was brought that the high-priest Ephialtes desired to be admitted to the presence of the gods, or, if it would please them better, he would wait upon them in the great hall by the favour of the Princess. We sent back the reply that, if it pleased the Princess Eureka, we should receive Ephialtes in the great hall of her palace. In a few minutes the tramp of the guards warned us that she had taken us at our word. We had spent the interval in discussing the probable object of the high- priest's visit, of course without coming to any conclusion except this, that it was sure to be unfriendly, and therefore that we must be on our guard, and if possible keep close to one another.
Once more we were marshalled to the great hall, which had now been cleared of all signs of the last night's banquet, and looked larger and more magnificent with the long streams of sunshine lying across the many-coloured marbles of the floor than it had in the many twinkling lights of the night before. Eureka came forward to meet, us, and bowed low before me with her hands outspread in supplication, and once more I took them in mine and raised her up. For one moment the temptation to kiss her brow as before almost overcame me, but as I looked in her face there was a look of fear in her eyes which made me draw back with the words agreed upon with Mackenzie as the most suitable, "Hail to thee, Eureka! Hail, fairest of the daughters of the gods!"
She stood aside as the high-priest, who was accompanied by his four companions, again advanced with a reverence which somehow expressed much more of pride, and even defiance, than of humility. As he drew himself to his full height, which was not more than two inches less than my own, we were once more face to face.
"Hail to thee, father of the gods! Hail to thy companions, the divine Hermes, messenger of Olympus: and Heracles, most divine of heroes! It is the day of a great feast of Apollo in this our land, blessed and enlightened by him from generation to generation; will it please you therefore to honour the feast by your presence, and delight the sons of the Greeks by the light of your countenance?"
I looked into the face of Ephialtes as he spoke, and for a moment I hesitated. It was only for an instant, and then the deep tones of Mackenzie replied:
"It hath pleased Zeus to become the guest of the Princess Eureka, fairest of the daughters of the gods, nor will he now leave her, son of Antalkas, at thy request. When Eureka showeth herself to the sons of the Greeks, then will the dwellers of Olympus show themselves also."
A quick frown settled on the high-priest's brow as Mackenzie spoke, but it passed away, and he turned to where Eureka stood, and, with a low obeisance said, addressing her:
"The daughter of Anaxagoras will pay honour to the sun-god in his temple on this the day of his feast, as was ever the custom of the leaders of the sons of the Greeks?"
Though the form was that of a question, and nothing of the respect due to the Princess was wanting in his manner of speaking, it was more of a command than a request, and once more I had almost forgotten Mackenzie's caution enough to interfere. The hot blood mounted to Eureka's cheek, and for a moment I fancied she was about to assert her independence and refuse to obey. Then the flush died away and left her almost deadly pale. She threw one quick glance at me, and again I fancied that there was something of appeal in the look, as she replied with quiet dignity:
"Surely, oh Ephialtes, priest of the divine Apollo, I too, will do honour to the god in his temple; nor shall the sons of the Greeks say that Eureka withheld from them the smiles of the immortals on their feast day."
The high-priest bowed low, and, turning once more, he led the way from the hall. He was followed by his four companions, and I offered my hand to Eureka to lead her after them. There was a strained, eager look in her eyes and in the lines of her pale face, as for an instant she seemed to hesitate. Then she looked up into my eyes, and something gave her courage. She allowed her hand to rest in mine as we led the procession, preceded by a detachment of the Princess's guards. Not a word was spoken as we passed out of the palace and along the wide-open colonnade that connected palace with the great temple enclosure; not a sound broke in upon the silence of the noonday heat but the dull tramp of the sandaled feet of the soldiers, and a faint, dull murmur, like the sound of the distant ocean, that came towards us from the temple. The great door had been opened, and the priests had disappeared, while the guards had halted to change their formation before filing into the enclosure. The opening door had brought a gust of sound that was startling in its intensity. It was like the suppressed murmur of a great multitude wrought up to a pitch of intense excitement. At the sound Eureka turned paler still, and I felt her hand tremble in mine. I stooped quickly towards her, and almost without intending it, I whispered, "Eureka." A sudden colour flushed her brow and cheeks, and even her neck, but she looked in my face almost with the trusting look of a child, as she whispered:
"Father of gods and men, thou wilt preserve?"
I hadn't an idea what she meant—who was to be preserved, or from what fate—but I contrived to smile confidently as I answered in the same tone:
"That which Eureka wishes to preserve is safe."
At the words a bright light came into her anxious eyes, and like a joyful child she pressed my hand as we moved on. I had evidently satisfied the Princess, but I couldn't conceal from myself that I had committed myself and my companions to something that might be serious enough. A hundred indistinct ideas crowded into my mind as to what it could possibly be that I had pledged my god-like power to do; but I found it impossible to command my thoughts enough to come to any conclusion whatever. The one thing that was clear to me was that I had promised, and that Eureka trusted me; and as that thought came home to me I felt somehow that whatever it might be I couldn't fail. It was with this in my mind that I faced the multitude.
Ephialtes had expected us to come. A little in front of the great altar, and to the right, three seats had been prepared, raised high enough to be visible from every part of the enclosure, and to these we were conducted amidst the shouts of the vast crowd that filled every part of the building up to the sacred step which marked off the portion specially sacred to the god and the priests. As I took the central seat, which was a step higher than those allotted to my companions, I cast one glance around to see where Eureka was to sit, and noticed that a seat had been provided for her exactly opposite me on the other side of the altar. She was alone, except that two of her maidens stood behind her, for the guards had not been allowed to advance beyond the great colonnade that ran round the inside of the wall; but as I looked at her she smiled. In the face of that huge multitude, in the presence, and apparently in the power of those hundreds of priests that hemmed us in, she smiled at the danger, whatever it might be that threatened, for she trusted in me.
There is nothing like the power of confidence. There is nothing, I think, so infectious as the feeling that others, or even one other, trusts one completely. So it seemed to me at that moment, and I looked around the temple with a calm confidence for which I could have given no reason, but which must have imposed upon those present to judge from the peals upon peals of applause that rose from both priests and people, mixed with cries of "Father Zeus! Father of gods and men—all hail!"
It was the altar and the great image of the god, however, that interested me most; for although I had no idea what it all meant, or what it could be that agitated Eureka so greatly, I felt instinctively that it had something to do with these. Both were decked out for the occasion with wreaths of flowers. They crowned and twined round each limb of the great statue, and they hung in gorgeous wreaths and garlands around the altar. Beyond this there was nothing. There were ranks upon ranks of priests in white robes, and there were the five chief-priests who had summoned us to the festival, now prostrated before the figure of the god; but there was not even the faintest vapour ascending from the great altar, nor anything to show what ceremony was about to take place.
Suddenly a low chant began somewhere in the ranks of the priests. It rose and swelled till the whole band seemed to have taken it up, and yet it had a strangely hushed tone about its cadence such as I had never heard before. Gradually the sound of distant flutes mingled with the chant, and grew stronger and stronger as it came nearer. My eyes wandered over the great sea of faces before me, and I noticed that there was a curious look of hushed expectation on those, of priests and people alike. A door must have been opened somewhere behind the statue, for there was a sudden rush of music as the flute-players advanced into the temple. The chant rose and swelled into a triumphant song; the music of the flute-players deepened into a solemn march, and the procession appeared from behind the image of the god, and halted. My eyes had hardly moved from Eureka, and hers were fixed upon me with an expression that varied between perfect confidence and occasional gusts of doubt, from the moment when the chant began; but, now I turned to see what the procession might mean.
The music and the chant died away together, and were followed by a moment of silence. Then from the midst of the musicians there rose a single voice, which I seemed to recognise, and at the same moment the band separated, and out of the centre the singer advanced towards the altar, singing as he came. It was the lad who had been claimed at the feast of the chosen of Apollo.
For an instant I had almost smiled in the suddenness of the relief. Only a dedication of another priest, after all. But why then the thousands of eager straining eyes? Why the hush of breathless expectation? Why, above all, that look of intensely eager appeal to me in Eureka's eyes and face? The lad was dressed in simple white, and his head was crowned with a wreath of green leaves and crimson buds. He carried on his arm a lyre, on which he occasionally struck a note to accompany his song; but as I listened I thought there was a tremble in his voice, which had been so full and clear the night before; and as I looked it seemed to me that his face was deadly pale, and that his eyes were wild and staring, like those of some wild animal trapped and helpless.
Ephialtes and the other four chief priests had risen to their feet at the first notes of his song, and now they advanced to meet him. It seemed to me that the poor boy shrank and cowered as the high-priest fixed his eyes on him, and the notes of his song quavered and stopped as he drew near him, yet he did not appear to have the power of will to do more. Step by step he advanced towards the priest, as if drawn by an invisible power against which he strove in vain, until at last he stood by his side. Once more the high-priest laid his hand upon his naked right shoulder, and by a slight motion turned his face towards the vast crowd, every eye of which was fixed on the scene in overpowering excitement. For a moment the priest and his victim faced them silently side by side. Then the clear, full voice of Ephialtes rang out over the multitude:
"Here, sons of the Greeks, is the chosen of Apollo; here the sweet singer, beloved of the god. Shall not the god, the giver of light and life, have his beloved one?"
The appeal was answered by a thunder of wild assent from the throng. As the roar died away, Mackenzie's voice reached my ear in a horror-struck whisper.
"Good Heavens, Ambrose! They're going to sacrifice the lad!"
The whisper struck me like a blow. It was this, then, that I was to prevent. It was for this that Eureka had appealed to me. It was this terror that, as I glanced at her where she sat, seemed to have frozen her to a stone, leaving her only the power to stare helplessly at my face with that look of appeal in her terrified eyes.
Ephialtes had waited as if to gather the full assent of the people; then he turned solemnly towards the gigantic image supposed to represent the god, and, raising his arms above his head, exclaimed in a tone that seemed to make every nerve in my body tingle, as the thought suggested to me for the first time by Mackenzie's whisper filled me with a vague horror:
"To thee, Apollo, giver of light! To thee, ruler, guide, and protector of the sons of the Greeks, we give, we dedicate, we offer, this beloved one! In youth like thine eternal youth, in beauty like thine own, when thy smile restores the world, we present him to thee. Deign to accept our offering!"
As the last words rolled from the lips of the high-priest, two of his assistants laid each a hand upon the arms of the wretched victim, who had stood as if stupefied with the horror of his position, and urged him towards the altar, from which, strange to say, wreaths of transparent blue smoke had begun to curl upwards while Ephialtes was addressing the god. At the pressure of the priests' hands the lad seemed to awake from his stupor, and looked wildly around at the sea of faces, till at last his eyes rested on mine. He stopped, he turned, he hurled one of his captors backwards, and struggled wildly to free himself from the other. A gasp, a sob of intense excitement, ran through the assembled multitude at this unheard-of event, and it was echoed by Eureka opposite me, and by Mackenzie at my side. I rose to my full height, and from my lofty platform I must have towered over the crowd almost at the height of the great image itself. I had thought of nothing; I had prepared nothing; I only uttered the words that rushed to my lips at the moment. They were these:
"Touch not the youth! He is mine."
THE words rolled around the vast enclosure, and came back to my ears with an echo that startled me, as if they had been spoken by somebody else. When I uttered them, it was with no calculation of how they would be received, or what the chances were of their accomplishing anything but our own destruction, and it was not till my eyes glanced around the vast assemblage that it seemed to me possible that I might keep my promise to Eureka after all. Every eye was turned to me now. Every ear in all that multitude seemed to wait for my next words. It was terrible—almost horrible—to find myself suddenly become the centre to which those thousands of strained eyes, and eager, terrified faces were directed, and more terrible yet to feel that they were waiting for me to speak, and that I had nothing to say.
The paralysis that had seized on the vast crowd seemed to have extended to me, too, and while you could have counted a score we stood facing each other without a movement or a sound. One glance of triumph and gratitude had reached me from Eureka's eyes, and then they had turned as if by an instinct to where Ephialtes stood still before the great image. My eyes followed hers just in time to see the startled high-priest turn and face the people. For a moment—only for a single moment—his eyes rested on my own as he turned, and I thought the look which flashed from those glittering black eyes, that seemed to burn, was the deadliest I had ever seen. Hatred, defiance, something of triumph and anticipated victory, were mysteriously blended in that look, which involuntarily reminded me of the glance of one of the deadliest of the snakes of India. That look recalled me to myself. It meant war—war to the knife—between this man and me; and the prize was life, the life of my companions as well as myself; the life, too, of the shivering victim, doomed to some unknown but doubtless diabolical cruelty, and, more than all, as it appeared to me at the moment, the life of Eureka herself. I pulled myself together and waited.
Ephialtes faced the multitude, and for a few moments he faced them silently. The excitement had grown even more intense as thousands waited for what he had to say. Was it to be a battle of the gods? Would the sun-god give up his chosen victim to the stranger deity? The breathing of the crowd was like a succession of sobs; there was a panting, tremulous movement in the air, like the palpitation of ten thousand hearts at once. He spoke at last, but he spoke in a strange hollow tone that echoed like a sound from far away.
"Sons of the Greeks," he said, "the god himself shall decide. If he is willing to surrender his beloved one to the stranger, it is well. If he shall claim for his own that which his children have given, who shall say the sun-god nay?"
