"The soil out of which such men as he are made
is good to be born on, good to live on,
good to die for, and to be buried in."--_Lowell_.
Leonie lay motionless on the stained stone before the altar; her hair,
pulled back clear from her neck, swept behind her head like a cascade
of rust-coloured water to the floor; her hands were clasped between her
breasts, and her great unfathomable eyes stared up into those of the
stone woman who looked down at her and seemed to laugh with joy at her
long coveted prize.
In every corner black shapes danced; advancing, retreating, springing
towards the roof and vanishing utterly. The place seemed infested with
goblins, or devils, things of untold evilness and vice, although, in
reality, they were but the shadows thrown by the little lights which
were like tongues licking the lips of darkness in sensuous anticipation
of the coming feast of blood.
The old priest stood looking up at his god with perplexity in his
sunken eyes.
Arrayed in snow-white garment, with long hair hanging down, he held the
knife of sacrifice in one hand, and in the other the sacred _roomal_.
The terrible picture shone softly in the light of the full moon which
struck straight down upon the altar through a hole in the ruined roof.
"Tell thy servant thy pleasure, O Black One!" prayed the priest,
swaying slightly to and fro. "Make him understand it the _roomal_
shall be knotted about the neck of this white sacrifice, or if the
knife shall draw a necklace of red about the white neck and upon the
white breast. Give me an answer, O Mother, that I may right the wrong
of many moons ago. A sign, a sign, O Mother!"
As he spoke; and for no apparent reason, Leonie's hands unclasped, her
arms opened and fell towards her sides, leaving the beautiful breast
bare with the jewel in shape and colour of a cat's eye winking craftily
with the cunning and knowledge of the sins of all ages, just above the
heart.
The priest shouted in worship, and his words, caught, echoed and
re-echoed from the dome, drowned the sound of footsteps running at high
speed across the flower-strewn floor.
Madhu Krishnaghar, naked save for the turban which bound his handsome
head and the loin cloth which girt the slender middle, sped like the
wind to the rescue of his beloved.
In the black shades of the jungle, understanding at last that for him
there could be no life outside the life of the white woman he loved,
and no happiness outside her happiness, he had raced Time down the
jungle path, through the outer gates and temple door, pausing not for
the fraction of a second; realising, as he ran, that upon his speed
alone depended the life of his beloved. And even as the priest flung
back his arm with a scream of ecstasy, the knife was wrenched out of
his hand from behind.
O Madhu, you splendid heathen, who defied the anger of your strange
gods for the love in your noble heart.
"Ha!" said the old man as he swung round in fury; then he smiled and
opened wide his arms. "Thou! O my son! _thou_! Thou wouldst offer
the great sacrifice thyself to our most gentle mother. And art thou
not in the right? Thine has been the task and the toil, therefore is
it meet that thou shouldst have the reward."
He laid his hands upon the shoulders of the youth, who straightway
gripped the veined old wrists and raised the withered arms high up
above their heads, while their eyes met in a sudden-born, subconscious
enmity, and the knife lay glittering along the wrinkled brown skin.
Only for an instant, and Madhu let go his hold, and turning, stood
looking down upon the jewel above the woman's heart. As he looked, the
thing, catching the reflections of the lights, shone strangely bright
upon the snow-white skin, and the lust of blood swept him from head to
foot.
He longed to drive the dagger through the breast above the shining
jewel; he craved to see the whiteness of the skin stained with red, to
throw himself upon the still form and shut the dead mouth with kisses.
He was mad with passion, intoxicated with the heavy perfumed air, drunk
with the atmosphere of his surroundings, and his slim body shook as he
ran the needle-point of the dagger into his own breast.
He closed his eyes in the ecstasy of that pain which is twin to the
ecstasy of desire fulfilled, and in their closing woke suddenly to the
purity of his strange love. He turned with a snarl and hit up the old
man's hand as it almost touched the nape of his neck, and stretching
wide his arms made a shield of his body between Leonie and the intent
he read in the priest's eyes, just as a brick fell and split to pieces
at their feet.
"Linger not, my son," said the old priest fiercely. "Behold! the rites
have been performed, the chants sung, and the offerings made. Drive
the knife home, and give drink to thy mother of that which she loves.
Hasten! for she is angry at thy slowness, and the very earth trembles
at her wrath."
But Madhu Krishnaghar looked straight back into the fierce, suspicious
old eyes, and moved quickly towards the priest who, taken by surprise,
retreated hurriedly.
"Father!" came the words in the musical, steady voice. "O servant of
the Black One, I cannot, nay, I will not, for I love yon white woman
with a love passing all understanding. Nay, hearken! A sacrifice
there must be this night, and there shall be one. Even me, O my
Father. Let it suffice, for behold is my love so great, that she, the
slender white flower, seems but one with me. Let her go, let her go,
and lay me on the stone, warm with the life of her dear body, and drive
the knife through my heart, that through my love peace may be made with
thy god and my god!"
The whole world seemed bound in a great terrible silence as the two men
stood staring at each other in the soft silver light of the moon; then
the old man smiled gently, with the cunning of all time in his eyes,
and creeping close to his pupil spoke in the merest whisper; tempting,
as have always tempted, those who desire to gain their own ends, and
who justify all means as long as that end is gained.
