THE FESTIVAL OF PANACLA
The first day of the month Panacla, meaning “the forth-shining,” had
now commenced, when the rain mist was supposed to have finished its
mission in Southern Atalanta.
The Vale of Meloria was bathed in the most exquisite light, mellowed
and tempered by the snow-white clouds that trailed along the sky at an
immeasurable altitude.
A large crowd of people had gathered by the Lake shore watching the
island that lay nearly in front of the great city. At the foot of the
Grand Avenue a line of palace guards was posted, the meaning of whose
presence was not at first quite clear to the terrestrial party. Cleito
smiled significantly when the Professor enquired if the procession
would approach the palace. “Wait and see,” was all he said.
At last a flash of light leaped from one of the pinnacles of the
island Temple. Some of the people kneeled down as though to pay their
devotions. Others did not, but stood scornfully erect.
Soon a cry arose and hands were pointed towards the Lake. A barge
gaily painted, propelled by a number of oarsmen, was gliding rapidly
towards a landing-stage, a quarter of a mile to the east. Two other
barges followed, one having a superb gilded canopy. The occupants of
these landed and were received with adoration by a kneeling crowd.
Then a procession was formed. The vanguard consisted of a troop of
young children in pure white with coral-coloured fillets in their hair,
holding in their hands white wands of sharp-pointed metal. These formed
a semicircle, grouping themselves into a guard of honour; then came
a band of players beating some oval-shaped instruments and raising a
weird intonation. Following them was a woman robed as a priestess. She
sang with rich, penetrating voice--
“O Lord of Light! O Lord of Light!
Filling the land with glory bright,
Thine enemy retires[1]
Into the darkness whence he came,
Awed by thy majesty and fame,
Cowed by thy burning fires.
“While Atalanta shall endure
Thy worship shall stand fast and sure,
All its proud foes defy;
Though thou mayest veil thy glorious head,
Thou comest forth to smite with dread
Each impious enemy.
Hail, Asti! Potentate and King,
Receive the worship that we bring.”
[1] The rain mist.
As she passed by she was followed by the priests of the Temple, each
carrying golden spears. Then came a canopy under which an altar was
borne, with a solar disk at each corner and a larger one in the centre.
Behind came a litter borne upon the shoulders of four tall and powerful
men, and reclining upon it was the high priest Lydon. The procession
halted. The litter-bearers laid their burden down. Lydon stepped forth.
He placed the altar in position; he kindled the central disk, which
revolved with a fiery radiation. Then he turned to the crowd, most of
whose members had now kneeled down. His eyes fell upon the Professor
and his party, who stood somewhat uncomfortably prominent. He shot
them a keen glance. Then he said: “Men of Karamandra, there are those
who brand you as barbarians; the priesthood knows no such distinction.
Come ye, offer incense to the Sun God, the first of all invited to
draw nigh.” So saying he placed the vessel of incense in the hands of
Carmichael.
“I must go through this farce, I suppose,” said Carmichael, “though
I should be ashamed for my Cambridge friends to see me. It is only a
form.”
“Yes, of course,” assented Carysfort.
“You shall _not_!” exclaimed Clarence Radcliffe, and he struck the
vessel out of the Professor’s hand. For an instant there was an awful
silence. Every one stood in paralysed astonishment.
“This may be my last moment,” exclaimed Radcliffe. “You may tear me in
pieces, but I will offer no incense, except the incense of my heart, to
Him who is not the material sun, but the Sun of Righteousness.”
“Silence, blasphemer!” shouted Lydon, hoarse with rage. “What ho!
guards and champions of our ancestral faith, take this son of
Karamandra, who has insulted us and our god, and remove him to the
sacred island. There he shall be taught how to frame his words and acts
with discretion.”
Before they could seize Radcliffe, Abercromby and Jackson had felled
the two nearest to the ground, and grasping their companion they
endeavoured to pull him away. The crowd was in the wildest commotion,
some cursing him for his sacrilege, others applauding the act. Some
urged on the priests to secure the prisoner, others cried, “Long live
the palace and the throne. Down with the traitors!”
In the midst of the turmoil Radcliffe had mounted on a seat, and
addressing his voice to those nearest, he said, “People of Atalanta!
How long will you worship that which is only a furnace of molten fire,
fit emblem of punishment and of woe? What would the sun do for you if
the God who placed it there were to cause its light to fail? Would
not this side of the world be even as the other? I set before you Him
who is greater than all things which He hath made--eternal, immortal,
invisible. He can guide you to the Mansions of the Blest, into which
all who love Him are safely gathered,”--here Radcliffe’s voice broke a
little. “Atalantans! worship God. He has given you all things, even the
very powers with which you neglect Him.”
At this moment Mayana herself, heading a detachment of the palace
attendants and wearing the red coronet as a symbol of authority, thrust
herself forward, followed by Cleophon and Minya. “Begone, Lydon!” she
said. “Go back to your island and deem yourself fortunate that you are
allowed to dwell there. All your plots are known. This is the last
time that you shall ever issue forth with your rebellious rabble to
delude and incite the people.”
“I will go,” said Lydon in a voice inarticulate for rage, “but the cup
of your iniquities and that of Mexitli is running over. I--or rather
the Sun God--shall be avenged.”