There was no applause, not even a sound when he ceased speaking, nothing but a curious rustling movement as twenty thousand men moved their heads the better to see the image of their deity. My look turned with theirs, and at the moment I could have re-echoed the smothered cry that broke from the pale lips of Eureka, who had risen from her seat, still grasping one arm convulsively with her hand as she gazed in terror at the huge figure of the god. Ephialtes had spoken, but he alone of all the assemblage had never looked around. His head had sunk forward on his breast, and his words were spread out in the attitude of supplication; but the god seemed to live. From the altar before him the wreaths of smoke rose and curled in denser and heavier folds, and behind it the figure seemed to move. His giant arm seemed to quiver in the smoky light, and even I could scarcely persuade myself that his features were not contracted by a frown. But his eyes were beyond question; they certainly glowed and flashed with a fierce red light that glittered through the smoke and shone with an angry glare.
A low gasping sound came from the crowd, and then it rose and swelled, and grew into a shout, and then into a roar that made the air vibrate and the solid pavement quiver. "The god! The god! He claims his own!"
Till that instant the victim had remained where he had been when my words had reached him. It looked as if the sudden shock that promised deliverance from his doom had turned the lad to stone. Had there been time to think of it, no finer model for a sculptor, no nobler subject for a painter, could have been imagined than the astonished youth. The desperate effort he had made had been made without premeditation or thought. To break away from his captors, to free himself, even for a moment or two, from the touch of his executioners, had been an instinct more than an intention, and, no doubt, the sudden impulse would have as suddenly collapsed had it not been for my interruption of the proceedings. As it was, my words had arrested both the victim and the priests, and for the few seconds that had passed since then— for it was only a matter of moments after all—they had stood as if paralyzed. The lad, just as he was when he hurled the chief priest backward, his head thrown back, his young figure in its simple white drapery swelling with the sense of life and the feeling of momentary triumph, stood with his arm extended towards the priest, who had been arrested in the very act of recovering himself from his fall; the second priest still grasped the other arm of the lad, but mechanically, and as if only half conscious of what he was doing. It was thus that the yell of the multitude found the principal actors in the tragedy.
With one wild, gasping cry, the lad struggled to get free from his second guardian as he cast a despairing look upwards at my face; with a fierce exclamation the priest clutched his arm and shoulder more firmly, while he, too, turned a half-terrified glance towards me. The sudden desperation of the lad was for the moment stronger than the muscular strength of the man, and he dragged the priest towards my seat several yards before he was arrested; but at last weight and strength prevailed, and he could only stretch out one hand to me in a last frantic appeal before he was pulled forcibly back. Again his cry was echoed by the voice of Eureka as she sank back trembling.
It was that cry, I think, that did it. Till then I had felt like a man stunned. The roar of the multitude had sounded dull to my ear, and the myriad faces calling for blood had seemed like a horrible nightmare dream, which leaves the dreamer paralysed and helpless; but at that despairing cry, feeling, thought, determination, and the sense of power, rushed back upon me in an instant No, that appeal should not be made in vain. I was no god, indeed, but Eureka believed in me, and I felt that she must not, could not, be disappointed. I threw out my arm with a gesture of wild command; I shouted the one word, "Hold!" Even then, amidst the echoes of those fierce cries for blood, the force of superstition was the strongest force in that vast mass of wild human beings. My one word seemed to pierce the tumult of sounds, and they died away before it. It was a day of wonders, and the crowd were just in the mood for more. Apollo had answered the appeal of Ephialtes, but the stranger gods might have something, too, to say, which it might be well to hear. The great mass swayed and quivered with the wildness of the excitement, while each one strained his ears to hear what more the white god had to say.
For one moment I thought of addressing them and trying to turn them from their deadly purpose, but at that very instant of time Ephialtes turned, and his eyes met mine. The look in his serpent eyes was a look of victory, and I knew that I should fail in any attempt to appeal to that crowd on whose superstitions he could play as on a well-known instrument. One moment, and my mind was made up. I let my arm sink till it pointed to the priest who was dragging the wretched lad towards the smoking altar, and again I shouted, "Hold, impious mortal!"
The man paused in his effort to force the lad along; the other, who was hurrying to his assistance at the moment, halted, and the eyes of both turned quickly towards Ephialtes and the figure of the deity that towered above him. I thought the high- priest hesitated for a single instant, as his rapid glance caught my motion and he heard my challenge thrown out for the second time, but if so, it was for an instant only. He looked full at his two assistants with a heavy frown on his face, as he raised his hand to heaven and exclaimed, in a piercing tone that rang through the heavy air:
"Apollo has claimed his own; let his servants obey the will of the god!"
It seemed so, indeed. As Ephialtes spoke, the image behind him appeared to answer. Flashes of fire glanced from his eyes, his head either bent, or seemed to bend, as if in assent, and the clouds of smoke rose from the altar in still denser folds, so that both high-priest and image were half obscured. Again from the masses of the people came the cry, "The god! The god! Who shall oppose his will?"
There was no choice now. The first assistant priest tugged fiercely at the victim's arm, while the second sprang to help him. I glanced at Mackenzie's face, and saw that he understood and agreed to my taking the risk; I looked across at Eureka, and saw that she had covered her face with her hand; I shot one glance at Ephialtes, and I knew that he was watching me with an evil look of triumph on his face. It was that, I think, that removed my last hesitation about taking life, for I knew that the moment had come when our own lives at least were at stake. My right hand went like a flash to the belt under my coat, and drawing the pistol, and taking the quick duelling aim which I had practised a hundred times without once failing, I fired.
The priest had reached the first of the two broad steps that surrounded the great altar, and at the moment stood above his victim, with his face turned towards me. It was, above all things, necessary that vengeance should be as sudden as it was complete, so I had aimed for the scowling brow that bent over the struggling lad. I had not been mistaken. With the flash and report there came a sudden cry, and the priest fell forward in a heap at the feet of his intended victim. A sudden yell of amazement arrested the second priest, who was coming to his assistance, and with a quick motion he half turned towards me. There was no room for hesitation now. A lightning aim, a second flash and report, and, throwing up both hands, he staggered backwards and fell, shot through the heart, with his head upon the polished slab of deep red marble at the foot of the smoking altar of Apollo.
A gasping cry from the seething multitude had followed the first shot and its instant effect, but the fall of the second priest was followed by a minute of dead and apparently stupefied silence, almost more terrible than the noises that had gone before. It was the intended victim who was the first to recover, and with a sudden bound he threw himself on his knees at my feet and held up his hands in mute supplication. I scarcely noticed his action, for my eyes had turned to see what effect had been produced upon the high-priest himself. At last I had found the man's weak point; he was a coward. I could see it in his staring eyes, in his shrinking figure, in the tremulous movement of his outstretched hands—he was afraid of sharing the fate of his companions. And already, as I looked, a change was coming over the image of the god. The eyes had ceased to glow and flash; the head no longer appeared to move; even the wreaths of smoke from the altar were growing thinner and more faint. I knew that for the time I had conquered.
It takes long to tell it, but it all passed within that one minute of paralyzed silence which held the vast mass of the assembled people like a spell. I seemed to see it all at a glance: the shrinking and terrified priest behind the altar; the bodies that lay so deadly still on the blood-red pavement before it; the great idol with the dull eyes, out of which the fire had gone, and the dying smoke that curled slowly up from the altar. I had seen them all, and my eyes had come back to the lad who was trembling at my feet before the shout of the multitude announced my triumph. Again and again the shouts rose in one mighty wave of sound, till the solid pavement shook, and the great colonnade of pillars seemed to rock and tremble before it. My own head seemed to reel, and in the moment of my victory, which I had scarcely dared to expect, I felt confused and quite unable to think of what should be done next. I fancied that I swayed a little giddily as my eyes rested on the dead priests, and casting one hasty glance at Mackenzie, I sat down.
I couldn't possibly have done better if I had planned it for a week, for it was in just such an emergency that Mackenzie was at his best. In a moment he had risen to his feet, and with one commanding gesture motioned for silence.
"Sons of the Greeks!"—he rolled out the resounding Greek words so that they re-echoed through the temple—"ye have beheld the wrath of Zeus! Ye have seen those who fell before the arrows of the father of gods and men! Would ye behold yet more? Shall the thunderbolt strike Ephialtes for his impiety? Or shall the arrows of Olympus go forth among yourselves at his command?"
A long wail of terror rose from the crowd as he spoke, and shrieks of "Mercy, father of the gods! Have mercy, and spare thy children!" rose from priests and people alike. Mackenzie turned to me, but at the same moment Eureka, rising hastily from her seat, fell on her knees before me, and added her voice to the cries; "Father of the gods, have mercy!"
I couldn't stand the sight of Eureka on her knees. I rose. I spread out my hands above her as she knelt.
"Sons of the Greeks," I exclaimed, "for the sake of Eureka ye are pardoned!"
WE had come off victorious in the struggle, and I for one found it no easy matter to realize at first that we actually had conquered in the contest which had looked so hopeless. The almost dog-like gratitude of the lad I had saved on the one hand, and the reverential respect with which I found myself treated in the palace on the other, gradually accustomed me to the idea, and I was quite inclined to think that our troubles might be at an end. Even Mackenzie, I could see, was disposed to take the same view of matters, and to think we might now begin to investigate the country and its people, with the idea of enlightening the scientific world of Europe by the particulars of our great discovery. Curiously enough. Hector alone of our party seemed doubtful. As usual, he had very little to say, but that little was to the point.
"Oh yess, Major," he said, after he had listened to Mackenzie and me as we discussed our plans; "what she will have been thinking wass that it wass all ferry well to go fishing in ta boats, and it wass not so ferry bad to be going hunting ta beasts that wass jumping on their tails, whateffer; but how wass you to know what that priest would be doing when you wass away? And how wass you to be so ferry sure that he would be liking you to be talking so ferry much with ta Princess when he would not be there, mirover? Oh no. Major, she wass not feeling so ferry certain about that."
I couldn't say with a good conscience that I felt very sure, either; but I was more than willing to run the risk of Ephialtes' displeasure, especially as, since the moment when I had seen him cower before me in the temple, I had come to the conclusion that the man was too great a coward to be very dangerous. I ought to have known that cowards are far from being the least dangerous class of men, as I had proved many a time in India; but if I knew it, I shut my eyes, and thought only of the happiness I found in the novelty of everything around me, and, above all, in the company of Eureka. To sail upon the lake by moonlight, when the sky looked like a vault of indigo studded with diamonds, or when the moon poured floods of silver light almost as clear as day upon the sparkling waters, with Eureka—always with Eureka—was an existence which seemed to me to be worthy of the gods. To go hunting in the great forest beyond the lake, where the tall gray trees, that stood like the columns of some old Greek temple, were mingled here and there with valleys where tall palms drooped their plumes over thickets of flowers of gorgeous colours, was to recall at once the legends of old Greece and the memories of India. And Eureka took part in everything. It was she who shot the truest arrow from the bow of Diana among the troop of maidens who went hunting the strange leaping creatures who so easily distanced the black, dog-like animals we took with us. It was her eye that was the keenest to see each thing of beauty or of interest, her feet that were fleetest in each contest in which, after the fashion of the Greeks, she and her companions engaged. Wherever we went, whatever we did during those three months, it was Eureka that arranged for our enjoyment. For me, at least, these months were one long dream of pleasure of which the central figure was Eureka—always Eureka.
Mackenzie had enjoyed himself in his own way, and had gone about collecting a thousand curiosities of that strange land, apparently without ever recollecting how impossible it would be to take them away with him when he returned. I don't know whether he ever thought of it, but I know I never reminded him. Day by day I had grown less disposed to think of the future, or to face the truth that all this must end. At last I had reached the point when I refused to face it at all. Why should it end at all? Why go back to the lower earth after this experience of something better than the fabled Elysian fields? Why not marry Eureka, and stay here to reign over the sons of the Greeks? When I got as far as that question I generally stopped. The question always would follow: What about Father Zeus? How should I explain my descent from the deity to the Prince? How should I escape from detection as a pretended deity? There was only one thing to be done, and I did it; I refused to face the future at all. I was content to enjoy the present, so long as it was with Eureka.
Hector had attached himself to Mackenzie, and accompanied him on his expeditions, in which he discovered new plants and strange specimens of animal life, and heaped up vast funds of information about the natural wealth of this unknown land, and the uses made of it by its equally unknown people. Sometimes days would pass before they came back from those expeditions, accompanied by half a dozen followers laden with specimens; and then Mackenzie would talk for hours of all the wonders he had discovered, and how he would astonish the learned men and societies of Europe by what he had to tell and to show. He had made the acquaintance of many of the people, and even of a good many of the priests on these journeys, and was able to explain many things that had puzzled us in the customs of the people. It appeared that the practice of human sacrifice was a very ancient custom, though, excepting on the great annual feast of Apollo, it was rarely resorted to. The sacrifice we had interrupted had been attempted by Ephialtes specially on our account, and he had announced that it would be in our honour; but if it was really intended to sacrifice the lad upon the altar, Mackenzie was assured by the priests that such a thing was quite unknown before. To his inquiries as to how such sacrifices were usually made, he had been unable to get any satisfactory answer, and he was sometimes disposed to doubt whether they were really made at all. And so the weeks slipped away, and the third month had nearly passed since we first set foot in the city of Atalka.
