At the bottom of the stair‐way I found myself in a low, narrow passage,
through which, without stooping almost to earth, it was impossible to
proceed. Though leading through a multiplicity of dark windings, this way
seemed but little to advance my progress,—its course, I perceived, being
chiefly circular, and gathering, at every turn, but a deeper intensity of
darkness.
“Can this,” I thought, “be the sojourn of any thing human?”—and had
scarcely asked myself the question, when the path opened into a long
gallery, at the farthest end of which a gleam of light was visible. This
welcome glimmer appeared to come from some cell or alcove, in which the
right‐hand wall of the gallery terminated, and, breathless with
expectation, I stole gently towards it.
Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene presented itself to my eyes,
for which my fondest expectations of adventure could not have prepared me.
The place from which the light proceeded was a small chapel, of whose
interior, from the dark recess in which I stood, I had, unseen myself, a
full and distinct view. Over the walls of this oratory were painted some
of those various symbols, by which the mystic wisdom of the Egyptians
loves to shadow out the History of the Soul—the winged globe with a
serpent,—the rays descending from above, like a glory, and the Theban
beetle, as he comes forth, after the waters have passed away, and the
first sunbeam falls on his regenerated wings.
In the middle of the chapel stood a low altar of granite, on which lay a
lifeless female form, enshrined within a case of crystal,—as they preserve
their dead in Ethiopia,—and looking as freshly beautiful as if the soul
had but a few hours departed. Among the emblems of death, on the front of
the altar, were a slender lotus‐branch, broken in two, and a bird, just
winging its flight from the spray.
To these memorials of the dead, however, I but little attended; for there
was a living object there upon which my eyes were most intently fixed.
The lamp, by which the whole of the chapel was illuminated, was placed at
the head of the pale image in the shrine; and, between its light and me,
stood a female form, bending over the monument, as if to gaze upon the
silent features within. The position in which this figure was placed,
intercepting a strong light, afforded me, at first, but an imperfect and
shadowy view of it. Yet even at this mere outline my heart beat high,—and
memory, as it proved, had as much share in this feeling as imagination.
For, on the head changing its position, so as to let a gleam fall on the
features, I saw with a transport, which had almost led me to betray my
lurking‐place, that it was she—the young worshipper of Isis—the same, the
very same, whom I had seen, brightening the holy place where she stood,
and looking like an inhabitant of some purer world.
The movement, by which she had now given me an opportunity of recognising
her, was made in raising from the shrine a small cross(2) of silver, which
lay directly over the bosom of the lifeless figure. Bringing it close to
her lips, she kissed it with a religious fervour; then, turning her eyes
mournfully upwards, held them fixed with an inspired earnestness, as if,
at that moment, in direct communion with heaven, they saw neither roof,
nor any other earthly barrier between them and the skies.
What a power hath innocence, whose very helplessness is its safeguard—in
whose presence even Passion himself stands abashed, and turns worshipper
at the altar which he came to despoil. She, who, but a short hour before,
had presented herself to my imagination, as something I could have risked
immortality to win—she, whom gladly, from the floor of her own lighted
temple, in the very face of its proud ministers, I would have borne away
in triumph, and defied all punishments, both human and sacred, to make her
mine,—she was now before me, thrown, as if by fate itself, into my
power—standing there, beautiful and alone, with nothing but her innocence
for her guard! Yet, no—so touching was the purity of the whole scene, so
calm and august that protection which the dead seemed to extend over the
living, that every earthlier feeling was forgotten as I gazed, and love
itself became exalted into reverence.
Entranced, indeed, as I felt in witnessing such a scene, thus to enjoy it
by stealth, seemed a wrong, a sacrilege—and, rather than let her eyes meet
the flash of mine, or disturb, by a whisper, that sacred silence, in which
Youth and Death held communion through Love, I would have let my heart
break, without a murmur, where I stood. Gently, as if life depended upon
every movement, I stole away from that tranquil and holy scene—leaving it
still tranquil and holy as I found it—and, gliding back through the same
passages and windings by which I had entered, regained the narrow stair‐
way, and again ascended into light.
The sun had just risen, and, from the summit of the Arabian hills, was
pouring down his beams into that vast valley of waters,—as if proud of the
homage that had been paid to his own Isis, now fading away in the superior
light of her Lord. My first impulse was to fly from this dangerous spot,
and in new loves and pleasures seek forgetfulness of the scene which I had
witnessed. “Once out of the circle of this enchantment,” I exclaimed, “I
know my own susceptibility to new impressions too well, to doubt that I
shall soon break the spell that is around me.”
But vain were my efforts and resolves. Even while I swore to fly, my steps
were still lingering round the pyramid—my eyes still turned towards the
secret portal, which severed this enchantress from the world of the
living. Hour after hour did I wander through that City of Silence,—till,
already, it was noon, and, under the sun’s meridian eye, the mighty
pyramid of pyramids stood, like a great spirit, shadowless.
