V
THE CHAPEL PERILOUS
"Swift as a bird or a thought," says the old harper of the Northern
Sea. The Wanderer's thoughts in the morning were swift as night birds,
flying back and brooding over the things he had seen and the words he
had heard in the Queen's chamber. Again he stood between this woman
and the oath which, of all oaths, was the worst to break. And, indeed,
he was little tempted to break it, for though Meriamun was beautiful
and wise, he feared her love and he feared her magic art no less than
he feared her vengeance if she were scorned. Delay seemed the only
course. Let him wait till the King returned, and it would go hard but
he found some cause for leaving the city of Tanis, and seeking through
new adventures the World's Desire. The mysterious river lay yonder. He
would ascend the river of which so many tales were told. It flowed
from the land of the blameless /Æthiopians/, the most just of men, at
whose tables the very Gods sat as guests. There, perchance, far up the
sacred stream, in a land where no wrong ever came, there, if the Fates
permitted, he might find the Golden Helen.
If the Fates permitted: but all the adventure was of the Fates, who
had shown him to Meriamun in a dream.
He turned it long in his mind and found little light. It seemed that
as he had drifted through darkness across a blood-red sea to the
shores of Khem, so he should wade through blood to that shore of Fate
which the Gods appointed.
Yet after a while he shook sorrow from him, arose, bathed, anointed
himself, combed his dark locks, and girded on his golden armour. For
now he remembered that this was the day when the Strange Hathor should
stand upon the pylon of the temple and call the people to her, and he
was minded to look upon her, and if need be to do battle with that
which guarded her.
So he prayed to Aphrodite that she would help him, and he poured out
wine to her and waited; he waited, but no answer came to his prayer.
Yet as he turned away it chanced that he saw his countenance in the
wide golden cup whence he had poured, and it seemed to him that it had
grown more fair and lost the stamp of years, and that his face was
smooth and young as the face of that Odysseus who, many years ago, had
sailed in the black ships and looked back on the smoking ruins of
windy Troy. In this he saw the hand of the Goddess, and knew that if
she might not be manifest in this land of strange Gods, yet she was
with him. And, knowing this, his heart grew light as the heart of a
boy from whom sorrow is yet a long way off, and who has not dreamed of
death.
Then he ate and drank, and when he had put from him the desire of food
he arose and girded on the sword, Euryalus's gift, but the black bow
he left in its case. Now he was ready and about to set forth when Rei
the Priest entered the chamber.
"Whither goest thou, Eperitus?" asked Rei, the instructed Priest. "And
what is it that has made thy face so fair, as though many years had
been lifted from thy back?"
"'Tis but sweet sleep, Rei," said the Wanderer. "Deeply I slept last
night, and the weariness of my wanderings fell from me, and now I am
as I was before I sailed across the blood-red sea into the night."
"Sell thou the secret of this sleep to the ladies of Khem," answered
the aged priest, smiling, "and little shalt thou lack of wealth for
all thy days."
Thus he spake as though he believed the Wanderer, but in his heart he
knew that the thing was of the Gods.
The Wanderer answered:
"I go up to the Temple of the Hathor, for thou dost remember it is
to-day that she stands upon the pylon brow and calls the people to
her. Comest thou also, Rei?"
"Nay, nay, I come not, Eperitus. I am old indeed, but yet the blood
creeps through these withered veins, and, perchance, if I came and
looked, the madness would seize me also, and I too should rush to my
slaying. There is a way in which a man may listen to the voice of the
Hathor, and that is to have his eyes blindfolded, as many do. But even
then he will tear the bandage from his eyes, and look, and die with
the others. Oh, go not up, Eperitus--I pray thee go not up. I love
thee--I know not why--and am little minded to see thee dead. Though,
perchance," he added, as though to himself, "it would be well for
those I serve if thou wert dead, thou Wanderer, with the eyes of
Fate."