Both Mackenzie and I had been anxious at first that Hector should never be alone. The fact that he didn't know a word of Greek made it impossible for him to speak to any of the natives, whose language had remained marvellously pure, principally, as Mackenzie said, owing to their custom of singing and reciting the works of the old Greek poets, from Homer downwards. Words that sounded like one or other of the older Indian dialects had crept into their ordinary language, but most of them could still understand the old Greek better than a modern citizen of Athens. Gradually as we had grown accustomed to our position, and began to think we had no reason to fear either treachery or violence, we had thought less about keeping Hector beside us, and he had himself grown comparatively careless about it. His great figure might at times be seen towering by a head and shoulders above the men in the streets of Atalka, or watching with a look of good- natured amusement the athletic games of the young men and girls, as they ran and jumped or threw the discus, in the evenings when the heat of the day was over.
He seemed to have become a favourite with the people—more than Mackenzie, whose endless inquiries appeared to arouse a certain amount of opposition, if not of suspicion, or than myself, whom the people outside the palace always seemed to regard with a distant feeling of reverence and some fear. He had never had occasion to display his great strength in any way; but the people, and especially the girls, were never tired of watching his gigantic figure, and admiring his easy movements that seemed to conceal such a reserve of power. The priests alone seemed to dislike Hector, and the feeling was fully returned by him. He had never quite forgiven me for not shooting Ephialtes when I killed his two assistants in the temple, and more than once he had expressed the idea that he might even now have to break his neck before he left the country.
It was one evening when Mackenzie had come back from an expedition which had lasted two days, and I had found him sorting his specimens on my return from a moonlight sail on the lake with Eureka and her companions. Hector had sat silently while Mackenzie described the places he had seen, and enlarged upon the importance of what he had found there, while I lay back on my couch looking at Mackenzie, but thinking of Eureka. Suddenly Hector said, in his usual quiet but impressive voice:
"Oh yess, Doctor, that iss all ferry well about ta plants; but she wass seeing that black little priest that wass staying at ta temple where ta black dogs wass staying this ferry efening, and she wass thinking to herself, What wass that little black priest doing here, whateffer? And she would not be thinking he would be after any good, mirover."
I sat up on the edge of my couch suddenly, for in some strange, unaccountable way Hector's words brought a feeling of uneasiness to my mind.
"Do you mean Dion, Hector?" I asked anxiously.
"Well, Major, she would not be saying that Dion wass his name; but she would be ferry sure that it wass ta little black priest that wass with the dogs when she wass coming down ta hill, whateffer."
I looked at Mackenzie doubtfully. Mackenzie laughed as he said:
"Well, Hector, and why shouldn't he be here? I don't know, for that matter, that he hasn't a better right in Atalka than you and I."
"She would not be saying that he would not be heffing a right to be here, Doctor, whateffer; but what she would like to be knowing would be what she would be wanting here just now. Oh yess, Doctor, for it would be ferry easy to be laughing now, but she would not feel so ferry sure that it would be so ferry easy always; no, indeed, she would not be so ferry sure off that."
There could be no doubt that Hector was in earnest, and both Mackenzie and I were impressed, though we couldn't have given any better reason than the fact that it was so uncommon for Hector to express an opinion that it necessarily attracted attention when he did so.
"Suppose we send for him, Mackenzie?" I said, with the same uneasy feeling which I had felt at Hector's first words.
"All right," he replied, a little grudgingly; "I suppose there can be no great harm in that, though I dare say he'll prevent me getting those specimens arranged, and tomorrow I have to go across the lake at daybreak to try for some of those wonderful birds. I must have one or two to take with me."
To take with him! When I had sent the message to Eureka asking that Dion might be brought to the palace, my mind went back to Mackenzie's words. For the first time for weeks I found myself face to face with the question, Was I really going back at all? I had drifted on, losing sight more and more of everything but the happiness of the present moment, and shutting my eyes to the future. Now I saw that my companions and I had really parted company already, so far as our wishes and intentions were concerned. Mackenzie might be enjoying himself in getting plants, and stones, and skins; but it was that he might take them away with him, and he had already got far more than he could reasonably hope to carry with all the help he could get. Hector might amuse himself in his quiet way looking at the country and the people, but it was evident he neither liked nor trusted them, and would be more than ready to go as soon as we could tear ourselves away. I knew that it was very different with myself, and again and again as I seemed to be listening to Mackenzie that evening, the thought came back, come what might I couldn't go. How could I leave this life? How could I desert Eureka? The answer to my questions was on the way to me then.
There was a stir in the outer hall which served as an antechamber to our apartment; a sound of feet marching in sandals on the marble pavement reached my ears, and next moment the heavy curtain that concealed our doorway was drawn aside, and Dion stood waiting permission to enter. At the word the two guards who had the little priest between them advanced till they stood before my couch. I had fallen so completely into the position which public reputation had given me by that time that I simply dismissed the guards with a wave of my hand, and we were left alone with the little chief-priest of the Temple of the Furies. I had not seen him since a few days after our triumph over Ephialtes, when he had seemed almost too much overwhelmed with awe to be anxious any longer to cling to our party as he had done from the time we had made his first acquaintance until our reception at the royal city, and as I looked at him now I noticed a curious change which seemed to have come over him. It was not because he bowed less reverently before me than he had done when I saw him last—for although I thought so, I should have cared little about that—but there was a sly, treacherous gleam in his small eyes as he glanced first at me, and then at my two companions, which I didn't like.
"Zeus, father of the gods, hath sent for his servant; he is here," were the first words that passed between us, as I hesitated what to say.
"It is even so, Dion. It was told me thou wert here, and I desired to look on the face of the first of the sons of the Greeks who greeted my coming."
A quick, malignant look seemed to me to dart from his little snaky eyes in the direction of Hector; but it was so rapid that I could hardly be certain, and his slightly bowed head never moved.
"Thy servant is greatly honoured that celestial eyes should wish to look on him. I, too, longed once more to behold the countenance of the father of the gods, for it was told me that he was about to depart hence quickly."
I was hardly prepared for so sudden a thrust as this, and it was a relief to me when Mackenzie replied:
"Who, then, knoweth the mind of the gods, Dion, save only the gods themselves?" he demanded, with a frown such as would certainly have frightened the priest into convulsions three months ago, I thought.
I watched his face now, and I almost fancied I detected a shadow pass across it that was almost a smile as he turned towards Mackenzie.
"Thy servant knoweth not whence came the tale; it may be that the maidens of the Princess Eureka may have whispered it abroad."
"And thou, Dion," I asked quickly, "camest thou hither only that thou mightest see my face? Wherefore, then, hast thou delayed to seek me so long?"
I spoke at a venture, for at the moment it flashed upon me that it was hardly likely Hector had chanced to see him as soon as he arrived, especially as I had judged from his glance that he resented having been discovered at all. The effect of my question was far beyond what I had anticipated. The priest turned as pale as was possible under his olive skin, and for an instant he trembled visibly, as he tried to stammer an explanation. I watched him without a word, for, indeed, my mind was occupied already with other things, but when he stopped, I said coldly;
"Depart, Dion, and come not hereafter before my face, for thy lips are the lips of falsehood, and in thy mind are thoughts of evil."
An angry flush tinged his dark cheek as he bowed his head and turned away; but, as if unable to restrain himself, he paused before he reached the entrance, and threw behind him an angry whisper which had in its sound something of the hiss of a snake.
"Yet shall I hope to behold the face of the father of the gods once more when he returns by the way by which he came."
He raised the curtain and was gone. Several minutes passed before either Mackenzie or I said a word, and Hector's eyes remained fixed on the place where the priest had disappeared. It was Mackenzie who broke the silence.
"I must try for these birds in the morning, Ambrose, for I fancy it's time we were going. Hector wasn't far wrong, and Ephialtes is at the bottom of it, no doubt."
"Oh yess, Doctor; and that iss what she would heff been thinking, too," Hector remarked.
I said nothing.
AN almost sleepless night was followed by my sleeping heavily in the morning, and when I awoke at last it was to find Hector waiting to tell me that Mackenzie had carried out his plan of trying to secure the bird-skins on which he had set his heart. The news, of course, took my mind back once more to the trouble and utter perplexity which had already cost me my night's rest, and I hardly know whether it was more of a relief or aggravation when a message arrived that the Princess was ready for the sail on the lake which had of late become a daily amusement. When I told Hector where I was going, he remarked:
"Ferry well, Major; she wass thinking you would not be wanting her for three hours, no, nor yet for two hours, whateffer; and she wass thinking she would be going to heff a look at ta lads when they will be wrestling. Oh yess, Major, for it is many things she would be seeing when she wass looking at ta young peoples."
I was about to step into the boat which formed the simple but not ungraceful state-barge of Eureka, when I looked round in search of Arion, who had attached himself to me as a personal attendant ever since I had been the means of saving his life in the temple. It was rarely, indeed, that I missed him, wherever I went; and somehow a sense of uneasiness came over me when I noticed that he was not as usual among the group of girls who formed the train of the Princess. No one seemed to know where he had gone, but after inquiry one of the guards reported that he had been sent for by a messenger about an hour before, and had gone to see his father, who had been reported dying. I repeated this to Hector, who was standing by to see us off, and he said:
"Oh, ferry well, Major; she will see where ta lad hass gone to— oh yess; for she will not be thinking so ferry much off that little black priest, no nor yet off that white one, whateffer."
It seemed to be the best thing I could do, and although I felt strangely uneasy about Arion, there were other troubles that were more pressing that morning. I am afraid I soon forgot my fears for the safety of my attendant, in spite of the fact that I had grown fond of the lad, in return, I suppose, for his gratitude to me. The boat was pushed off from the marble stairs, and as I took my usual seat at the stern beside Eureka under the wide awning of purple, I caught a last glimpse of Hector's great figure as he turned away and began deliberately to ascend the steps. It was from Hector himself that I heard the story of what followed, given me in his own quaint translated Gaelic which I won't undertake to reproduce.
It appeared that the instant I told him of the lad's having been sent for, Hector's suspicions were aroused, and as a matter of course they at once pointed to the priests, and especially to Ephialtes. He felt sure the lad, to whom he had become attached almost more than I had myself, was in some danger, and he set out to find him in the city. He had scarcely left the palace before he noticed that something unusual was going on. Each street and avenue was filled with people, and all were moving up the hill to the temple enclosure. There had been no great assembly at the temple of Apollo since the day on which we had prevented the sacrifice, and, although Hector could ask nobody the meaning of the crowds that seemed to be swarming towards the great entrance, he connected it at once with some plot of the priests against us.
For a while he stood watching the crowds, as they passed him, with low reverences when near, but with strange and curious glances at the giant figure which leaned easily against a tree when they had passed, and then a sudden desire took possession of him to see what was going on at the temple. There was a curious absence of even the conception of personal fear about Hector. Perhaps it was the effect of having lived so long among a race so inferior to himself in size and strength, and even more in personal courage; but I had often noticed that he seemed quite unable to understand what fear meant in his own case. Now, it never occurred to him that he was running the greatest possible risk in forcing himself into the temple, in case, as he suspected, the priests were engaged in a plot to overthrow the influence we had gained, and, of course, either to destroy or expel us from the country. He walked slowly up the hill towards the entrance, where already thousands had gone in. It had never occurred to Hector to assume any of the dignity that might be supposed to become a god, but there was something about his vast chest and shoulders, and the easy, deliberate way in which he moved, that fell in exactly with the popular idea of a deified hero among the comparatively puny sons of the Greeks.
The temple enclosure was nearly full when the great figure of Hector strode through the pillared portico and passed through the wide entrance. He had no need to force his way, as no one would have dreamed of waiting to be pushed aside; but he was there only to see what was going on and not to take part in a ceremony, and therefore he made no attempt to go to the front. Among that vast sea of human heads even his giant figure could hardly be distinguished at a distance, and probably few out of all the crowd, and of those few none of the priests who occupied the space nearest the figure of the god, had any idea of the presence of one of the rival deities at this festival of Apollo. Hector had hardly entered when the chant, which he remembered as the introduction to the last ceremony he had attended there, was begun among the priests, who stood, rank upon rank, before the assembled people, between them and the altar. With a quick intuition he connected that wild yet plaintive music with the rites it had been meant to lead up to before, and he watched with sharpened senses for what was to follow.
He was sure he had not been mistaken. Little by little the conviction grew upon him that once more he was in danger of becoming the witness of a human sacrifice. Gradually the chant swelled and grew more triumphant; gradually the excitement of the multitude waiting for the spectacle grew more intense. All eyes were fixed on the giant statue that glowed in the hot sunshine, and on the flower-crowned altar, from the centre of which once more the thin blue smoke curled upward dimly in the mid-day glare. Hector himself was affected by the suspense, and it was a positive relief when at last the sound of the musical instruments came faintly from behind the image, and was hailed by the louder song of the priests. This was what Hector had almost unconsciously been waiting for to make him sure beyond a doubt that a sacrifice was really about to take place. He had heard from me that Ephialtes had sworn that there should be no more attempts to take human life, at least without the consent of the gods, as long as we were in the country, and until now he had scarcely believed he would dare to break his promise; but now he felt sure.
With the certainty came the instant determination that he would prevent it. Whoever the intended victim might be, he would rescue him, and with the thought Hector began to move forward. He had stood still so long that the first feeling of awe that had made those standing near draw farther away from him had given way to the increasing excitement of the scene, but now, as he roused himself and moved onward, the crowd divided to let him pass. This was easy at first, but each moment it grew more difficult as the crowd grew denser and the wild excitement increased. He looked neither to right nor left, however, but ploughed his way through the mass, putting them aside with a force which they had no power to resist, and were too much astonished to question. There was a movement about his path like the swirling rush of the dividing waves, and a roar in his wake from those who had just comprehended for the first time what had happened; but each was confined to his own immediate neighbourhood, and neither the commotion nor the noise could be perceived by the mass of the spectators or by the ranks of the white-robed priests.
