_A trembling fell on mountain and on plain,
The earth, unstable as a juggler's ball,
Became a rolling sphere. The dust rose up
High to the collar of heaven. The clarion of the wind
Roused shock on shock, and from the valley's streams
The fish, out-cast, lay gasping. Lightning flash
On lightning flash split the wide sky; the sinking rocks,
Disjointed, filled with water, and the hills,
Clasping each other, squeezed themselves to death_.
--Nizami.
Khodadad Khan, Tarkhan, sate at the head of his supper cloth, with the
dazed look of one who has taken drugs in his eyes. And in truth he had
drugged himself body and soul to the uttermost. He had passed from one
pleasure to another, and all the while he had raged inwardly at the
necessity for seeking yet further forgetfulness; since after all what
had he to forget? Only the shock of seeing deformity; for the rest was
dead as the past years which had contained it. And yet he could not
forget! Even as he had come hither to this last stimulant to jaded
appetite--an _al fresco_ entertainment out in the desert stretches
beyond the city, where all the wallowing wickedness of humanity would
show up the more alluringly vicious against that pure background of
solitude and silence--even then he had shrunk back as from a snake
before a glimpse that had come to him in the bazaar of a dead face. It
could not be the same girl from whom he had turned horror-struck that
morning, for his practised eye noted in a second all those graceful
contours of budding womanhood, which showed above the shallow coffin.
Besides, why should she die? He had barely kissed her, and--he laughed
cynically, as the thought came to him--where was the woman who
objected to a kiss, who was the worse for it? Were they not made for
it?
He flung his arm round Yasmeena who lolled on the cushions beside him
and kissed the heart-shaped curve of skin which her swelling, filmy
bodice left exposed below her dimpled chin. She slapped him lightly on
the cheek and the company laughed at his frown.
"None can escape
Wounds in the Red Rose garden where no Rose
But arms with thorns her Beauty"
quoted one of the guests. "My lord is over hasty. Our stomachs are not
yet satisfied, though by the twelve Imams, this saffron pillau of
tender chicken filters fast to my vitals." He leered at Siyah Yamin,
who threw up her dainty little head disdainfully.
"Keep thy spiced sentiment to thyself, fool," she replied archly, "I
desire no forced feeling of fowl."
The laugh at her retort ran round boisterously, and even Khodadad
joined in it. But it was a mirthless laugh. Still as the hours went on
the fun waxed fast and furious, and the stars above must have been
glad of the widespread square canopy of tent which hid some of the
doings of man from High Heaven. It was well on into the night ere the
first guest, excusing himself, jingled in his palanquin back cityward.
So, by ones and twos, the party dispersed until Khodadad was left
alone looking contemptuously down at Mirza Ibrahim, whose senses had
deserted him in the long orgie, and who lay helpless amid wine cups,
torn shreds of muslin, and all the indescribable beastliness of
uncontrolled amusement.
"Take the fool home, slaves," said the Tarkhan thickly, "And bring a
bed here. I stop; the night air will cool my brain."
So in the midst of all the refuse of vicious humanity, they set a
dirty string bed, and covered it with satin quilts. As he lay on it he
formed fit matching to its hidden squalor.
It was now the hour before the false dawn; that hour of slumber even
for wickedness and wrong. The servants, outwearied by long ministering
to every whim of their masters, were soon asleep even while they
simulated watchfulness.
But Khodadad lay awake. Half-drugged, half-drunk though he was, his
nerves tingled, he started at the least sound. Possibly some vague
unacknowledged fear of what the darkness might bring had lain at the
bottom of his resolution to sleep were he was, where none could know
of his presence; yet everything disturbed him. A prowling jackal, a
mere noiseless shadow in the moonlight, made him sit up and watch till
it had slunk away.
How still, how horribly still the desert was! One could almost hear
the soft patter of the birds' feet which would leave delicate tracery
upon the sand for the dawn to discover. And then his mind flew back to
another still, hot night in the past. Surely it must have been about
this time of year? Perchance this was the very night. Was it so? His
brain, reluctant yet insistent, traced back the past. Nay! it could
not be--and yet-- Yet it was before that. Aye! and after that----
And by an odd chance, beyond a low thicket of caper bushes that
bounded the desert to one side of the scene of past orgie, lay the
little cemetery where Zarifa slept so soundly. He did not know this
but he lay awake, thinking of her.