"Have no fear, Rei," said the Wanderer, "as it is doomed so shall I
die and not otherwise. Never shall it be told," he murmured in his
heart, "that he who stood in arms against Scylla, the Horror of the
Rock, turned back from any form of fear or from any shape of Love."
Then Rei wrung his hands and went nigh to weeping, for to him it
seemed a pitiful thing that so goodly a man and so great a hero should
thus be done to death. But the Wanderer passed out through the city,
and Rei went with him for a certain distance. At length they came to
the road set on either side with sphinxes, that leads from the outer
wall of brick to the garden of the Temple of Hathor, and down this
road hurried a multitude of men of all races and of every age. Here
the prince was borne along in his litter; here the young noble
travelled in his chariot. Here came the slave bespattered with the mud
of the fields; here the cripple limped upon his crutches; and here was
the blind man led by a hound. And with each man came women: the wife
of the man, or his mother, or his sisters, or she to whom he was vowed
in marriage. Weeping they came, and with soft words and clinging arms
they strove to hold back him whom they loved.
"Oh, my son! my son!" cried a woman, "hearken to thy mother's voice.
Go not up to look upon the Goddess, for if thou dost look then shalt
thou die, and thou alone art left alive to me. Two brothers of thine I
bore, and behold, both are dead; and wilt thou die also, and leave me,
who am old, alone and desolate? Be not mad, my son, thou art the
dearest of all; ever have I loved thee and tended thee. Come back, I
pray--come back."
But her son heard not and heeded not, pressing on toward the Gates of
the Heart's Desire.
"Oh, my husband, my husband!" cried another, young, of gentle birth,
and fair, who bare a babe on her left arm and with the right clutched
her lord's broidered robe. "Oh, my husband, have I not loved thee and
been kind to thee, and wilt thou still go up to look upon the deadly
glory of the Hathor? They say she wears the beauty of the Dead. Lovest
thou me not better than her who died five years agone, Merisa the
daughter of Rois, though thou didst love her first? See, here is thy
babe, thy babe, but one week born. Even from my bed of pain have I
risen and followed after thee down these weary roads, and I am like to
lose my life for it. Here is thy babe, let it plead with thee. Let me
die if so it must be, but go not thou up to thy death. It is no
Goddess whom thou wilt see, but an evil spirit loosed from the under-
world, and that shall be thy doom. Oh, if I please thee not, take thou
another wife and I will make her welcome, only go not up to thy
death!"
But the man fixed his eyes upon the pylon tops, heeding her not, and
at length she sank upon the road, and there with the babe would have
been crushed by the chariots, had not the Wanderer borne her to one
side of the way.
Now, of all sights this was the most dreadful, for on every side rose
the prayers and lamentations of women, and still the multitude of men
pressed on unheeding.
"Now thou seest the power of Love, and how if a woman be but beautiful
enough she may drag all men to ruin," said Rei the Priest.
"Yes," said the Wanderer; "a strange sight, truly. Much blood hath
this Hathor of thine upon her hands."
"And yet thou wilt give her thine, Wanderer."
"That I am not minded to do," he answered; "yet I will look upon her
face, so speak no more of it."
Now they were come to the space before the bronze gates of the pylon
of the outer court, and there the multitude gathered to the number of
many hundreds. Presently, as they watched, a priest came to the gates,
that same priest who had shown the Wanderer the bodies in the baths of
bronze. He looked through the bars and cried aloud:
"Whoso would enter into the court and look upon the Holy Hathor let
him draw nigh. Know ye this, all men, the Hathor is to him who can win
her. But if he pass not, then shall he die and be buried within the
temple, nor shall he ever look upon the sun again. Of this ye are
warned. Since the Hathor came again to Khem, of men seven hundred and
three have gone to win her, and of bodies seven hundred and two lie
within the vaults, for of all these men Pharaoh Meneptah alone hath
gone back living. Yet there is place for more! Enter, ye who would
look upon the Hathor!"