He had not lost a moment, and he had scarcely seemed to be delayed, and yet the ranks of the procession of musicians had swept into the temple and advanced to where the high-priest and his assistants once more awaited them before Hector had reached the foremost ranks that were occupied by the priests. Again the musicians halted as the song rose triumphantly from the priests and mingled with the closing strains of the flutes and pipes. The ranks opened and disclosed the figure of the intended victim, holding the lyre. This time, however, no song came from his lips. He looked around with a strange, stupefied expression, as if he hardly knew where he was, and stood still till he was urged onward from behind to the spot at which Ephialtes and his assistants awaited him, There were but two of them now, and they took the unresisting lad between them. Then the high-priest turned and moved solemnly till he stood before the glittering statue, which appeared to bend towards him as he approached, followed closely by the priests, supporting the half-unconscious form of the victim.
For a second Ephialtes bowed low before the idol, and as he did so the smoke rose thick from the altar behind him, and lightnings flashed again from the eyes of the towering image in front. Then he raised his hands, and in a voice of triumph exclaimed:
"To thee, Apollo, maker of light, to thee we give thy beloved once more! Accept the offering at the hands of thy children! Take to thy breast the chosen one!"
Some strange hesitation had possessed Hector for the few moments during which this was going on, and he had halted irresolute, just behind the ranks of the priests, with his eyes fixed on the figure of the flashing idol. It seemed to him that it moved; that it was alive; that in some incomprehensible way it glowed and sparkled with a light from within, which shone between the golden scales with which it was covered. How long he would have stood gazing at what seemed to him something almost supernatural he couldn't tell, but suddenly, and for the first time, the lad who was held by the priests turned a despairing yet only half-conscious face towards the spellbound multitude, and Hector recognised the face of Arion. It was but for a moment; at once the priests began to drag him forward to the little platform in front of the statue, while he, as if returning to consciousness at the prospect, struggled frantically to escape.
At the sight of that face Hector seemed to himself to awake from a stupor. With one spring he dashed the ranks of the priests to right and left, and passed through them at a bound. A sobbing exclamation rose from the silent assembly as they saw him clear the open space between him and the altar in a dozen huge strides, and next moment stand towering behind the assistant priests and the struggling victim. A single motion, and he had grasped the priests by the neck from behind, one in each hand, and, as another irrepressible murmur of wonder and dismay ran palpitating through the crowd, raised them high in air, and hurled them struggling against the smoking altar, where they lay still.
It had been so sudden that only the hoarse, choking cry of the priests, and the crash with which they were hurled against the marble altar, had warned Ephialtes of his danger as he stood with hands uplifted before the idol. I must have done him an injustice when I looked on him as a coward, for now he faced this new and terrible danger without quailing. It would have been too late if it had not been for Arion, who clung to Hector's knees in a sudden ecstasy of gratitude for his deliverance and so prevented him from instantly dealing out to the high-priest the fate that had overtaken his assistants. As it was, they faced one another for several moments at a distance of but a few yards, while the awestruck multitude held their breath, and the great idol glowed and flashed above them.
Then an evil smile dawned on Ephialtes' pale face as he stretched out his right arm towards Hector and the lad who clung to him frantically still, and at the same time stepped slowly backwards. The words he uttered were thrown away on his opponent; but, in answer to the action, Hector raised Arion with one hand from the ground, while he made a single stride towards the threatening priest. It may have been that the suddenness of the danger startled the high-priest so much as to disturb his calculation and upset his deadly plan; but before he could take a second step, he saw the huge idol stoop forward with extended arms as if to clasp him to its glittering breast. Another stride and he would have been within the radius of those huge limbs that extended themselves and then swept together with a crushing force as the giant rose once more to his full height, his eyes blazing with a crimson glare.
The great extended hands had almost grazed Hector's shoulder as they passed; the huge face had seemed to peer into his at but a few feet away; he had felt the scorching glow of metal at a great heat as the idol missed his deadly clutch. Now he knew the fate that was reserved for Arion, and which had all but overtaken himself; but Hector's nerves were not easily affected. One step, indeed, he made backwards; but the glow on his face was not one of fear, but of anger, as he glanced first at the idol, then at the sea of spellbound faces that waited in hushed expectation of what would happen next, and then around for some weapon of offence. His quick eye caught sight of what he wanted, and in an instant he had seized it. On the great altar, behind the holes from which he now saw clearly that the blue smoke arose in spiral wreaths, there lay a huge axe of strange shape, and of a dull bronze-coloured metal. From its size and appearance, it looked as if it might have been the weapon of the giant idol himself, whose eyes seemed to be fixed upon the spot where it lay. With three quick steps, Hector reached the spot, and, grasping the huge axe, waved it above his head as he turned once more towards the figure of the god.
A yell of terror rose from the army of priests, and was echoed in a groan by the multitude behind them as he faced the idol. Two strides brought him to the edge of the slightly-raised metal platform before, the statue. There for a single instant he paused; then placed one foot upon it and pressed it down. It was as he had thought. Again the huge figure bowed quickly forward; again his giant arms ex tended, and came together with a sweeping clutch so as to grasp whatever might be standing on the platform before it. Hector had waited for this; and as the huge head bent low, and the eyes seemed to glare into his own, he whirled the axe on high and struck. The crash of the splintered metal, as the giant head was smashed to a thousand pieces by the blow, was lost in the scream of horror and fear that rose from the vast assemblage of priests and people who saw their idol destroyed before their eyes.
That sound, full at once of terror and of anger, warned Hector that it was time to go. He cast one rapid glance at the spot where Ephialtes had staggered back with staring eyes and ghastly face, and a second at the agitated crowds tossing like a wind- swept sea. Then with a single contemptuous look at the idol, whose shattered trunk still hung forward in the attitude in which he had struck it—its arms half closed, its head and neck gone— he laid a hand on the limp arm of the lad beside him, and led him to the door that gave entrance from the palace. It was locked in some way from the other side, and, heaving up the great axe once more, he shattered bolt and fastening at a blow, and passed through the opening, followed by a wave of swelling sound that seemed to be composed of every note of rage, terror, and woe of which the human voice is capable.
HECTOR was at a loss to comprehend the looks of mingled terror and awe that greeted his appearance at the gate of the palace when it was opened by the guard. He wasted no time, however; but motioning to the guard to shut and bolt it—a silent order which the men hastened to obey with a reverence and even fear in their looks to which he had grown unaccustomed—he marched onwards, the great axe still over his shoulder, to our apartment. He was puzzled what to do, for now that the need of instant action had passed, the habits of a lifetime spent in obeying orders came back to him, and it was with a sigh of extreme satisfaction that, on looking through the window, he saw Eureka's boat approaching the landing. Without a word he wheeled, and still followed by Arion, whose eyes had been fixed on the axe which he carried over his shoulder ever since he left the temple, he descended the great staircase which led to the landing.
It was thus that the first person I saw as we floated slowly to the foot of the marble stairs was the same I had left there two hours ago when I started for that sail. My first glance showed me that he had fulfilled the duty he had undertaken of recovering Arion; but my second seemed to tell me that to him, as to myself, something important had happened. There was something in the attitude of alert attention at which he stood that was so much more military than anything to which I had been accustomed in Hector since we left Fort Donnelson that involuntarily I thought of danger. I was not prepared, however, for its effect on Eureka and her maidens. It was a sudden exclamation of fear that made me glance at them quickly, but it was the pale face of Eureka herself that alarmed me. A whisper ran from mouth to mouth of the girls as they pointed at something which Hector carried over his shoulder, and the whisper was, "The axe of Anaxagoras!"
Alarmed as I was at Eureka's pale face and terrified eyes, I didn't stop to inquire what was meant, but helped her ashore, followed by the group of frightened girls, and almost carrying the half-fainting Princess, I made my way up the staircase preceded by Hector and Arion. Once or twice I glanced questioningly at the huge weapon which Hector carried over his shoulder with a strange uncomfortable recollection of some old picture I had seen of a procession to an execution in which the executioner walked in front carrying an axe in very much the same way that Hector was carrying it now. I was too anxious about Eureka, however, to ask any questions until we reached the great banqueting-hall. There the girls gathered round their mistress, and for the first time I got a good view of both Hector and Arion.
"What has happened, Hector?" I exclaimed, for his face told me that something extraordinary had occurred; "and where did you get that monstrous axe?"
"It will be a long story to tell, Major," he said, in his usual deliberate fashion, "and she would be thinking that she wouldn't be so ferry much surprised eff they wass coming here pretty soon to be killing us. Oh yess, Major, it wass the high- priest that would be an angry man, she wass thinking, this day, and he would be bringing ta peoples, she wass thinking, whateffer."
I looked at Hector's calm face in utter amazement.
"The high-priest?" I said. "What have you done to him, Hector? And where did you get that axe?" I added hastily once more, as I saw the terrified looks cast at it by the girls.
"Wass it the axe you wass asking about, Major? Well, she wass bringing the axe from ta temple. Oh yess, and it wass from ta altar that she wass taking it when she wass in a hurry; but it iss a ferry good axe, whateffer."
"What does he say?" Eureka, who had somewhat recovered, exclaimed, in a tone of great agitation. "Where did he get the axe of Anaxagoras?" Then, catching sight of Arion's pale face, she asked him the same question. The lad threw himself on his knees before her, and in rapid and almost incoherent sentences told her what had passed from the moment when Hector had seized and dashed his would-be executioners against the altar till he had forced his way by its assistance out of the temple. I could only guess at the meaning of a large part of his story, but I gathered its main features almost by instinct as much from the lad's face as from what he said. The face of Eureka was a study as she listened. Horror, fear, wonder and admiration passed in changing emotions across it, as she looked from the working countenance of the lad to the mighty figure and calm face of Hector, as he stood holding the huge weapon, which was evidently the subject of an almost superstitious terror on the part of all present except Hector and myself.
As he ended his story I looked at Eureka's pale face, and asked the question that had been puzzling me so long:
"Why do you call it the axe of Anaxagoras?" I said. "And why are you so terrified at its being taken from the altar?"
Eureka moved forward to where Hector stood, and without a word pointed to the handle of the weapon just at the place where it joined the head. I motioned to Hector to bring it forward from his shoulder, and looked closely at the spot. The handle, like the blade, was of metal, and looking closely I could see that there was cut, in small Greek characters, first the single name Anaxagoras, and then two lines which Mackenzie afterwards translated for me, though I had already gathered their sense for myself; they ran as follows:
"When the arm of the stranger this weapon shall sway, Anaxagoras' race shall be passing away."
A strange thrill of something like superstitious fear passed through me as I gathered the meaning of the words, and turned to look at Eureka. As I did so there came to our ears a distant sound like nothing so much as the roar of the surf on a distant beach. For a minute or two it was impossible to decide what it was, as it swelled and boomed in a deep and yet discordant note through the lofty palace roof. We paused to listen, until Hector deliberately replaced the axe on his shoulder, with the remark:
"She would be thinking it would be ta priest talking to ta peoples; oh yess. Major, for she wass thinking they would not be so ferry long off coming here, whateffer."
A minute or two more proved that he was right, for as it came nearer it became evident that the noise was caused by the tumultuous shouts and cries of a vast concourse of people in a state of wild excitement. Hector looked at me as if he waited for orders, but I could see that his blood was up, and that nothing would please him better than to engage in a struggle with almost any odds that might offer.
"Yes, Hector," I said, "I suppose we shall have to put our backs to the wall at last. I wish the Doctor was back, but I suppose he won't be long. I wonder if we can trust these palace guards to fight."
"She would be thinking there wass not so ferry much fight in them, Major. Oh no; she would not be trusting them so ferry much, whateffer; only they might not be so bad for a ferry little while till ta Doctor he would be getting back."
I turned to the Princess and the party of girls who surrounded her, and saw at a glance that, except Eureka herself, they were pale with terror as they recognised more and more what the roar of the approaching multitude might mean to them as well as everyone in the palace. Coming as it did immediately upon the threatened fulfilment of the old prophecy about the axe of Anaxagoras, I was not surprised. Eureka alone was calm, and even met my glance with a smile. Her face was pale, indeed, as it had been since the moment when she first saw the fatal axe upon the shoulder of Hector, but there was no fear nor shrinking in her large dear eyes.
"Princess," I exclaimed, "forgive us. We have brought you evil only, when I would willingly have brought you all things good. As for Ephialtes and the multitude, they shall not profane your palace while I live."
A strange look of wonder, doubt, and yet it seemed to me almost of joy, dawned in her eyes as she heard me.
"Nay, who can overcome the gods?" she said. "Or how shall it be that the Father of the Immortals should die?"
"Listen, Eureka," I exclaimed, knowing that at last the explanation I had so often been on the point of making must be faced. "You have been deceived, and in part ye have deceived yourselves. No gods are we—no father of the gods am I; but a man, and liable to death, even as one of the heroes of old. It is true that I and my companions came to seek your people, but not as gods did we learn where ye were to be found. By long journeys over sea and land we sought the long-lost sons of the Greeks, and the fairest descendant of Anaxagoras. Alas that we should have found, only to bring misfortune upon one so fair and so beloved?"
