Part 23 (1/2)

”They are done, all of them, and now three thousand years ago I see this place changed and smoothly fas.h.i.+oned, peopled by a throng of wors.h.i.+ppers clad in strange garments with clasps upon them. Behind me stands the graven statue of a G.o.ddess with a calm and cruel face, in front of the altar burns a fire, and on the altar white-robed priests are sacrificing an infant which cries aloud.”

”Pa.s.s on, pa.s.s on,” Meyer said hurriedly, as though the horror of that scene had leapt to his eyes. ”Pa.s.s on two thousand seven hundred years and tell me what you see.”

Again there was a pause, while the spirit he had evoked in the body of Benita lived through those ages. Then slowly she answered:

”Nothing, the place is black and desolate, only the dead sleep beneath its floor.”

”Wait till the living come again,” he commanded; ”then speak.”

”They are here,” she replied presently. ”Tonsured monks, one of whom fas.h.i.+ons this crucifix, and their followers who bow before the Host upon the altar. They come, they go--of whom shall I tell you?”

”Tell me of the Portuguese; of those who were driven here to die.”

”I see them all,” she answered, after a pause. ”Two hundred and three of them. They are ragged and wayworn and hungry. Among them is a beautiful woman, a girl. She draws near to me, she enters into me. You must ask her,”--this was spoken in a very faint voice--”I am I no more.”

Mr. Clifford attempted to interrupt, but fiercely Meyer bade him to be silent.

”Speak,” he commanded, but the crouching figure shook her head.

”Speak,” he said again, whereon another voice, not that of Benita, answered in another tongue:

”I hear; but I do not understand your language.”

”Great Heaven!” said Meyer, ”it is Portuguese,” and for a while the terror of the thing struck him dumb, for he was aware that Benita knew no Portuguese. He knew it, however, who had lived at Lorenco Marquez.

”Who are you?” he asked in that tongue.

”I am Benita da Ferreira. I am the daughter of the Captain da Ferreira and of his wife, the lady Christinha, who stand by you now. Turn, and you will see them.”

Jacob started and looked about him uneasily.

”What did she say? I did not catch it all,” asked Mr. Clifford.

He translated her words.

”But this is black magic,” exclaimed the old man. ”Benita knows no Portuguese, so how comes she to speak it?”

”Because she is no longer our Benita; she is another Benita, Benita da Ferreira. The Molimo was right when he said that the spirit of the dead woman went with her, as it seems the name has gone,” he added.

”Have done,” said Mr. Clifford; ”the thing is unholy. Wake her up, or I will.”

”And bring about her death. Touch or disturb her, and I tell you she will die,” and he pointed to Benita, who crouched before them so white and motionless that indeed it seemed as though already she were dead.

”Be quiet,” he went on. ”I swear to you that no hurt shall come to her, also that I will translate everything to you. Promise, or I will tell you nothing, and her blood be on your head.”

Then Mr. Clifford groaned and said:

”I promise.”

”Tell me your story, Benita da Ferreira. How came you and your people here?”