Ye Gods! Why could he not sleep? What had he to fear; a Tarkhan in a
strange country? Nothing. On the morrow he would be himself; free of
all things--free to do as he chose.
And so suddenly with the comfort of the thought came slumber.
Was it for an instant or for an hour? He sate up, the sweat starting
from him with causeless fear, to look about him.
He could see nothing. All was darkness itself. Then a sense of
constriction about his forehead made him raise his hands to feel if
aught were there.
God and his Prophet! He was blindfolded! He was on his feet in a
second, but even as he rose, strong hands of iron grip closed round
his and despite a wild struggle, he stood helpless, his arms fast
pinioned to his sides.
"What is't?" he asked putting unfelt boldness into his voice; it
sounded thick almost unintelligible.
"Dalil, Tarkhan of the Royal House, thou art summoned to the Last
Assize of thy Peers."
The answer came from close; so close that it seemed to knell in his
ear as if it came from inside himself, and it brought a sudden throb
of purely animal dread to his heart. But he essayed a laugh. This was
not real; it was but a disordered dream, a nightmare due to the
excesses of the day. His peers? Here in a strange land where were
they?
"Wherefore?" he asked.
The answer was too swift for him to judge of the quality of his own
voice; the other was resonant though still curiously personal,
curiously close to him.
"Because the measure of thine iniquities is full at last! Mount the
White Horse, and ride bravely to judgment, as thou hast ridden bravely
to sin."
He felt himself half-forced forward, half-willingly yielding to unseen
pressure, and he told himself again it was but a dream. The sooner
through with it, the sooner to wake; it could not go on forever.
The warmth of the horse's body felt against him, brought another throb
of fear. He heard its screaming neigh. Was it indeed, the Tarkhan's
White Stallion of Death which he bestrode? Ah! if he could but see,
could but move!
But his feet were fast bound beneath the warm breathing belly, his
arms were close pinioned to his side. For an instant he thought of
shrieking aloud--it might at least wake him; then something--perhaps
pride of race and that admonition to bear himself bravely--held him
back from cries.
Whither were they taking him? The way seemed endless, and he fought
for bare breath between the mad throbbings of his heart; his very lips
tingled and smarted as the life blood pulsed irregularly through them.
Would that ceaseless strain and relaxation of muscle as the horse
galloped on and on never end? Must he always wait and wait. For what?
Something worse perhaps.
"Halt!"
He gave a convulsive gasp. The whole universe seemed to stand still.
So an awful and intolerable silence settled down on all things.
"Who are ye!" he cried at last in desperation, and his voice rang out
strident yet quavering, like an ill-tuned violin.
A low, reverberating roll of kettledrums was the only answer, and an
uncontrollable shiver shook him, replying to the shudder with which
they filled the air.
"Who are ye?"
This time the cry had a wail in it; but once again that roll of
kettledrums was the only answer.
"Who are ye?"
It was a mere whisper, hoarse, half-choked; but this time a voice came
instant, clear, in reply.
"Unbind his eyes, heralds, and let him see those who judge him."
The flood of moonlight seemed at first to blind him, and even after
his eyes recovered sight a mistiness, a vagueness rested on all
things. And yet he saw all things; aye! and recognised them, not from
personal experience, for the Last Assize was even in those days fast
becoming legendary, but from the racial experience which he could not
escape.
Aye! Beneath him was the White Stallion of Death standing square upon
the square of white cloth, whose purpose sent a shiver of horror
through him. Those were the heralds masked, veiled, who rode on black
horses beside him, and at their feet curled up, cowering like
loathsome reptiles, he could see the two executioners, their long
fingers clutching--at what?
Not a sword or a dagger. No! He knew what they held and with a wild
hope of pardon, his strained eyes sought, beyond these nearer things,
the semicircle of faces before which he stood. The moonbeams showed
them clear yet blurred. How like himself they were, these chieftains
of the Barlas clan! And whence had they come? From the grave surely,
some of them, or were they only simulacra? Was it indeed the race
which sate in judgment on him? The race; and so himself. Ah! in that
case what hope--what chance of life had he, Dalil?
And then suddenly there leaped to clearness the figure which centred
the wide semicircle of dim countenances.
It was dressed in regal robes, it wore the emeralds of Sinde, and
there was no mistaking the face which stared at him with cold
implacable justice.