As I spoke I had watched the varying shades of expression as they had flitted one after another over Eureka's speaking features. The look, half of doubt and half of joy which had come into her eyes at the first idea that, after all, we were really human, and not, as I had let her think only that morning, deities who, having accomplished the mission on which they had come, were already recalled to Olympus, had spread and deepened as she listened, till at my last words a warm blush of delight spread over her cheeks and brow, and a brighter light than any I had yet seen shone in her liquid eyes. Suddenly she held out her hand to me with the motion of an empress.
"Come!" she exclaimed. "Not alone shalt thou stand before the multitudes of the sons of the Greeks in their wrath. Not in the home of the children of Anaxagoras shall the guests—whether gods or god like heroes only—be slain at the command of Ephialtes, while Eureka, last of the house beloved of the gods, may stand between them and destruction."
I clasped the hand she offered, and for the first time I clasped it without a feeling of imposture. Eureka knew, and yet she didn't reject me. The roar of the approaching crowds was nearer and fiercer than before. The hope of escape from the destruction, planned, no doubt, by Ephialtes with all the cunning and cruelty of his kind, was as faint as ever; but for the moments while I held Eureka's hand in mine I was happy.
Eureka led me up a second, staircase, and through another apartment, and then we stood on a broad balcony, above which a higher story yet was supported on marble pillars of graceful forms and beautiful colours. Hence we looked down upon the open space and wide flight of steps that led up to the front of the Palace of the Princes. Already the space was filled with a crowd of wildly-excited men, who shouted, threatened, and gesticulated fiercely as they surged forwards towards the sacred steps of the palace, consecrated by all the most cherished legends of the race. It was evident at a glance to whom was owing the fierce excitement of the people. Here, there, and everywhere among the crowds the white robes of the priests could be seen, and wherever they came the tumult swelled to a wilder pitch of madness. Among the crowd, too, I could see parties of the armed soldiery, nearly all of whom appeared to be attached to the temples throughout the country, and it was these chiefly who seemed to press forwards towards the white steps that gave entrance to the palace.
I looked around for Ephialtes, but in vain, and I smiled bitterly as I thought how gladly I would now repair the mistake I had made when he was in my power and had deserved to die, though not more richly deserved it than now. The Princess stood silently for a minute looking out over the throng, and I thought a smile of scorn curved her perfect lips as she suddenly stepped to the front and showed herself to the multitude, holding my hand in her own. A shout, which quickly became a yell as they saw me beside her, rent the air almost like a burst of thunder, and then, as Eureka held up her hand for silence, sank into silence so deep as to show the intensity of curiosity that prevailed as to what the Princess, beloved of the people, would do. Then Eureka spoke. Soft and clear, distinct and piercing, her words floated out over the listening throng, and it seemed to me that now for the first time I could imagine the glory of the language in which Pericles and Demosthenes spoke.
"Sons of the Greeks," she said, "what seek ye here? Is it that ye hope to injure the immortal gods? Is it that, at the bidding of Ephialtes the perjured one, ye would bring down the vengeance of Heaven on this land? Hear ye, then, my words this day. If, indeed, ye desire to honour the priests rather than the gods; if ye prefer to obey Ephialtes, the descendant of Antalkas, rather than Eureka, the last of the daughters of Anaxagoras; if ye would fain drive Zeus, the father the gods, with Hermes, his chosen messenger, and Heracles, most divine of the heroes, from your land—know ye that I, too, will depart; and the sons of Antalkas, the priest, can possess the seats of the children of Anaxagoras the divine."
Not a word, not a syllable, was missed by the multitude. With upturned faces and straining eyes, they followed her to the end, and when she ceased there was silence still. It was but for a minute, however. Ephialtes and the priests had done their work too well, aided, no doubt, by the tremendous shock to the religious feelings of the people involved in the blow struck at their cherished deity by Hector. First a murmur, then a strange, wordless groan, and then a yell, that rose, and swelled, and pealed again and yet again, and formed itself more and more into the name of Apollo, announced that the priests had conquered, and the people had chosen. Eureka slowly turned away, and as she turned her eyes met mine.
"The prophecy of Anaxagoras is fulfilled," she said, "and the race of Anaxagoras is passing away."
I stooped nearer as I answered:
"With me, Eureka, to another and a better land."
She shook her head even while she smiled.
"Alas! Not such is the prophecy—not such the decree of the fates."
There was no time to discuss the question, for next moment there was a movement of the mass of the crowd towards the steps of the palace, and I felt that everything might depend on my presence to keep the guards at their post. We quickly reached the great hall, and, leaving Eureka there, I joined Hector at the entrance-gate. Already the crowd, principally consisting of priests and soldiers, had surged up the steps, and were almost pressing against the great gates of white metal which alone prevented their entrance. The golden-mailed guard, indeed, was drawn up inside; but a single glance at their faces made me turn with relief to the giant figure of Hector, who stood aside behind a pillar, the axe still over his shoulder, waiting apparently for orders. The yell that greeted my appearance told me, as I had expected, that it was against me that the chief rage of the people had been directed by the priests. I walked deliberately to the gate, and was glad to see that even now both priests and soldiers fell back as I came towards them. They only fell back a yard or two, indeed, and halted in a half-moon shape around the entrance, where they stood, looking like a pack of Indian jackals, half fierce and yet half frightened, before me. A sudden thought occurred to me at the moment, and, without staying to consider how far it was wise, I acted upon it at once. It was important to get breathing-time, at least, and this might give it; at any rate, it would allow Mackenzie to arrive and, what was still more important, it would for the time secure Eureka.
I advanced another step, and raised my hand. I saw the priests shrink back as I did so.
"Degenerate sons of the Greeks!" I exclaimed, in a tone that must have travelled far over the crowd. "Depart! Leave this palace, sacred to the daughter of the gods. Ye have shown yourselves unworthy of the favours of the gods; therefore those favours are withdrawn. Ye are unworthy of the smiles of Eureka, fairest of the daughters of Anaxagoras; therefore she, too, will depart. Depart ye, therefore, for ye will behold us no more."
For a few seconds it seemed likely to answer its purpose. The crowd swayed and hesitated; a confused murmur rose from the agitated mass. It was only for a minute, after all. I had struck the wrong note when I spoke of Eureka. Gradually the murmur formed itself to the sound of her name; the murmur swelled to a shout, the shout to a roar, "Eureka! Eureka!" It was evident that, however willing to see us go, the multitude had no idea of parting with their Princess.
For a minute or two the crowd swayed and tossed; exclamations, cries, shouts, and a wild, threatening growl, like that of a hundred wounded tigers preparing for one last effort against the hunter, rose in a strange confusion of sounds; another minute, and they would hurl themselves against the gates. I confess I hesitated. If they took the initiative what could stop them? Certainly not the guard, with the glittering spears, but half- daunted faces, behind me. If we attacked them and failed, what of Eureka? It was Hector who settled it. With one stride he left the pillar and stood beside me.
"Major," he said, in his deep, deliberate voice, "she wass thinking it would be ass well to drive ta peoples away before we would be heffing any more trouble—oh yess, Major, it would be ass well, whateffer."
I turned to the captain of the guard, and with a wave of my hand I gave the order, "Open the gate!" The man trembled, but he obeyed, and next moment the great bar fell, and the gates swung back.
"Follow me!" I exclaimed, as I stepped forward, drawing at the same moment the pistol from my belt. Had my order been obeyed, it is impossible to tell what might have happened; but the guard hesitated and stood still, and Hector and I advanced alone against ten thousand men.
I WAS not aware that my order to follow had not been obeyed. It was no time to look back, for even one sign of weakness might have been fatal then. Hector and I passed through the open gate. When the gate swung back, the foremost ranks of the surging crowd were in the very act of advancing to storm them. A few priests were in front, but it was a dense mass of temple soldiery, with spears half extended, who confronted us at a distance of less than half a dozen yards. Behind them a sea of tossing arms, flourishing spears, and here and there a flashing sword, extended through the broad portico, with its rosy marble pillars, down the great flight of steps, and far out into the wide square beyond, where the trees threw deep shadows, and the tall palms swayed softly in the dazzling light of the westering sun. I seemed to see it all in that one supreme minute, as I passed through the silver gates, and knew that the chances were a hundred or more to one that it would be for the last time.
In front of me there was a tall priest—taller than any I had seen except Ephialtes himself. He was in the very act of urging the soldiers on, with tossing hair and waving arms, and as he saw us advance to meet him, he stood, just for one moment, as if petrified. The next he yelled, "Slay! Slay the impious deceivers! Thus hath Apollo avenged himself!" With a wild yell he sprang forward as he spoke, and next moment fell back dead in his tracks, as I shot him through the heart. His shout had had its effect, however, and next moment the crash of spears under the mighty sway of Hector's axe was followed by the deep wild note of the Highland slogan as he advanced with a giant stride into the opening he had made, while the huge axe rose and fell in mighty sweeps, before which helmets and spear-heads were crushed and splintered like egg-shells and match-wood.
At the fall of their leader, the few priests had given back in horrified amazement; but a soldier, who, from the greater splendour of his armour, seemed to be an officer, pushed them aside and leaped forward, sword in hand, with a shout of defiance. I was just about to expend my second shot on him, when the backward sweep of Hector's axe struck him on the side of his golden helmet and dashed him lifeless to the ground at my very feet. Without even a glance at his body, I stepped over him and advanced. But already a panic was setting in. The priests had struggled wildly to escape, and the action had of itself demoralized the rest; and now the soldiers, daunted by the sudden fall of the boldest of their party, wavered and backed before us. One man alone at the top of the steps gesticulated wildly, and summoned them to advance. He seemed to be a priest, and his wild, shrill cries now formed the only note of defiance, while it seemed as though he might become a rallying-point for the frightened and panic-struck crowd of armed men.
"Cease, impious one, and begone!" I shouted, pausing for a second, and pointing at him with the pistol which I held.
Distance probably gave him courage, for he answered with a shrill shout of defiance, and repeated the cry:
"Slay the deceivers! Slay!"
As the last word left his lips he sprang high into the air with a shrill scream and fell backwards down the steps. One long wailing yell rose from the crowd far and near; the multitude rocked and swayed in a wild paroxysm of superstitious fear, and next moment they had broken and fled. Hector and I pulled up side by side at the top of the marble steps, and, lowering the axe of Anaxagoras, he rested his hands on the handle, and indulged in a hoarse laugh as his eyes followed the struggling crowd.
"Oh no, Major," he chuckled; "it would not be such ferry brave peoples that they would be—no, nor so ferry strong, whateffer. But she would be thinking that it would not be so ferry bad to be getting out off this, because the high-priest, he will not heff been killed, and that iss a ferry great pity, mirover."
It came home to me with a shock that Hector was right. For the first minute I had indulged in a wild hope that our victory might be complete, but I saw that I had been in danger of indulging in a dream. Ephialtes had escaped. I had spared when I might fairly have substituted him for his assistant, and Hector, too, had let him pass when he would gladly have treated him as he had treated his ferocious deity—the eastern substitute for the far- darting Apollo of his Grecian ancestors. As I thought of it I shuddered. It seemed to be fate. This man, by far the most powerful and dangerous of our enemies, survived; this man, who knew, or at least felt certain, we were no deities, but men who might be put out of the way, and must be so if he were to continue to rule; this man, the most nearly equal in rank and blood to Eureka of the nation, and, if I had made no mistake, the one who designed to marry her, and so become prince in name as well as in fact, had escaped, and was powerful still.
Without a word to the guard, who stood obsequiously as we passed, I re-entered the gates, and, followed by Hector, went back to the great hall. As we entered at one door Mackenzie came hastily in at the other. I could see from his face that he guessed at some of what had taken place, and in reply to his questions I told him the story of the day in a few words. When I had finished he looked gravely at me, and then I noticed that his eyes rested on Eureka, who sat at a little distance surrounded by the group of frightened girls, who seemed to find their only protection in her presence and said very gravely:
"In that case, Ambrose, our only chance is to get away tonight."
Mackenzie had only expressed my own conviction, but after half an hour's discussion we had failed to hit upon any plan which seemed to hold out even a reasonable prospect of safety. When I had announced to the infuriated crowd that they would see us no more I hadn't given the question a moment's consideration, yet somehow it appeared easy enough then; now, when we discussed it anxiously, it seemed all but impossible. A night march might possibly take us a third part of the distance we had come from the temple of the Furies, but apart from the risk amounting almost to a certainty that our flight would be seen and reported before we even got out of the city—it was certain that we could be waylaid at any time on the next day's journey by order of the priests, who could send messages by means of trained dogs of the strange black species of the country three times as fast as we could hope to travel. To me the discussion sounded utterly hopeless for a reason which I didn't mention. It might be all very well for Mackenzie and Hector to discuss how we could reach the mountain range by a forced march before we were likely to be intercepted, but for me the question was how I could take Eureka.
Again and again as Mackenzie told us what he had learned that might assist our escape, I found my eyes wander towards the place where Eureka and her maidens had withdrawn that we might be left to ourselves, and each time it seemed more impossible that she should face the journey, and most impossible of all that I should leave her behind. At last I told him that as far as I was concerned no plan of escape would be of any use that didn't provide for both Arion, who would of course be sacrificed at once if we left him behind, and Eureka, who was practically dethroned and had expressed her intention of going too in case we had to leave the country. I did my best to show no signs of feeling, but I certainly didn't impose upon the Doctor. He said nothing for a minute or two, though his eyes wandered to where Eureka sat conversing in low tones with her girls, while Arion sat on a low stool near, with his eyes fixed on her face; but then he looked me in the face again.