Again did those wild and passionate feelings, which had, for a moment,
been subdued into reverence by her presence, return to kindle up my
imagination and senses. I even reproached myself for the awe, that had
held me spell‐bound before her. “What would my companions of the Garden
say, did they know that their chief,—he, whose path Love had strewed with
trophies—was now pining for a simple Egyptian girl, in whose presence he
had not dared to give utterance to a sigh, and who had vanquished the
victor, without even knowing her triumph!”
A blush came over my cheek at the humiliating thought, and my
determination was fixed to await her coming. That she should be an inmate
of those gloomy caverns seemed inconceivable; nor did there appear to be
any issue from their depths but by the pyramid. Again, therefore, like a
sentinel of the dead, did I pace up and down among these tombs,
contrasting, in many a mournful reflection, the burning fever within my
own veins with the cold quiet of those who slept around.
At length the fierce glow of the sun over my head, and, still more, that
ever restless agitation in my heart, were too much for even strength like
mine to bear. Exhausted, I lay down at the base of the pyramid—placing
myself directly under the portal, where, even should slumber surprise me,
my heart, if not my ear, might still be on the watch, and her footstep,
light as it was, could not fail to awake me.
After many an ineffectual struggle against drowsiness, I at length sunk
into sleep—but not into forgetfulness. The same image still haunted me, in
every variety of shape, with which imagination, assisted by memory, could
invest it. Now, like Neïtha, upon her throne at Saïs, she seemed to sit,
with the veil just raised from that brow, which mortal had never, till
then, beheld,—and now, like the beautiful enchantress Rhodope, I saw her
rise out of the pyramid in which she had dwelt for ages,—
“Fair Rhodope, as story tells,
The bright, unearthly nymph, who dwells
Mid sunless gold and jewels hid,
The Lady of the Pyramid!”
So long, amid that unbroken silence, did my sleep continue, that I found
the moon again shining above the horizon, when I awoke. All around was
silent and lifeless as before, nor did a print upon the herbage betray
that any foot had passed it since my own. Refreshed by rest, and with a
fancy still more excited by the mystic wonders of which I had been
dreaming, I now resolved to revisit the chapel in the pyramid, and put an
end, if possible, to this illusion that haunted me.
Having learned from the experience of the preceding night, the
inconvenience of encountering those labyrinths without a light, I now
hastened to provide myself with a lamp from my boat. Tracking my way back
with some difficulty to the shore, I there found, not only my lamp, but
some dates and dried fruits, with a store of which, for my roving life
upon the waters, I was always supplied,—and which now, after so many hours
of abstinence, were a welcome and necessary relief.
Thus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and was proceeding to search
out the secret spring, when a loud, dismal noise was heard at a distance,
to which all the echoes of the cemetery answered. It came, I knew, from
the Great Temple on the shore of the Lake, and was the shriek which its
gates—the Gates of Oblivion, as they were called—sent forth from their
hinges, in opening at night, to receive within their precincts the newly‐
landed dead.
I had heard that sound before, and always with sadness; but, at this
moment, it thrilled through me, like a voice of ill omen, and I almost
doubted whether I should not abandon my enterprise. The hesitation,
however, was but momentary;—even while it passed through my mind, I had
touched the spring of the portal. In a few seconds more, I was again in
the passage beneath the pyramid, and being enabled by my lamp to follow
the windings of the way more rapidly, soon found myself at the door of the
small chapel in the gallery.
I entered, still awed, though there was now nothing living within. The
young Priestess had fled—had vanished, like a spirit, into the darkness.
All the rest was as I had left it on the preceding night. The lamp still
stood burning upon the crystal shrine—the cross lay where the hands of the
young mourner had placed it, and the cold image beneath wore the same
tranquil look, as if resigned to the solitude of death—of all lone things
the loneliest. Remembering the lips that I had seen kiss that cross, and
kindling with the recollection, I raised it passionately to my own;—but,
at the same moment, I fancied the dead eyes met mine, and, saddened in the
midst of my ardour, I replaced the cross upon the shrine.
I had now lost all clue to the object of my pursuit, and was preparing
slowly to retrace my steps to earth, with that gloomy satisfaction which
certainty, even when unwelcome, brings,—when, as I held forth my lamp, on
leaving the chapel, I could perceive that the gallery, instead of
terminating here, took a sudden bend to the left, which had before eluded
my eye, and which gave a promise of leading still further into those
recesses. Re‐animated by this discovery, which opened a new source of hope
to my heart, I cast but one hesitating look at my lamp, as if to ask
whether it would be faithful through the gloom I was about to encounter,
and, without further thought, rushed eagerly forward.