Now there arose a mighty wailing from the women. They clung madly
about the necks of those who were dear to them, and some clung not in
vain. For the hearts of many failed them at the last, and they shrank
from entering in. But a few of those who had already looked upon the
Hathor from afar, perchance a score in all, struck the women from them
and rushed up to the gates.
"Surely thou wilt not enter in?" quoth Rei, clinging to the arm of the
Wanderer. "Oh, turn thy back on death and come back with me. I pray
thee turn."
"Nay," said the Wanderer, "I will go in."
Then Rei the Priest threw dust upon his head, wept aloud, and turned
and fled, never stopping till he came to the Palace, where sat
Meriamun the Queen.
Now the priest unbarred a wicket in the gates of bronze, and one by
one those who were stricken of the madness entered in. For all of
these had seen the Hathor many times from afar without the wall, and
now they could no more withstand their longing. And as they entered
two other priests took them by the hand and bound their eyes with
cloths, so that unless they willed it they might not see the glory of
the Hathor, but only hear the sweetness of her voice. But two there
were who would not be blindfolded, and of these one was that man whose
wife had fainted by the way, and the other was a man sightless from
his youth. For although he might not see the beauty of the Goddess,
this man was made mad by the sweetness of her voice. Now, when all had
entered in, save the Wanderer, there was a stir in the crowd, and a
man rushed up. He was travel-stained, he had a black beard, black
eyes, and a nose hooked like a vulture's beak.
"Hold!" he cried. "Hold! Shut not the gates! Night and day have I
journeyed from the host of the Apura who fly into the wilderness.
Night and day have I journeyed, leaving wife and flocks and children
and the Promise of the Land, that I may once more look upon the beauty
of the Hathor. Shut not the gates!"
"Pass in," said the priest, "pass in, so shall we be rid of one of
those whom Khem nurtured up to rob her."
He entered; then, as the priest was about to bar the wicket, the
Wanderer strode forward, and his golden armour clashed beneath the
portal.
"Wouldst thou indeed enter to thy doom, thou mighty lord?" asked the
priest, for he knew him well again.
"Ay, I enter; but perchance not to my doom," answered the Wanderer.
Then he passed in and the brazen gate was shut behind him.
Now the two priests came forward to bind his eyes, but this he would
not endure.
"Not so," he said; "I am come here to see what may be seen."
"Go to, thou madman, go to! and die the death," they answered, and led
all the men to the centre of the courtyard whence they might see the
pylon top. Then the priests also covered up their eyes and cast
themselves at length upon the ground; so for a while they lay, and all
was silence within and without the court, for they waited the coming
of the Hathor. The Wanderer glanced through the bars of bronze at the
multitude gathered there. Silent they stood with upturned eyes, even
the women had ceased from weeping and stood in silence. He looked at
those beside him. Their bandaged faces were lifted and they stared
towards the pylon top as though their vision pierced the cloths. The
blind man, too, stared upward, and his pale lips moved, but no sound
came from them. Now at the foot of the pylon lay a little rim of
shadow. Thinner and thinner it grew as the moments crept on towards
the perfect noon. Now there was but a line, and now the line was gone,
for the sun's red disc burned high in the blue heaven straight above
the pylon brow. Then suddenly and from afar there came a faint sweet
sound of singing, and at the first note of the sound a great sigh went
up through the quiet air, from all the multitude without. Those who
were near the Wanderer sighed also, and their lips and fingers
twitched, and he himself sighed, though he knew not why.
Nearer came the sweet sound of singing, and stronger it swelled, till
presently those without the temple gate who were on higher ground
caught sight of her who sang. Then a hoarse roar went up from every
throat, and madness took them. On they rushed, dashing themselves
against the gates of bronze and the steep walls on either side, and
beat upon them madly with their fists and brows, and climbed on each
other's shoulders, gnawing at the bars with their teeth, crying to be
let in. But the women threw their arms about them and screamed curses
on her whose beauty brought all men to madness.