"I was afraid of this, Ambrose," he said, "It's natural, too, I suppose; but how is it possible? Do you remember how we got here?—The cliff, the forest, the valley, and then the desert? Think, Ambrose. Is it even faintly possible that she could do it? The lad might, of course—and, indeed, we couldn't leave him behind; but a girl? No, my friend; better let her live here—yes, live even as the consort of Ephialtes," he continued with a look which showed me that he guessed what was in my mind, "than condemn her to death in the desert."
Was he right? For a minute the bitter doubt entered my mind. Was it only my selfishness after all? Was I ready to sacrifice Eureka rather than give her up to anybody else? I looked up, and my eyes met those of Hector, that were looking down at me with a sympathy that affected me strangely. As if in answer to my look, he spoke.
"Oh yess, Major, she would heff been thinking that it wass not a ferry good road for ta Princess, whateffer; but then she would heff been thinking that she will heff seen ta girls that could heff walked ferry well, too, when they was wanting to walk—oh yess, ferry well indeed, Major."
"Eureka must judge for herself, Mackenzie," I said desperately. "We should have asked her at first, and perhaps her woman's wit could have suggested a plan better than any we have thought of."
I rose and went to the Princess. "Wouldst thou bear a part in the councils of the gods, oh Eureka?" I asked. "If it be so, leave thine attendants and commit thyself to my care."
She rose without a word, and, motioning to the others to remain where they were, came and took the seat which, at my signal, Arion placed for her beside the one on which I had sat. Then in a low tone I repeated our discussion. I spoke of the difficulty of escaping from the city unobserved, of the distance to the edge of the mountain barrier, of the forest track and the dark valley. Last of all I described the march across the desert before we could reach the river that would take us to the ocean and to safety. Her eyes never left my own while I was speaking, and when I stopped she said in a low, wondering tone:
"All these things I have heard of before, for did not our fathers pass the mountain slopes? Did not they too descend into the valley of the shadows? Did not they dwell in the land beyond the mountains until the sand overwhelmed their city? Yea, did not they also sail upon the river, and launch their ships upon the domains of Oceanus himself? But ye; ye have overpassed these perils; ye have sought the lost sons of the Greeks through mighty oceans, up the streams of mighty rivers And across great deserts; and shall the daughter of Anaxagoras fear to return with you to the land of her ancestors when the unworthy sons of the Greeks have cast her out?"
The conclusion was so unexpected that Mackenzie started and spoke.
"And couldst thou, fairest of the daughters of Anaxagoras, undergo these hardships and overcome these labours? Thou hast heard, but thou hast not yet seen the valley of the shadows, or the wastes of the burning sand."
Eureka turned to him with the grand motion of head and neck which spoke of her princely descent of more than two thousand years.
"Yea, oh Hermes, messenger of the gods. Can it be thou knowest not yet what a woman can do? As for the perils thou hast named, have I not seen them in my dreams? Have I not beheld the mountain-slopes which none of the sons of the Greeks have approached, fearing the wrath of the gods? Have I not seen the valley of the dark shadows, and the stair of the gods, wet with the blood of heroes? Have not I, too, when sleep hath closed mine eyes, beheld the walls of the city of Alexander heaped with sand, and laid me down to sleep in the blaze of the sunshine? Yea, I have beheld them all, oh Hermes, and I shall behold them yet again, for so have the fates decreed."
The air of command, the tone of calm and settled conviction with which Eureka spoke, silenced Mackenzie effectually, while to me it conveyed a shuddering forecast of impending misfortune which I could neither resist nor account for. It seemed, besides, in some mysterious way to remove Eureka farther away from me, even while it made her dearer than ever.
"And now," she continued, after a pause, which had lasted but a few seconds, though it seemed hours to me, "this night we must depart. Tomorrow Ephialtes will return to seek for me, and if it may be so, to slay even the gods who oppose his will. Already his guards surround the palace and watch every path of escape from the city; nevertheless, we shall depart. This night, ere the silver bow of Diana shall be bent in the heavens, while the shadows sleep upon the waters, we shall embark, and when Aurora shall awake we shall be far on our journey upon the dark river of the Furies. It may be we shall be pursued, for not readily will Ephialtes relinquish his purpose; it may be he will overtake us on our journey, yet have the fates decreed that we shall pass the valley of the shadow and beheld again the fallen city of Alexander."
A momentary shadow passed over the face of Mackenzie as he listened; and why was it that with the last words a cold shiver passed through my veins? I translated what Eureka had said for the benefit of Hector, who stood patiently watching her face with a look of quiet satisfaction, and as if he had understood her for himself. He nodded.
"And it wass a ferry good thing. Major, that you wass asking ta Princess, for it would be the second sight that she would be heffing, and it wass a ferry good thing to heff when you would not be knowing ferry well what to be doing, mirover—oh yess. Major, a ferry good thing it would be, whateffer."
I looked at Mackenzie, and then at Eureka.
"Then it is settled, I suppose, that we make the trial?" I said.
The Doctor nodded.
"It seems as good a plan as any, though it doesn't look promising," he said.
Eureka rose from her seat.
"The fates have decreed that so it should be. When the third hour of the night shall have come, then will Arion and I be ready to depart with the gods," she said, and moved away towards the group of her companions whom she was about to leave.
IT was about nine o'clock when Arion came to call us. For an hour before that we had been left alone, Eureka's orders having on one pretext or another withdrawn every one of our usual attendants, and so left us at liberty to make our arrangements. After all, we hadn't much to get ready. As for myself, I may say I had nothing more than I had brought with me, and Hector was in equally light travelling equipment. Mackenzie, indeed, had a severe struggle to leave behind him the various treasures he had collected, and both Hector and I agreed to burden ourselves with some of them, but in the end he was obliged to abandon nearly all of them, although by doing so he went far to destroy the evidence that was to have carried conviction to every scientific society in Europe of the greatness of his discovery.
The lad put his finger to his lips as he stood silently in the doorway, holding in his hand the heavy folds of the curtain for us to pass, and then preceded us silently through the deserted hall and passages, and down the staircase that led by many steps to the level of the lake. The last part of the staircase was dark, and it was only by the glassy twinkle of the water as it lapped against the landing-place that we could make out the dark shadow of the boat. We passed cautiously through the silver gate that closed the bottom of the stair, and as we came out upon the broad marble landing-place, I heard the sound of the key turning softly in the lock. My threat of the afternoon had been fulfilled indeed; the gods had departed from the city of Atalka.
The softly whispered word, "Enter" coming from the shadowy boat told me that Eureka had embarked before us, and we followed her silently. The slight, graceful, but active figure of Arion slipped in, and the boat glided quietly from under the overhanging cliff of white marble, which now rose, a shapeless mass of ghostly gray, till it was lost in the brooding darkness of a clouded sky. Not a word was spoken as we drifted out of the shadow of the rock and came in sight of the little twinkling lights that shone far up from the windows of the palace. One trembling shudder, and no more, passed from Eureka's hand to mine as I held it in the darkness. It was the last farewell of the daughter of Anaxagoras to the home of her ancestors.
The soft breath of the night breeze filled the little sail, while Eureka held the rudder that guided us towards the mouth of the river of the Furies; the water rippled gently against the prow, and glistened with a glassy gleam as it broke away from the sides of the boat; the lake seemed to whisper a low farewell to Eureka as we glided like ghosts into the night. I didn't dare to speak to her, though I held her hand in mine; for I felt that her thoughts must be such as I could not hope to understand. I had learned to know her, indeed, as the fair, sweet, innocent girl, with tender heart and lofty fancy, nurtured on the old poetry of Greece which had come down but little changed—so, at least, Mackenzie said—through all the centuries; but her words that afternoon seemed to have introduced me to a new person. I felt now as if I had only been looking at the surface of a mystery, and even as I clasped her hand I wondered vaguely whether her thoughts were fixed upon the visions of which she had spoken, and whether, indeed, the decrees of fate had somehow linked the life of the last descendant of Anaxagoras with the land to which he had led his people so many centuries ago.
Little by little the night breeze increased, and our boat ran gaily before the wind. An hour's sail brought us to the mouth of the river, and still, though now we had to contend with the current, we continued to glide onward fast enough to make the ghostly trees that lined the banks move by us in a long procession. My companions had fallen asleep; but still through the darkness, and the dim gray light of the belated moon, I sat beside Eureka, while now and then a softly whispered word made my heart leap with the assurance that it was not with thoughts of fate alone, nor even with regrets for a kingdom abandoned, that the mind of my companion was occupied.
At last it was dawn, and in the clear, cool light of morning I could see that we had made good progress during the night. Far away towards the northeast, indeed, I could still make out the high bluff which showed where the city of Antalka lay, and the great temple and palace towered on their marble rock above the waters of the lake. The great slope leading up to the still- distant mountain-range was nearer still, however, and I was able to fancy I could make out the part of the beetling cliff where the river of the Furies took its rise, and the black temple nestled in the hollow at its base. Nobody attempted to interfere with our progress, though we couldn't persuade ourselves that we were unobserved, and in spite of the current, and the gradual falling away of the wind, we contrived to make progress still.
It was but little after noon when it became evident that we had ceased to make much progress, and Mackenzie suggested that we should make the rest of the journey on foot as far as the bottom of the cliff. It was evident that the distance could not be great, as already the long line of the frowning precipice had drawn close to the river on our right; so we disembarked, glad of the opportunity of exercising our stiffened limbs before we should have to face the mountain staircase. Little more than an hour's journey brought us in sight of the recess in the cliff which we remembered so well, with the strange black temple close to the source of the dark river. For some time we had heard the hollow gurgling roar of the stream as it forced its way upwards from below the cliff before we caught sight of the building; but when we did so, it was evident that our coming was expected. Once more the crowd of white-robed priests stood on the wide steps of the temple, and beside them on each side there was drawn up a band of armed men, whose white helmets and glistening silver mail flashed in the hot sunlight. There was nothing about them that made it clear whether we were to be received with honour or hostility, and but for the recollection of our last interview with the chief-priest, I might have suspected nothing. As it was I had already prepared, by arranging our little party in an order at once as imposing and as well prepared to resist attack as I was able. I walked a step or two in advance; Eureka, closely veiled, was directly behind me; Hector, still carrying the great axe over his shoulder, walked on her right, and Mackenzie, who carried the fowling-piece which Hector had brought, on her left. Arion marched behind her, bringing up the rear, and carrying a spear and shield, but without a helmet to shelter his flowing dark hair, which fell in masses to his shoulders.
In this order we marched up the avenue of trees that formed the approach to the temple. As I came nearer I noticed that the soldiers were black, the broad-faced muscular men I had observed when I first reached Atalka, although, as they were never allowed to come near the palace or the Princess, I had seen little of them since. Could it be that they had been sent here to intercept us? Because they, at least, could have no old associations with the idea of the gods? Could it be that Ephialtes had reckoned upon our inability to make them understand us? I smiled as the thought occurred to me that superstition is confined to no particular set of legends, and that there were other things besides words that could make themselves intelligible to human beings of every shade of colour.
I had nearly reached the foot of the steps—for it was no part of my plan to attempt to pass the temple and its guardians—when the ranks of the priests opened, and Dion advanced to the top of the stairs with the salutation:
"Hail, gods of Olympus—hail! Deign to rest and refresh yourselves at the shrine of the Furies, ye and your followers, once more, ere ye leave the land of the sons of the Greeks!"
There was a note of triumph in the voice of the little priest; but whether it was caused by seeing us about to leave the country, or by some other and more treacherous feeling, I couldn't tell. I looked at him sternly for an instant before I replied, and I saw that he was afraid to meet my eye.
"Not so, Dion, priest of the Furies," I said, in slow, distinct accents, so that all present might hear and, if possible, understand me—"not so; for the gods are departing from the land of the sons of the Greeks to return no more. Not so; for never again shall your temples behold our presence, or your altars send up smoke of themselves at the sight of the deities. As we came, so we depart. Nothing of the wealth of the sons of the Greeks take we as offerings; nothing of blessings leave we behind. By the way that we came—the sacred path of the gods—by the same leave we the accursed land where the altars of the gods are defiled with the blood and the groans of their children. Depart, therefore, from our path, and look not on the faces of the gods whom ye shall behold no more."
I turned away as I finished speaking, with commanding wave of my right hand to the black soldiers to stand aside. As I faced them and moved on, I saw that they swayed and wavered as if on the very point of obeying my order to leave the path open.
"Stay yet a moment, father of the gods," exclaimed Dion desperately. "Not yet is the path of the gods open for thy feet; for who are these others who came not with thee, and yet would fain depart in thy train?"
I neither turned nor spoke, but continued moving steadily onwards, and as I came on the silver-mailed soldiers gave ground step by step, with looks of terror as they saw the white faces of my companions and myself.
"Stay!" Dion almost yelled after us, as he saw that we were about to pass his armed guard without a struggle. "Deliver up the youth dear to Apollo—leave behind thee the veiled one who follows in thy steps; so shalt thou return by the way thou earnest in peace. If not, think not again to pass the path of the gods—think not to brave the wrath of the Furies, or to overcome the descendants of Cerberus."
It was evident that a desperate effort would be made to stop us, and the reference to the huge dogs, whose howls could now be heard close at hand, reminded me that if once let loose it would be no easy matter to deal with them. A single instant's consideration told me that nothing was to be gained by delay, and I was moving on without even turning my head when I was arrested by the clear voice of Eureka.
