This tedious waiting was cut short in a strange and unexpected manner.
He heard the slamming of a distant door, and presently he became aware
of the sound of unhurried footfalls which came from the direction of
the reception-room, just behind the door of his room. Some one was
approaching with a sure and nimble step.
Gurov turned his head toward the door. A gust of cold entered the room.
Before him stood a boy, most strange and wild in aspect. He was dressed
in linen draperies, half-nude, barefoot, smooth-skinned, sun-tanned,
with black tangled hair and dark, burning eyes. An amazingly perfect,
handsome face; handsome to a degree which made it terrible to gaze upon
its beauty. And it portrayed neither good nor evil.
Gurov was not astonished. A masterful mood took hold of him. He could
hear the house sprites scampering away to conceal themselves.
The boy began to speak.
“Aristomarchon! Perhaps you have forgotten your promise? Is this the
way of valiant men? You left me when I was in mortal danger, you had
made me a promise, which it is evident you did not intend to keep. I
have sought for you such a long time! And here I have found you, living
at your ease, and in luxury.”
Gurov fixed a perplexed gaze upon the half-nude, handsome lad; and
turgid memories awoke in his soul. Something long since submerged arose
in dim outlines and tormented his memory, which struggled to find a
solution to the strange apparition; a solution, moreover, which seemed
so near and so intimate.
And what of the invincibility of his walls? Something had happened
round him, some mysterious transformation had taken place. But Gurov,
engulfed in his vain exertions to recall something very near to him and
yet slipping away in the tenacious embrace of ancient memory, had not
yet succeeded in grasping the nature of the change that he felt had
taken place. He turned to the wonderful boy.
“Tell me, gracious boy, simply and clearly, without unnecessary
reproaches, what had I promised you, and when had I left you in a time
of mortal danger? I swear to you, by all the holies, that my conscience
could never have permitted me such a mean action as you reproach me
with.”
The boy shook his head. In a sonorous voice, suggestive of the
melodious outpouring of a stringed instrument, he said: “Aristomarchon,
you always have been a man skilful with words, and not less skilful in
matters requiring daring and prudence. If I have said that you left me
in a moment of mortal danger I did not intend it as a reproach, and I
do not understand why you speak of your conscience. Our projected
affair was difficult and dangerous, but who can hear us now; before
whom, with your craftily arranged words and your dissembling ignorance
of what happened this morning at sunrise, can you deny that you had
given me a promise?”
The electric light grew dim. The ceiling seemed to darken and to recede
into height. There was a smell of grass; its forgotten name, once, long
ago, suggested something gentle and joyous. A breeze blew. Gurov raised
himself, and asked: “What sort of an affair had we two contrived?
Gracious boy, I deny nothing. Only I don’t know what you are speaking
of. I don’t remember.”
Gurov felt as though the boy were looking at him, yet not directly. He
felt also vaguely conscious of another presence no less unfamiliar and
alien than that of this curious stranger, and it seemed to him that the
unfamiliar form of this other presence coincided with his own form. An
ancient soul, as it were, had taken possession of Gurov and enveloped
him in the long-lost freshness of its vernal attributes.
It was growing darker, and there was increasing purity and coolness in
the air. There rose up in his soul the joy and ease of pristine
existence. The stars glowed brilliantly in the dark sky. The boy spoke.
“We had undertaken to kill the Beast. I tell you this under the
multitudinous gaze of the all-seeing sky. Perhaps you were frightened.
That’s quite likely too! We had planned a great, terrible affair, that
our names might be honoured by future generations.”
Soft, tranquil, and monotonous was the sound of a stream which purled
its way in the nocturnal silence. The stream was invisible, but its
nearness was soothing and refreshing. They stood under the broad
shelter of a tree and continued the conversation begun at some other
time.
Gurov asked: “Why do you say that I had left you in a moment of mortal
danger? Who am I that I should be frightened and run away?”
The boy burst into a laugh. His mirth had the sound of music, and as it
passed into speech his voice still quavered with sweet, melodious
laughter.
“Aristomarchon, how cleverly you feign to have forgotten all! I don’t
understand what makes you do this, and with such a mastery that you
bring reproaches against yourself which I have not even dreamt of. You
had left me in a moment of mortal danger because it had to be, and you
could not have helped me otherwise than by forsaking me at the moment.
You will surely not remain stubborn in your denial when I remind you of
the words of the Oracle?”
Gurov suddenly remembered. A brilliant light, as it were, unexpectedly
illumined the dark domain of things forgotten. And in wild ecstasy, in
a loud and joyous voice, he exclaimed: “_One_ shall kill the Beast!”
The boy laughed. And Aristomarchon asked: “Did you kill the Beast,
Timarides?”
“With what?” exclaimed Timarides. “However strong my hands are, I was
not one who could kill the Beast with a blow of the fist. We,
Aristomarchon, had not been prudent and we were unarmed. We were
playing in the sand by the stream. The Beast came upon us suddenly and
he laid his paw upon me. It was for me to offer up my life as a sweet
sacrifice to glory and to a noble cause; it was for you to execute our
plan. And while he was tormenting my defenceless and unresisting body,
you, fleet-footed Aristomarchon, could have run for your lance, and
killed the now blood-intoxicated Beast. But the Beast did not accept my
sacrifice. I lay under him, quiescent and still, gazing into his
bloodshot eyes. He held his heavy paw on my shoulder, his breath came
in hot, uneven gasps, and he sent out low snarls. Afterwards, he put
out his huge, hot tongue and licked my face; then he left me.”
“Where is he now?” asked Aristomarchon.
In a voice strangely tranquil and strangely sonorous in the quiet
arrested stillness of the humid air, Timarides replied: “He followed
me. I do not know how long I have been wandering until I found you. He
followed me. I led him on by the smell of my blood. I do not know why
he has not touched me until now. But here I have enticed him to you.
You had better get the weapon which you had hidden so carefully and
kill the Beast, while I in my turn will leave you in the moment of
mortal danger, eye to eye with the enraged creature. Here’s luck to
you, Aristomarchon!”
As soon as he uttered these words Timarides, started, to run. For a
short time his cloak was visible in the darkness, a glimmering patch of
white. And then he disappeared. In the same instant the air resounded
with the savage bellowing of the Beast, and his ponderous tread became
audible. Pushing aside the growth of shrubs there emerged from the
darkness the huge, monstrous head of the Beast, flashing a livid fire
out of its two enormous, flaming eyes. And in the dark silence of
nocturnal trees the towering ferocious shape of the Beast loomed
ominously as it approached Aristomarchon.
Terror filled Aristomarchon’s heart.
“Where is the lance?” was the thought that quickly flashed across his
brain.
And in that instant, feeling the fresh night breeze on his face,
Aristomarchon realized that he was running from the Beast. His
ponderous springs and his spasmodic roars resounded closer and closer
behind him. And as the Beast came up with him a loud cry rent the
silence of the night. The cry came from Aristomarchon, who, recalling
then some ancient and terrible words, pronounced loudly the incantation
of the walls.
And thus enchanted the walls erected themselves around him....