Enchanted, the walls stood firm and were lit up. A dreary light was
cast upon them by the dismal electric lamp. Gurov was in his usual
surroundings.
Again came the nimble Fever and kissed him with her yellow, dry lips,
and caressed him with her dry, bony hands, which exhaled heat and cold.
The same thin volume, with its white pages, lay on the little table
beside the divan where, as before, Gurov rested in the caressing
embrace of the affectionate Fever, who showered upon him her rapid
kisses. And again there stood beside him, laughing and rustling, the
tiny house sprites.
Gurov said loudly and indifferently: “The incantation of the walls!”
Then he paused. But in what consisted this incantation? He had
forgotten the words. Or had they never existed at all?
The little, shifty, grey demons danced round the slender volume with
its ghostly white pages, and kept on repeating with their rustling
voices: “Our walls are strong. We are in the walls. We have nothing to
fear from the outside.”
In their midst stood one of them, a tiny object like themselves, yet
different from the rest. He was all black. His mantle fell from his
shoulders in folds of smoke and flame. His eyes flashed like lightning.
Terror and joy alternated quickly.
Gurov spoke: “Who are you?”
The black demon answered: “I am the Invoker of the Beast. In one of
your long-past existences you left the lacerated body of Timarides on
the banks of a forest stream. The Beast had satiated himself on the
beautiful body of your friend; he had gorged himself on the flesh that
might have partaken of the fullness of earthly happiness; a creature of
superhuman perfection had perished in order to gratify for a moment the
appetite of the ravenous and ever insatiable Beast. And the blood, the
wonderful blood, the sacred wine of happiness and joy, the wine of
superhuman bliss—what had been the fate of this wonderful blood? Alas!
The thirsty, ceaselessly thirsty Beast drank of it to gratify his
momentary desire, and is thirsty anew. You had left the body of
Timarides, mutilated by the Beast, on the banks of the forest stream;
you forgot the promise you had given your valorous friend, and even the
words of the ancient Oracle had not banished fear from your heart. And
do you think that you are safe, that the Beast will not find you?”
There was austerity in the sound of his voice. While he was speaking
the house sprites gradually ceased their dance; the little, grey house
sprites stopped to listen to the Invoker of the Beast.
Gurov then said in reply: “I am not worried about the Beast! I have
pronounced eternal enchantment upon my walls and the Beast shall never
penetrate hither, into my enclosure.”
The little grey ones were overjoyed, their voices tinkled with
merriment and laughter; having gathered round, hand in hand, in a
circle, they were on the point of bursting forth once more into dance,
when the voice of the Invoker of the Beast rang out again, sharp and
austere.
“But I am here. I am here because I have found you. I am here because
the incantation of the walls is dead. I am here because Timarides is
waiting and importuning me. Do you hear the gentle laugh of the brave,
trusting lad? Do you hear the terrible bellowing of the Beast?”
From behind the wall, approaching nearer, could be heard the fearsome
bellowing of the Beast.
“The Beast is bellowing behind the wall, the invincible wall!”
exclaimed Gurov in terror. “My walls are enchanted for ever, and
impregnable against foes.”
Then spoke the black demon, and there was an imperious ring in his
voice: “I tell you, man, the incantation of the walls is dead. And if
you think you can save yourself by pronouncing the incantation of the
walls, why then don’t you utter the words?”
A cold shiver passed down Gurov’s spine. The incantation! He had
forgotten the words of the ancient spell. And what mattered it? Was not
the ancient incantation dead—dead?
Everything about him confirmed with irrefutable evidence the death of
the ancient incantation of the walls—because the walls, and the light
and the shade which fell upon them, seemed dead and wavering. The
Invoker of the Beast spoke terrible words. And Gurov’s mind was now in
a whirl, now in pain, and the affectionate Fever did not cease to
torment him with her passionate kisses. Terrible words resounded,
almost deadening his senses—while the Invoker of the Beast grew larger
and larger, and hot fumes breathed from him, and grim terror. His eyes
ejected fire, and when at last he grew so tall as to screen off the
electric light, his black cloak suddenly fell from his shoulders. And
Gurov recognized him—it was the boy Timarides.
“Will you kill the Beast?” asked Timarides in a sonorous voice. “I have
enticed him, I have led him to you, I have destroyed the incantation of
the walls. The cowardly gift of inimical gods, the incantation of the
walls, had turned into naught my sacrifice, and had saved you from your
action. But the ancient incantation of the walls is dead—be quick,
then, to take hold of your sword and kill the Beast. I have been a
boy—I have become the Invoker of the Beast. He had drunk of my blood,
and now he thirsts anew; he had partaken also of my flesh, and he is
hungry again, the insatiable, pitiless Beast. I have called him to you,
and you, in fulfilment of your promise, may kill the Beast. Or die
yourself.”
He vanished. A terrible bellowing shook the walls. A gust of icy
moisture blew across to Gurov.
The wall facing the spot where Gurov lay opened, and the huge,
ferocious and monstrous Beast entered. Bellowing savagely, he
approached Gurov and laid his ponderous paw upon his breast. Straight
into his heart plunged the pitiless claws. A terrible pain shot through
his whole body. Shifting his blood-red eyes the Beast inclined his head
toward Gurov and, crumbling the bones of his victim with his teeth,
began to devour his yet-palpitating heart.