"Cease, oh impious priest of the Furies, nor think to affright the gods with thy feeble threats. They leave the land which they came to bless. But not alone do they return to Olympus. Arion, by whose death Ephialtes twice endeavoured to insult the mercy of the gods, goeth with them; I, too, the last of the house of Anaxagoras the divine, return to the country of the gods of my fathers, rather than abide here to become the victim of the high- priest thy master. Depart, therefore, and hide thy impious head till the gods have passed on their way, for otherwise the fates will deliver thee quickly to the Furies whom thou hast served so long."
Eureka had thrown back her veil, and stood forth in the full blaze of her youthful beauty before the priests and the soldiers, but it was rather her majesty than her beauty that held the multitude spellbound while she was speaking. She dropped her veil, and turned to follow me once more, and I too turned and moved onward. A dozen paces, and then a roar of discordant cries, shouts and yells showed that the spell was withdrawn, and that now, for the first time, they knew that it was their Princess, the glory of their race, the one living representative of the founder of their nation and of their deities, who was leaving them for ever.
The black soldiers alone had learned nothing. Ignorant of the language in which she spoke, ignorant of the appearance of the Princess whom they had never been allowed to see, they saw only that she too was white and looked like a being of another kind from themselves. As I came near their first rank and extended my arms they fell back, then wavered, and then turned and ran away. I didn't dare to hurry, but that short hundred yards was the longest march I ever remember to have made. Shouts, yells, imprecations, resounded behind us and on either side, and at last as I turned into the short path that ended in the black steps that gave admission to the sacred path of the gods there was a shout of defiance in front, and looking up I saw that Dion himself and two others of the priests had reached the steps and were threatening me with spears if I ventured to advance. My first thought was one of congratulation—they had not set free the dogs.
With the thought I glanced round quickly, where on my right hand the ferocious animals, penned in their enclosure, leaped and bounded as they gnashed their teeth and howled in their efforts to get at me. On the other side, not five yards off, the black river of the Furies boiled up with a hollow roar as if it too sought for its victims. And in front were the three spears that gleamed from the vantage ground above me. I was about to draw my pistol once more, to get rid of one at least of the defenders, when Hector stepped past me quickly:
"She wouldn't be wasting ta good pistol shots, Major," he said; "she would be settling ta little black priest ferry quickly herself whateffer."
Another moment and he had bounded forward with the great axe swung high above his head. There was a cry and a splintering of wood. One of the priests fell headlong from the steps, a second leaped with a howl of terror into the boiling pool of black water. Another instant and I saw Hector grasp Dion by the neck, hold him up at arm's length, then hurl him shrieking into the den of the dogs.
THE yell of terror and astonishment which drowned the scream of the wretched priest, as the crowd beheld the strangely literal fulfilment of Eureka's threat, still rang in my ears as I grasped her trembling hand in mine and led her up the black steps and across the natural archway of rock that spanned the cauldron of the rushing river. I glanced involuntarily into the dark depths below for some sign of the priest who had taken refuge there from the axe of Anaxagoras, but a glance was enough. It was impossible to imagine escape from the fiercely swirling pool and the foaming rapids in which the river of the furies burst up from its subterranean bed. So far as the crowd of priests and the awestruck band of black soldiers we had left behind were concerned, we had nothing more to fear as we moved slowly up the winding path of the gods. The fate of their chief and his two assistants had effectually checked any idea the first could have had of interfering with our movements, and the others stood open-mouthed in superstitious wonder as they saw the white men climb what looked from below like the unbroken face of the precipice.
It was long before Eureka recovered from the shock of the sudden and fearful fulfilment of her prophecy as to the fate of the miserable Dion, whose scream of fear and horror I confess rang for some time in my own ears, and, I believe, in those of Mackenzie also. Hector alone, who calmly brought up the rear of our party, still carrying the fatal axe, seemed wholly unmoved. When I asked him afterwards why he consigned the priest to so dreadful a fate instead of killing him at once, he merely replied: "She didna be waiting to think what ta little black priest would be wanting; oh no, Major, she would be ferry busy, and she would half no time to be thinking, whateffer."
That was Hector's account of the tragedy, and it was no doubt the correct one.
It was a hard, steep climb; but yet in some ways I think it was easier to mount the stair of the gods than it had been to come down. From the first Arion mounted it like a young antelope, and when Eureka had recovered from the shock of Dion's fate, it became evident that she needed none of the assistance which I was still eager to offer. Little by little we mounted the cliff until the black temple and the rushing river, the groups of awestruck spectators who watch us from below, and the enclosure where the black specks moved restlessly around, which we recognised with a shudder as the den of the dogs, had dwindled away to little more than points in the distance. At last we reached the top, and at the edge of the great sloping rock we turned to take a last farewell of the land of the sons of the Greeks. It lay bathed in sunshine at our feet, its river and lake glittering like burnished gold, its forests and fields basking in the sun, its temples and towns, and far off its beautiful city of Atalka, swimming in a soft and misty haze.
It was the voice of Eureka, speaking almost in a whisper at my side, that broke the solemn silence that had fallen on our party.
"Farewell," she murmured, "land of my fathers! Farewell, dwelling-place of the children of Anaxagoras! Not with a light heart does the last of thy children leave thee to behold thee never more. Not at the beckoning of joy, not for the soft enticements of love, but, led by the hand of the fates, to tread the path which ages ago her fathers trod. Eureka goes that she may rest on the threshold of the land she has loved."
I didn't dare to interrupt—I hardly ventured to look at her—as the soft accents of the old Greek tongue stole through the silence like the lament of one of the fabled wood spirits of her ancient fatherland. I glanced at Arion. The eyes of the lad were fixed on his mistress's face with a passionate sympathy and admiration. My eyes followed his, and I saw that Eureka's look was fixed and rigid as I had seen it once before, and though she gazed over the glowing landscape, I doubted whether she saw what was before her eyes. The distant look faded from her eyes as I looked at her, and she smiled. She held out her hand to me.
"Now," she said, "let us depart. Already I can see the priests and the soldiers of Ephialtes hastening in pursuit. Not here have the fates decreed that they shall overtake us; not here shall Ephialtes pass, and leave the sons of the Greeks in peace."
I looked questioningly at Eureka, but Mackenzie spoke.
"She is right, Ambrose—at least, about the pursuit; I can see them now, and they are not far away. If we don't mean to make a stand here, we had better push on; they won't be able to track us very easily through the forest."
I looked into the valley, and I, too, saw them coming. The party was a large one, though now they looked more like a swarm of ants moving hurriedly along the road by the river than a band of men. As for Mackenzie's idea that we might escape them in the trackless forest on the great slope, I seemed to know that we shouldn't do that. Like Eureka, I felt sure they would overtake us; like her, I began to feel that we were only treading the path marked out for us by Fate.
We turned away, and began the ascent of the slope. Vigorous as I now felt—for the life of the last three months had agreed with my health as nothing I had experienced since first I set foot in India had done—I found it no easy matter to keep up with the light step of Eureka, trained in all the gymnastic exercises of her people. Mackenzie said nothing; but I could see him look his admiration, and smile as he, no doubt, thought of his fears that she would prove unequal to the journey. Hour after hour we toiled up the long slope under the shadows of the trees that kept off the sun, our footsteps making no sound, and leaving no prints upon the soft elastic soil. Once we stopped, and made a meal of the food with which we had found Eureka's boat so amply provided. But for the fact that we were fugitives, as Mackenzie remarked, there was nothing to distinguish it from many a pleasant expedition we had made as guests of Eureka; "only," he added, with a sigh, "I never dreamt then of leaving all my collections behind me."
I was sorry for Mackenzie; but it was something more than his disappointment that weighed on my spirits—something more even than being a fugitive, and being, as I had no doubt, even then pursued. Eureka was with me, and she smiled, as I had dreamed she might, when her eyes rested on mine; but behind it ail I seemed to see the figure of a threatening fate, and to be burdened by a dark cloud of coming evil.
It was evening when at last we reached the upper edge of the forest land, and here Mackenzie insisted that we must stop for the night. We explained it to Eureka, and she consented at once. When the Doctor proceeded to assure her that there was no risk of our being overtaken during the night, as nobody would attempt to continue the pursuit through the forest after dark, she only smiled as she said to me in a low voice:
"Ah, no; they will not overtake us here. Ever now I can see the place where we shall meet—the place of the doom of Ephialtes."
I shuddered, but I made no reply. We made a fire, for there was a chill in the air even before the strange mountain mist came down; and at last I wrapped Eureka in the cloak which, with many other things for the use of his beloved Princess, Arion had carried, and watched beside her as she slept. Hector also watched, for I could see his giant shadow sitting erect, near at hand, as often as I woke from the half doze into which after a time I sank, and always, it seemed to me, his eyes were bent upon Eureka with a strange, superstitious reverence which had never been absent from them when he looked at her since our interview in the banqueting-hall of the palace.
The mountain mist still lay gray and ghostly on the upper slope of the ascent when we started in the morning, and we had travelled for perhaps an hour before it gave way before the morning sun. When it did so at last, we could see that we had made no mistake in the line of our march. As the mist rolled upwards, billow on billow, it showed once more the vast rent in the mountain chain, with its abrupt wails of blackened rock towering high overhead, and I pointed out to Eureka the portals of the land of her fathers.
"I have seen it before," she answered softly; "beyond it lies the buried city of Alexander, red with the light of setting suns."
I thought of the red sand heaped against the ruined walls where the pelican gathered her brood under her wings on our approach, and once more I shuddered.
Half an hour more, and we had reached the edge of the great rift where the mighty staircase afforded an entrance to the valley of the shadow through which we had to pass. Here, by Mackenzie's advice, we hailed to eat our morning meal, to give time for the sun to warm the recesses of the great chasm, of which, with his doctor's instinct, he always seemed afraid. We listened for any distant sound that might tell of pursuit before we started again; but none came up to us from the long green slope that lay basking below, and no living thing moved on the smooth bare hill we had just climbed It was evident that if we were pursued our enemies were still behind. Perhaps, after all, they were not coming. Possibly Eureka's forebodings would remain unfulfilled. Mackenzie laughingly hinted as much to her, and she smiled.
"Wait yet," she said, "O Hermes! Not yet have we passed up the mighty steps, carved long ago from the rock by the sons of the Greeks while yet they were great. There once more shall my eyes behold Ephialtes, my foe, before we go onward to the city of rest." She stopped suddenly as if she saw something that puzzled her, and she added: "It is strange, O Hermes, but I behold you not as we journey onwards."
Mackenzie smiled, but I saw Hector start, and move a step nearer as if to protect him from some threatened danger. Nothing more was said, however, and we pushed our way through the rank growth of grass and low bushes that fringed the edge of the great rift till we reached the top of the giant staircase. To those of us who had already passed it, familiarity had made the undertaking wonderfully more easy than it had seemed when we toiled up those huge steps, yet it took us nearly an hour to get to the bottom. We halted there while Eureka told us the old and almost legendary story of how the sons of the Greeks, driven eastward still by the advance of the desert sands towards the foot of the mountains, and warned by Apollo, had by long labour cut the giant stairs at each end of the great ravine. The statue and the mouldering columns at the bottom were the votive shrine erected by command of the god in memory of their deliverance from the valley of the shadows into the presence of the sun-god once more.
It took us several hours to traverse the dark bottom of the great chasm, and once more it had the same depressing effect we had noticed as we came; but at last we reached the staircase at the western end and prepared for the toilsome ascent. I led the way with Eureka, Arion following close behind. When we had climbed a few of the steps. Eureka stopped suddenly and listened. As before, the deadly stillness of the place was one of its strangest and most startling qualities. A step, the rustling of a shrub as we pushed past, a whispered word, seemed to jar upon the ear and wake an echo in that dead silence, but now, as I paused at Eureka's side, it seemed to me that I could hear a sound behind us. It wasn't loud, but it reached us in strange whispering echoes that thrilled the nerves like something supernatural. Eureka raised her bead and looked at me.
"The doom of Ephialtes hastens!" she said in an awestruck tone. "Let us ascend, for the sinking sun must behold once more Apollo's impious priest."
I only waited till Mackenzie and Hector joined us, and then we made what haste we could to climb the giant stairs. For the first half of the long ascent Eureka's footsteps were as light and active as those of Arion, and she appeared to feel the exertion far less than I did myself; but then I noticed that little by little she began to tire. More and more readily she accepted the help I could give her, until at last as we neared the top, and I could fancy that already I could distinguish the western sunshine gilding the air overhead, she was glad to hold my hand, and even at times to lean wearily against my arm. Our progress had thus grown slower as we ascended, and I found myself listening eagerly for the sound of following footsteps long before we reached the top.
"At last!" I exclaimed, as a broad river of golden sunlight flashed above our heads, and we could see the swaying tops of the giant ferns that fringed the edges of the chasm dancing in the evening light.
Eureka clung almost convulsively to the arm with which I now supported her, and glanced downward into the shadowy depths out of which we had come as if she saw something terrible rising out of the darkness. Another minute and I had assisted her tenderly from the last of the great stone platforms to the grassy turf beyond.
She sank wearily upon a stone, and I stooped over her to ask in alarm if she were ill.
"Ill?" she asked wonderingly. "No, I know not what it is to be ill; but weary—strangely weary. It matters not, for here I must await Ephialtes. He is at hand, for he, too, must meet the dying sun."
