Part 89 (1/2)

The fourth was a little child not seven; he was an orphan, and the people who kept him sent him out to get herbs in the outlying villages to sell in the streets, and beat him if he let other children be beforehand with him. He woke sobbing; he had dreamed of his dead mother, and cried out that it was so cold, so cold.

There were scores like them at whose doors she knocked, or whose chambers she entered. The brief kind night was over, and they had to arise and work,--or die.

”Why do they not die?” she wondered; and she thought of the dear G.o.ds that she had loved, the G.o.ds of oblivion.

Truly there were no gifts like their gifts; and yet men knew their worth so little;--but thrust Hypnos back in scorn, das.h.i.+ng their winecups in his eyes; and mocked Oneiros, calling him the guest of love-sick fools and of mad poets; and against Thanatos strove always in hatred and terror as against their dreaded foe.

It was a strange, melancholy, dreary labor this into which she had entered.

It was all dark. The little light she bore scarcely shed its rays beyond her feet. It was all still. The winds sounded infinitely sad among those vaulted pa.s.sages and the deep shafts of the stairways. Now and then a woman's voice in prayer or a man's in blasphemy echoed dully through the old half-ruined buildings. Otherwise an intense silence reigned there, where all save herself were sleeping.

She used to think it was a city of the dead, in which she alone was living.

And sometimes she had not the heart to waken them; when there was a smile on some wan worn face that never knew one in its waking hours; or when some childless mother in her lonely bed sleeping, in fancy drew young arms about her throat.

This morning when all her tasks were done, and all the toilers summoned to another day of pain, she retraced her steps slowly, bearing the light aloft, and with its feeble rays shed on the colorless splendor of her face, and on her luminous dilated troubled eyes that were forever seeking what they never found.

A long vaulted pa.s.sage stretched between her and the foot of the steps that led to the tower; many doors opened on it, the winds wailed through it, and the ragged clothes of the tenants blew to and fro upon the swaying cords. She traversed it, and slowly mounted her own staircase, which was spiral and narrow, with little loopholes ever and again that looked out upon the walls, and higher on the roofs, and higher yet upon the open sky. By one of these she paused and looked out wearily.

It was dark still; great low rain-clouds floated by; a little caged bird stirred with a sad note; mighty rains swept by from the westward, sweet with the smell of the distant fields.

Her heart ached for the country.

It was so still there in the dusk she knew, even in this wild autumn night, which there would be so purple with leaf shadow, so brown with embracing branches, so gray with silvery faint mists of lily, white with virgin snows. Ah, G.o.d! to reach it once again, she thought, if only to die in it.

And yet she stayed on in this, which was to her the deepest h.e.l.l, stayed on because he--in life or death--was here.

She started as a hand touched her softly, where she stood looking through the narrow s.p.a.ce. The eyes of Sartorian smiled on her through the twilight.

”Do you shrink still?” he said, gently. ”Put back your knife; look at me quietly; you will not have the casket?--very well. Your strength is folly; yet it is n.o.ble. It becomes you. I do you good for ill. I have had search made for your lover, who loves not you. I have found him.”

”Living?” She quivered from head to foot; the gray walls reeled round her; she feared, she hoped, she doubted, she believed. Was it h.e.l.l? Was it heaven? She could not tell. She cared not which, so that only she could look once more upon the face of Arslan.

”Living,” he answered her, and still he smiled. ”Living. Come with me, and see how he has used the liberty you gave. Come.”

She staggered to her feet and rose, and held her knife close in the bosom of her dress, and with pa.s.sionate eyes of hope and dread searched the face of the old man through the shadows.

”It is the truth?” she muttered. ”If you mock me,--if you lie----”

”Your knife will sheathe itself in my body, I know. Nay, I have never lied to you. One cannot wear a velvet glove to tame a lioness. Come with me; fear nothing, Folle-Farine. Come with me, and see with your own eyesight how the world of men has dealt with this your G.o.d.”

”I will come.”

Sartorian gazed at her in silence.

”You are a barbarian; and so you are heroic always. I would not lie to you, and here I have no need. Come; it is very near to you. A breadth of stone can sever two lives, though the strength of all the world cannot unite them. Come.”

She gripped the knife closer, and, with feet that stumbled as the feet of a dumb beast that goes out to its slaughter, followed him, through the dark and narrow ways. She had no fear for herself; she had no dread of treachery or peril; for herself she could be strong, always: and the point of the steel was set hard against her breast; but for him?--had the G.o.ds forgotten? had he forgot?

She was sick, and cold, and white with terror as she went. She dreaded the unknown thing her eyes might look upon. She dreaded the truth that she had sought to learn all through the burning months of summer, all through the horrors of the crowded city. Was it well with him, or ill?