“Behold the powerlessness of your god, for his face is about to be
hidden!” shouted Radcliffe. And as he spoke the rain mist gathered and
veiled the fair landscape. Shrieks of terror and despair, intermingled
with laughter and mockery, came from different parts of the crowd.
Radcliffe suddenly heard a cry from Abercromby. He started to ascertain
the cause. As he did so he felt a violent shock, and all consciousness
left him.
* * * * *
“Where am I?” said Radcliffe when he had somewhat regained his senses.
He was in a luxuriously furnished room. Melanitis was bending over him,
supporting his head upon her arm. “I have been dreaming that I was
in Wales, going up the Portmadoc Road to Pont Aberglaslyn Pass with
Lilian. But what nonsense am I talking, and in English too!” he added,
correcting himself. “Lady, I did not know you were there. Has my speech
been wandering? I could have declared I heard some one singing to me an
old English song, which we--my wife and I--used to sing together.”
“You will be always true to her, will you not?” said the princess.
“Unto death and beyond it,” said Radcliffe.
“Did you ever stay with her and her father the year before you were
married at a town called Tenby?” asked Melanitis.
Radcliffe started up on the coach, his face rigid with amazement.
“Yes, the happiest time in all my life, except one,” he added. “But
how--_how_ did you know it?”
Melanitis smiled. “I know a good many things,” she said.
“Is second-sight understood in this planet?”
“No; and if it were I should not practise any such arts.”
“Have you ever visited my world in your dreams?”
“Dreams are of little account, except day dreams. But a truce to this.
I want you to realise two things. One is that I perfectly sympathise
with you in your life sorrow. Another is, that God may provide you a
way out of it sooner perhaps than you think.”
Radcliffe was about to answer when the door opened and King Malchon
entered. The old man, who looked worn and haggard, took the seat which
Melanitis had vacated, and said, “I rejoice that you are recovering, my
son. My daughter here has given you all the resources of her medical
skill, and has gradually nursed you back to life. A great debt is it
that you owe to her. But we all owe a debt to you hardly less great.
Your conduct three days ago helped us to frustrate for the present the
designs of our enemy.”
“God be thanked for that. But what happened to me?”
“You were struck upon the head by a club hurled by one of the traitors
in order to silence you,” said the King. “He would have repeated the
blow had not the fire-tube which Mayana held in her hand smitten him.
There was a conflict between the loyalists among the people and the
rebels, and several lives were lost. No such thing has happened among
us for generations. The rebels were compelled to retreat to their
island and its temple fortress. Mexitli and Melanitis both urged me to
carry it by assault and to put its colony to death, but I shrink from
such bloodshed as would result. I have forbidden, however, any similar
festival being held again.”
“Has the lady Mayana or any member of her house been injured?”
“None; for the good Cleito arrived with the guards just in time.”
“Where are my companions?”
“Lodged within the palace. I shall not allow them to be outcasts any
more.”
The rest of the day was spent by Radcliffe in the society, now of the
King, now of Abercromby, now of Melanitis. They all helped to make the
hours pass pleasantly. Only when he was alone did he ponder in his mind
the extraordinary knowledge which Melanitis so evidently possessed. And
when the Professor came in to see him he told him about it and he asked
his opinion: “The simplest imaginable, my dear fellow. You have been
delirious, and she has overheard you talk.”
“But why is she so solicitous that I shall always be true to the memory
of my lost love?”
“I do not pretend to fathom women, but perhaps she has heard rumours
that affected herself, and she naturally wishes by your help to give
the lie direct to them.”
“But she says that God will, sooner than I think, make a way for me to
end my sorrow.”
“I see more than one explanation of her pious desire, my dear
Radcliffe, but I won’t pursue the subject.”
“Where is Mexitli?”
“Absent on state business.”
“Is she resentful for what I did?”
“Not in the least. She is hugely delighted. The danger does not lie
with her. Be very careful of the other one.”
“Abercromby says the opposite.”
“Then chum with the King. _He_ is safe enough.”
Before they retired to rest, Mayana entered, asking to know how the
sick patient was. She offered to sing him one of the sweetest songs of
Atalanta. It was entitled “Little Queen of the Night.” She took up a
harp-shaped instrument, and seating herself by the side of Melanitis,
sang--
“When the birds shall homeward fly
And the sunlight shall descend
Where Aptaura rears on high
His steep rampart to defend.
Is there any light beyond
As I face the frost-bound field,
Do the stars with eyes so fond
Their sweet magic influence wield?
“Aye! the brightest and the best
Of the starry host above,
From the east unto the west,
Looketh down with glance of love.
’Tis the little Queen of Night,
That surveys the cold drear waste,
Yet her self-forgetful light
Whispers: ‘Hasten, traveller, haste.
“‘O be not further led
By fond foolish thoughts of me,
For I shine upon the dead
In my helpless sympathy.
Turn your face towards a light
That is nobler far than mine,
And the little Queen of Night
Will not grieve nor yet repine.’”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” said Radcliffe. “And that little Queen of Night
is my world that only shines on the cold dead hemisphere of Venus.”