I looked at Mackenzie, who shook his head and beckoned me aside.
"I don't like it, Ambrose," he said. "I'm afraid that confounded malaria has got hold of her, do you know. Neither Hector nor I have been able to hear anything, so it must be a delusion about the pursuit; but what shall we do if she is going to be ill?"
I looked hesitatingly at Eureka, whose face was turned dreamily to the setting sun; then I said positively:
"Let Hector watch the steps, Mackenzie. I feel certain Eureka is right."
He looked at me with the ghost of a smile, then he turned away without an answer.
"Hector," I said anxiously, "Ephialtes is coming; the Princess says he is close at hand, though the Doctor doesn't believe it."
He glanced towards Eureka, and then turned back quickly to follow Mackenzie, who had strolled carelessly to the spot at which we had just reached the surface.
"Ferry well, Major," he said; "eff ta priest wass coming she would be there, whateffer—oh yess, she would like to be there ferry much."
With the huge axe on his shoulder he turned back in the level light of the sinking sun. It wasn't twenty yards, but before he had gone half-way something flashed like lightning through the sunshine, and with a sudden exclamation Mackenzie leaped or staggered back from the edge. A long, wild, wailing cry rang out from the chasm at the same moment, and the next three or four black guards leapt, spear in hand, into the yellow light, followed by the figure of Ephialtes himself with a bow in his hand.
"Eureka!" he shouted, "Eureka! Thus do I claim thee, and Arion also, the beloved of Apollo."
Mackenzie had staggered and fallen almost at Hector's feet, and the chasm seemed to be vomiting up a band of the howling men as he spoke. Eureka had sunk wearily on the grass, her back against the rock, her face to the setting sun, but at the sound of Ephialtes' voice she rose quickly to her feet and faced the high-priest.
"Welcome!" she exclaimed aloud. "Welcome, Ephialtes, author of evil, to thy doom! Here, beneath the eye of the setting sun, where I have seen thee oft in my dreams, here shalt thou perish, and the sons of the Greeks shall be free!"
I had been bending over Eureka as she lay on the grass, but at the first sound of the savage cries I had bounded to my feet and drawn my pistol. As the words left Eureka's lips, I levelled the pistol and fired. Never before can I remember to have missed an aim, though at double the distance; but now it was not the priest, but the biggest of his black bodyguards, who fell back with an astonished yell as he was in the very act of hurling the spear he carried at Hector. At the same moment the sweep of the great axe levelled another, and its backward sweep brought down a third as he strode forward to the edge of the chasm. Ephialtes saw him coming, and dropping the bow he had carried, he seized the spear which had dropped from the hand of the man I had shot, and turned with the quick venomous motion of a snake to meet the coming giant. As if by an instinct, Hector's eye saw that the blow of his axe would fall short of the active priest, and with a sudden spring he grasped and wrested the spear as it was in the very act of being darted at him by his opponent. An instant, and Ephialtes was seized; and the next, with one mighty sway, he was hurled shrieking over the dark abyss. So great was the force of the throw, that it seemed to me that for several seconds I could see the cruel priest as he writhed in his terror before he disappeared out of the red sunlight into the shadow below.
There was one long, wailing cry from his followers, as they plunged headlong over the edge of the chasm and disappeared down the giant staircase, and involuntarily each of us stood still and listened. We seemed to listen long in our suspense, but at last, far off and faint, there came the echo of one wild scream, and then there was silence. Another moment, and I was stooping over Mackenzie.
"Raise me up, Ambrose." he whispered huskily.
"Are you much hurt, Mackenzie?" I asked in astonishment; "the arrow seems only to have grazed your shoulder."
"Poisoned, old friend," he murmured. "Good-bye, Ambrose. What a pity we had to leave the specimens."
As he spoke his head sank on my shoulder, with the light of the setting sun shining full in his face. Mackenzie was dead.
WE buried Mackenzie near the spot where he had fallen before the treacherous arrow of Ephialtes. The grave was hollowed out with the axe of Anaxagoras, wielded by the hands of the almost broken-hearted Hector, and never was a comrade more sincerely mourned than he was, both by his follower and myself. There was little time for ceremony or mourning then, however, as we knew that the lives of all the survivors of the party might depend upon our pressing on, since it was evident there could be no return. We had no fear, indeed, of the return of the band of the dead high-priest, for we had listened till the last faint echoes of their retreat had died away in the depths of the shadowy abyss, but I knew that we had the desert before us, and I was full of alarm that Eureka might not have the needed strength to face its hardships.
"It is true, then," Eureka said to me in a low voice as we turned away, and faced the last faint light in the western sky, "it is true that ye are no gods, Hermes hath fallen before the poisoned arrow of Ephialtes, and thou too mightest die?"
"It is even so, Eureka," I whispered. "And thou; wouldst thou have wished it otherwise?"
She held out her hand in the gathering darkness, and I grasped it in mine and raised it to my lips. Hand in hand we went onward into the darkness, followed by Arion and by the great figure of Hector, which loomed more gigantic than ever in the shadows, I had watched for a star which corresponded as nearly as possible to the direction we had taken as we came, and now I kept it steadily in view as we pressed onwards through the silence of the night. Now and then Eureka spoke and I replied, but even between us for the most part it was silence. A load seemed to weigh down my spirits, so heavy that not even the feeling of Eureka's soft hand in mine could lift it. It was not only the loss of Mackenzie, though that weighed heavily on me then, when we had just left him in his hastily-dug grave; there was more than that, and it was to the future rather than the past that it referred. The strange words and weird visions of Eureka, each of which had come literally true so far, fell on my imagination like a nightmare, till even the hand which I clasped in my own seemed to grow unreal, and the dim shadow that walked by my side grew ghostly before my anxious eyes.
When we first started Eureka appeared to have recovered some of the vigour which she had lost in the atmosphere of the dark valley, and for a time held bravely on, accepting no help beyond what the grasp of my steadying hand might have given in the darkness. As we pressed forward, however, I noticed that her strength ebbed gradually away. She seemed to trust more and more to the guidance of my hand, and even to lean a little weight upon it at times. Her hand, too, grew dry and hot and tremulous, and at last I thought she was uncertain where she placed her feet. I grew more and more anxious, but ask as I might I could not get her to acknowledge that she was unable to go on. So far from that, it appeared as if she grew more eager to press forward, and her only reply to my anxious inquiries was:
"No, no; only let us hasten."
At last the late moon rose above the eastern horizon and threw a strange weird, grey light over the desert before us. I could just make out that we had reached the farthest limit of the solid earth on which vegetation grew, and already the soft yielding sand had begun to make the labour of walking more serious even to me. I looked anxiously at my companion, but at first the return of light seemed to act as a restorative, and she walked with a firmer step, though she still clung almost convulsively to my hand. Little by little this new energy failed, and I could now see as well as feel that her steps were growing more and more unsteady, and that now and then she stumbled. Her eyes, however, were still fixed as eagerly as ever on the distance in front of us, as if she could see something through the gray shadows invisible to any other eyes but her own. Now and then I spoke to her still, but only now and then did she seem to hear, though from time to time she grasped hastily at my arm with her disengaged hand, as if for additional support.
The fear was growing upon me that she would break down here in the shelterless sand, and I pictured to myself the pitiless sun pouring its flood of burning rays upon her head as she lay. What to do I couldn't even guess, and still her faint parting whisper came in answer to my suggestions and questions: "No, no! Hasten, only hasten onwards." I had contrived to give her more assistance, and, apparently without her knowing it, I had for the last hour or more been supporting a great part of her weight as she leaned upon my arm. It was beginning to tell upon me, too, and I had to call Arion to my assistance. Between us we managed for perhaps another hour to help her over the now yielding sand, and looking into her face, I doubted whether she was conscious of what we were doing. Even this exertion grew little by little almost more than we could endure, and at last, as the first light of the dawn began to stream upwards into the sky behind us, I felt that both Arion and myself must rest.
"Hasten!" she moaned. "Hasten onwards! Tis but a little farther now. Already the ruined palaces of Alexander's city rise before me, where I can rest."
I looked round the horizon, but at first I could see nothing but the dim mist that lay on the sand. At last the increasing light seemed to absorb it, and then I saw once more the ruinous walls and pillars that rose from the surrounding billows of red sand at no very great distance in front. I tried to raise Eureka to her feet with Arion's help, but it was evident she could no longer walk or even stand, and I looked around me despairingly. Without a word Hector stepped forward, and, laying the axe he had been carrying on Arion's shoulder, lifted Eureka in his arms, as an ordinary man might lift an infant, and carried her over the sinking sand, apparently with hardly an effort, and certainly without a word.
She never moved—she never opened her eyes; but lay in his arms as though less than half conscious until we reached the place, which might have been nearly a mile from the spot where Hector had come to our assistance. I chose a place where a piece of ruined wall, higher than usual, promised to afford a refuge from the sun during a great part of the day, and here we laid her down. Hector withdrew to a little distance, after first placing both food and water within my reach, and left me beside Eureka. Arion crouched down upon the red sand in the shadow of the ancient ruined wall, and from a few yards off watched us with strange, hungry eyes.
I tried in vain to rouse her. Once or twice I succeeded in getting her to swallow a few drops of water, and once she opened her eyes and smiled; but she seemed hardly conscious, and gave no sign of hearing or understanding the wild words I whispered into her ear as she lay, pillowed softly on the loose red sand that lay heaped about the crumbling walls of the ancestral city. I could not eat any more than poor Arion, but I seemed to be consumed by a constant thirst through the endless hours of that terrible day. It was not the heat—or, at least, I didn't seem to myself to notice the heat—but a raging sense of despair and impending loss that gnawed my heart like fire, I sat watching by her side, unable to remove my eyes from what I could see of her face, or to think of anything beyond the dark shadow that appeared to me to be stealing moment by moment nearer to that beloved form. Hour after hour crept slowly away. The blaze of golden sunlight which passed over our heads like a broad river, and was thrown back in a dull red glow from the ruddy sand, drew nearer and yet nearer to the spot where Eureka lay. I thought with terror that I should be compelled to disturb her if it got any nearer, but fortunately it did not. The angle of the two walls, which almost instinctively I had chosen from the recollection of our former experience, served us well, and the sunshine merely touched her feet, and passed her over. And still I sat there, gazing with dry, hot eyes at Eureka as she lay, a dull, despairing pain at my heart, and at times a strange, wondering feeling as to what would become of me. I had no hope. Her own words beat heavily on my brain like the monotonous tolling of a passing bell. Here, on the borders of her beloved land, she would rest. I knew it was vain to hope. Had not each word she had said been fulfilled to the very letter?
The sun was sinking towards the western horizon. Hector, who had slept for hours, had awoke, and crept over beside me to see how Eureka was. Arion had moved to avoid the level rays of the setting sun, and was gazing with bloodshot eyes at the spot where his beloved Princess lay. Suddenly—quite suddenly, and without any warning—she opened her eyes and looked at me. With an exclamation I bent forward, and saw that they were clear and intelligent once more. She met me with a smile.
"Ambrose," she whispered softly—it was the first time she had said my name; indeed, it was but a few hours since she had asked and I had told her what it was—"Ambrose, it is the hour of the setting of the sun."
I bent low as I whispered:
"Thou art better, my beloved?"
"Better? Ah, yes; I am better, Ambrose. I have slept, and dreamed of many things; now I shall sleep, and dream no more." Her eyes turned towards the far-stretching waste of sand now glowing redly in the evening light. "Raise me, Ambrose, that I may see the sun depart," she whispered, after a pause.
I lifted her reverently, and carried her a few yards to where she could see the sun go down. Already his broad red disc was half sunk below the horizon, and, as I supported her in my arms, Eureka's eyes gazed full upon the blaze of all but crimson splendour in which he was setting. I found it hard to face the light, but it seemed to dazzle her not at all. She lay in my arms, and watched it sink till it had disappeared.
"Now I shall rest, O my beloved one—and here," she murmured, in a soft, faraway voice that sounded like the distant echo of the voice of Eureka.
"And thou wilt leave me alone?" I said, in a sharp tone of misery—"alone, Eureka?"
She stirred; she opened her eyes that had closed once more; she looked into my eyes and smiled.
"No, Ambrose; not alone," she whispered, so low that I had to bend still closer to hear. "I await thee in the light of setting suns."
As the last word fell on my ear a sudden golden gleam shot upwards in the western heaven like the divergent rays of a giant halo, and next moment I felt a gentle shudder pass through Eureka's form. The halo died from the sky almost as suddenly as it had come. I looked into Eureka's eyes, but from them also the light had departed.
We did as she had bidden us. In the deep drifts of the burning sand, by the angle of the ruined temple wall in the lost city of Alexander, we scooped a grave for the last of the house of Anaxagoras, and there we laid Eureka to rest. She sleeps where she desired to sleep—on the threshold of the land of her fathers, smiled on by the light of setting suns.
For an hour or two I sat, like one who has been stunned, beside the spot, with my head buried in my hands. At last Hector's voice roused me as he said, in his own slow, ponderous voice:
"She would be thinking it was time to be going, Major. Oh yess, for it would be a long way to walk, whateffer."
I roused myself, for I could not risk the lives of others.
"Where is Arion, Hector?" I asked, as we prepared to start.
He didn't know. Arion had stolen away in the dark. In vain we called—in vain we searched in the darkness; there was no answering voice—the beloved of Apollo had gone.