"Payandar!" he gasped--"hast come back from the dead to kill me?"
"From a life that has been a death I come to judgment," was the reply.
"Chiefs of the Barlas clan, assembled for this high purpose, listen!
Listen to the record of this man's iniquities and say if the cup be
full."
It was a long record, yet Dalil's memory gave assent to all, and as
each crime was counted a surging murmur of acquiescence came from
those listening faces. It seemed to deaden the miserable man's senses,
for after a time he forgot all things but that one accusing figure in
its royal robes, and the hard, cold, accusing voice.
"It is but eight," he muttered hoarsely, "no Tarkhan can be condemned
by eight----"
"Listen O Chief of the Barlas clan," interrupted the accuser, "to the
ninth crime. Yestermorn he did of vile licence kill with his lustful
kiss----"
Khodadad essayed a mocking laugh.
"With a kiss? What then? Lucky for any maiden to be so honoured by a
Tarkhan; so much the more lucky for such a devil's mash of deformity."
"His own daughter," rang out the charge, harder, colder, crueller.
"His daughter by the Rosebud of Love which he dishonoured. His
daughter whom he called into being without cause, when he defiled her
mother!"
Ah! now he knew! now he understood why--the thought came to Dalil even
as he fought blindly against it.
"Thou liest!" he murmured thickly. "She was Payandar's spawn. He----"
"He is the accuser," returned the voice calmly, "and by his right of
Tarkhan he swears it before the Last Assize. Speak, chiefs of the
Barlas clan, doth this man deserve sentence?"
Once again that surging assent mingled with the rolling of
kettledrums, filled Dalil's ears; but through it he heard the words:
"Executioners! open the veins of his neck and let the Barlas blood go
free of his vile body. Let him bleed to death while I, the king, mourn
the spilling of good Barlas blood."
Then from all around seemed to arise a low wailing, backed still by
that quivering roll of the kettledrums. The veiled figures rose
slowly; a blackness rose also obliterating all save awful fear. Ah! he
knew what was coming! He knew. Was that the keen prick of a long
lancet at his throat? Was that a warm stream trickling, trickling?
Oh! ye gods and devils! it was time to wake!
"Ohi my son! Ohi my brother!" The long-drawn wail rose louder and
louder!
Wake! _Wake_! _Wake_! What a hideous dream it was. She was not--she
could not be his----
An awful cry, half-choked, broke from him. It was bloodwarm blood--his
own blood caressing his bosom, nestling at his heart ...
Wake! Wake!
"Ohi! my brother! Ohi! my son!"
Something surged in his brain. He heard no more.
* * * * *
It was dawn.
The delicate tracery of the desert birds' feet showed close up to the
edge of the ruffled carpets whereon lay--hideously confused--all the
indescribable refuse of sensuality which the mind has enabled humanity
to bring to bear upon its pleasures. But he who had called all the
past lust and licence into being, still slept peacefully on the
squalid string bed beneath the rich satin quilts.
A servant or two wakened and yawned; then, seeing his services
unrequired slept again. So, swiftly, the sun rose with a ruffling wind
that followed the footsteps of the birds, in circling eddies, and
passed on, leaving the sand without a sign of passage on it.
"He sleeps long," said one, a servant.
"Let him sleep," grumbled another, "when he wakes it will be but
another service of sin for him and us."
But others needed the quick wit and relentless purpose of
Khodadad; so almost ere dawn had passed to day, two or three
horsemen came galloping from the city intent on finding help from the
arch-conspirator.
"God and His Prophet!" faltered Mirza Ibrahim shrinking back from the
shoulder on which he had laid an awakening hand, "he is dead!"
Dead and cold. There was no sign of violence upon him; only on his
neck two blue marks, mere signs as it were, of scratches about half an
inch long.
"He has died in the night," said Ghiass Beg with a shiver. "No one is
to blame. God send he had time for a prayer."
But Mirza Ibrahim clutched the complacent Lord High Treasurer by the
arm and gasped:
"Look! Look!"
In front of the tent just beyond the ruffled carpet lay a square of
white cloth and on it as if in blood, lay clear, distinct, the red
marks of a horse's hoofs.
"'Tis the sign," he whispered, his face ashen gray. "The sign that
judgment has been passed by his peers."