"Thou lovest her, my son. The infidel white woman, the sacrifice long
dedicated to thy god. And why not, for thou are marked even with the
mark which shows between the breasts like lotus buds. But thinkest
thou, O son of princes, O descendant of the great, that thou art fit to
mate with her. She is white, a daughter of the all-conquering race;
thou--thou art black--a pariah--a dog--thou wouldst be whipped from her
presence, thou high-born son of India."
The old man never moved his eyes from the young face, and neither the
one nor the other saw the great striped terrified beast which slunk
past them and disappeared into the shadows, seeking protection in its
terror.
"But why shouldst thou let this woman, whom thou lovest, go? Why not
make sacrifice of love as well as life to the great one? Behold is she
soft and white and all-pleasing! Why, therefore, should she not come
unto thy intent neath the eyes of the Sweet One, while I make offerings
in the shadows towards thy well doing; so that the Black One will be
twice pleased."
Of all the horrible temptations in that place of horror! And where in
the name of all the gods did the native, unshackled by convention or
code, find the strength to resist?
For while the priest whispered the young face was swept by a flood of
conflicting emotions--which passed--leaving it as pure, as
soul-stirring as the Taj Mahal at dawn.
"No! O Holy One! I will not--I love her--I love her--I will not!"
The words were firm and the young mouth like steel, and the eyes looked
steadily back into those of the priest as the latter rushed upon him in
mighty, inhuman wrath.
"And I say that thou shalt, thou begotten son of evil. I say that thou
shalt encompass this woman with thy might, and then offer her in
sacrifice to Kali, the Goddess of Death. I say that thou _shalt_."
It was a case of will pitted against will, for the old man knew that
the younger would not dare raise hand against him for fear of
everlasting damnation.
And Madhu Krishnaghar girded himself for the battle by putting his love
for the white woman in the forefront of his mind.
And as they fought, desperately, with one last terrific pull which
caused the hide to cut down to the wrist bone, Jan Cuxson wrenched the
ring he had loosened from the wall, and stood swaying, sick with pain.
Sweat poured down his face and bare chest, and blood flowed from his
wrists while his burst finger-tips fumbled clumsily with the deep
embedded thongs.
"I did it--I did it," he kept on repeating savagely, as his knees
trembled and his body turned cold in agony. "I did it--I did it--God
grant I am in time--in time."
Free at last, smothered in blood, dragging his heavily booted feet with
difficulty, he sought and found the broken blade, staggered across the
floor, stooped, and entered the passage of the gods where the imprint
of his beloved's bare feet marked the dust of ages.
And Leonie lay quite still; to all appearance dead, with her open eyes
turned back beneath the lids and her mouth half open showing her even
teeth.
Not a word passed between the two men as they fought for her, one for
her life, the other for her death. This way and that they moved; the
one trying to escape from the direct range of the relentless
will-power, and yet keep himself between the girl and the religious
fanatic; the other striving to press his opponent back even to the
altar stone.
Like iron to a magnet Madhu's hand was closed about the dagger hilt,
and try as he would he could not relax the grasp nor fling the knife
far back into the shadows; neither could he keep his footing, for
strive as he would the priest's magnetic power, developed and trained
through years and years of study and practice, drove him back inch by
inch towards the god who looked down upon them with her fish-shaped
eyes.
A glint of triumph shone in the eyes of the priest, and twisted the
corner of his mouth as the heel of his enemy thudded against the stone
upon which lay the white girl; and he concentrated every ounce of his
strength for the last moment when, by sheer force of his will, the
knife should be lifted and driven down, deep, even to the hilt. And
the white man hastened as best he could, reeling at every step, with
blood streaming from his wrists and spattering upon the stones beneath
the leering eyes of the gods. Not one of the three heeded the low
moaning of the wind as it swept past the temple and through the trees,
to die away into a great, uncanny, unnatural silence, unbroken by sound
of beast or bird.
Fate feeling for her shears, and peevish through want of sleep maybe,
or mayhap irritated by their obstreperous behaviour, jerked the strings
which bound those marionettes called humans to her palsied old fingers.
The old priest, misjudging the pull given to his string, in what he
mistook to be his triumph, _laughed_.
It is better to laugh last indeed, but oft-times it is best not to
laugh at all, for who can foresee the particle of dust which may enter
your indecently and injudiciously wide open mouth to choke you in your
ill-timed mirth.
Only for an instant did he triumph above his enemy, but for just that
instant he loosened his will power; and Madhu Krishnaghar, sensing the
relief, and whipped by the laugh to one final desperate effort of his
failing powers, raised his hand and flung the knife far back to fall
with a clatter in some distant corner.
It was done.
Youth had mocked at experience, life at death, love at opposition, as
it has done since the beginning of time, and will do, let us hope,
until the end.
For as the knife hurtled into the shadows, Madhu bent swiftly and
lifted Leonie into his arms, holding her in this his last moment of
heaven upon earth, tenderly and firmly, as he glared defiance over her
head at the priest.
And he, understanding at last that he had failed, cast himself at the
feet of his god who, in her fury, stamped with both her blood-stained
feet.