So it went for a while, till presently the Wanderer looked up, and lo!
upon the pylon's brow stood the woman's self, and at her coming all
were once more silent. She was tall and straight, clad in clinging
white, but on her breast there glowed a blood-red ruby stone,
fashioned like a star, and from it fell red drops that stained for one
moment the whiteness of her robes, and then the robe was white again.
Her golden hair was tossed this way and that, and shone in the
sunlight, her arms and neck were bare, and she held one hand before
her eyes as though to hide the brightness of her beauty. For, indeed,
she could not be called beautiful but Beauty itself.
And they who had not loved saw in her that first love whom no man has
ever won, and they who had loved saw that first love whom every man
has lost. And all about her rolled a glory--like the glory of the
dying day. Sweetly she sang a song of promise, and her voice was the
voice of each man's desire, and the heart of the Wanderer thrilled in
answer to it as thrills a harp smitten by a cunning hand; and thus she
sang:
Whom hast thou longed for most,
True love of mine?
Whom hast thou loved and lost?
Lo, she is thine!
She that another wed
Breaks from her vow;
She that hath long been dead
Wakes for thee now.
Dreams haunt the hapless bed,
Ghosts haunt the night,
Life crowns her living head,
Love and Delight.
Nay, not a dream nor ghost,
Nay, but Divine,
She that was loved and lost
Waits to be thine!
She ceased, and a moan of desire went up from all who heard.
Then the Wanderer saw that those beside him tore at the bandages about
their brows and rent them loose. Only the priests who lay upon the
ground stirred not, though they also moaned.
And now again she sang, still holding her hand before her face:
Ye that seek me, ye that sue me,
Ye that flock beneath my tower,
Ye would win me, would undo me,
I must perish in an hour,
Dead before the Love that slew me, clasped the
Bride and crushed the flower.
Hear the word and mark the warning,
Beauty lives but in your sight,
Beauty fades from all men's scorning
In the watches of the night,
Beauty wanes before the morning, and
Love dies in his delight.
She ceased, and once more there was silence. Then suddenly she bent
forward across the pylon brow so far that it seemed that she must
fall, and stretching out her arms as though to clasp those beneath,
showed all the glory of her loveliness.
The Wanderer looked, then dropped his eyes as one who has seen the
brightness of the noonday sun. In the darkness of his mind the world
was lost, and he could think of naught save the clamour of the people,
which fretted his ears. They were all crying, and none were listening.
"See! see!" shouted one. "Look at her hair; it is dark as the raven's
wing, and her eyes--they are dark as night. Oh, my love! my love!"
"See! see!" cried another, "were ever skies so blue as those eyes of
hers, was ever foam so white as those white arms?"
"Even so she looked whom once I wed many summers gone," murmured a
third, "even so when first I drew her veil. Hers was that gentle smile
breaking like ripples on the water, hers that curling hair, hers that
child-like grace."
"Was ever woman so queenly made?" said a fourth. "Look now on the brow
of pride, look on the deep, dark eyes of storm, the arched lips, and
the imperial air. Ah, here indeed is a Goddess meet for worship."
"Not so I see her," cried a fifth, that man who had come from the host
of the Apura. "Pale she is and fair, tall indeed, but delicately
shaped, brown is her hair, and brown are her great eyes like the eyes
of a stag, and ah, sadly she looks upon me, looking for my love."
"My eyes are opened," screamed the blind man at the Wanderer's side.
"My eyes are opened, and I see the pylon tower and the splendid sun.
Love hath touched me on the eyes and they are opened. But lo! not one
shape hath she but many shapes. Oh, she is Beauty's self, and no
tongue may tell her glory. Let me die! let me die, for my eyes are
opened. I have looked on Beauty's self! I know what all the world
journeys on to seek, and why we die and what we go to find in death."
