LEÄFAR.
That night we lay both of us in the outer chamber, partly for company,
and partly because neither of us wished to be within sight of the
light which lay all night before the door, and which could be seen
from the window of the inner chamber. There was nothing, indeed,
strange or ugly about the light itself; it was very bright, and, under
other circumstances, might have been pleasant. But to us, guessing
whence it was and what was its purpose, it had come to have a weird
look of doom about it.
We lay still, scarcely speaking. Only from time to time a word or two
passed between us, either suggestive of preparation, or of some topic
of encouragement. By and by we lapsed into silence, and thence into an
imperfect sleep. There was no artificial light in our chamber, we had
no occasion for any, although day and night were nearly of equal
length. Sometime in the evening before dusk we used to take a second
bath (if one may use the consuetudinal for so short a period), and
then to throw off our hats and sandals and to exchange the long robe,
which was our only other garment, for another of the same sort, was
the whole of our preparation for the night.
I do not know how long I had been sleeping, but it could not have been
very long, when I woke up with a start. Surely there was a light in
the room? Yes, there was, and it was growing slowly brighter. I looked
over to the couch where Jack lay; it was very near my own, but not
near enough to permit me to touch him without rising.
I sat up and put on my sandals. The light had now become so much
brighter that I could see Jack plainly. He was awake and watching as I
was. The light was now increasing much more quickly, and in a few
minutes the room was quite brilliantly illuminated, and there was a
sort of core of brightness beginning to appear in the centre of the
light. This presently assumed a wavering aspect, and by-and-by became
a bubbling fluid. I was prepared to expect the appearance of a form of
human similitude, for I had witnessed as you will remember, the same
thing twice already. The same, and yet not the same, for the dark
vapour which I had seen in the former cases was replaced in this case
by a bright rose-coloured light. I suppose it was partly because of
this obvious difference that I felt now no fear, but hope. I began to
think that help was coming, and that we were not going to be left to
fight out a desperate battle alone.
As I looked, the bubbling fluid became consolidated and assumed, as I
had expected, a human form. A man of, it might be middle age, stood
before us. I should have said much under middle age only that his
expression indicated, as I thought, a ripeness of experience and a
calm wisdom seldom seen in very young men. There was a stately beauty
and benignity in his features and demeanour, a mingled tone of love
and command and entreaty; all the direct reverse of what we had seen
in Signor Davelli and his men. He wore a flowing robe of much the same
pattern as ours, but it was of a very bright, indeed of a luminous
material, and it had somehow a strange air of being part of his body.
His head was uncovered; his hair was brown, short, and slightly
curled, and his eyes were blue.
We both started to our feet, and made, almost involuntarily, a
profound salutation.
“Friends,” he said, “you are in urgent danger, and I come to inform
and counsel and help you.” He spoke the English language with a very
sweet and firm intonation, and yet his accent was in some way
suggestive of an outland or foreign origin. “I am a friend,” he said,
“and in some sort a guide of men. It was my mission long ages ago to
warn your first father of the designs of an enemy of the same order as
this one of yours, but far mightier than he. Later on in the plains of
Assyria, under the name and form of a man, I baffled the designs of
another of the same evil race. And many times in more modern days I
have rendered help of which no record remains to man and to the
friends of man. Speak to me freely; you may call me Leäfar.”
I was meditating whether or not I should begin with a confession of my
own faults, when Jack stepped forward, prevented me, and spoke.
“Sir Leäfar,” he said, “tell us first of all who these men are into
whose power we seem to have fallen, and from whom we desire to
escape.”
“Yes,” answered he who called himself Leäfar, “it is best that you
should have information first; counsel and help will follow.
“These men and I have one thing in common. We are inhabitants not of
earth, but of ether; as they have themselves told you, we are dwellers
in space. But they are not, as they would have you think, a fair
sample of the race which inhabits the ether, for although very many as
compared with the inhabitants of earth, they are very few in
comparison of those who hold with me.”
“How is it possible,” said I, “that you and they, although dwellers in
space, or inhabitants of the ether, can assume as you do the form of
men, and at least in some measure their nature?”
“I cannot,” he replied, “unfold the matter to you in full detail, for
you have not the faculties needful to enable you so to apprehend it;
but if you will attend I will try to show you by analogies how it is
possible for us to pass from our world to yours. But sit down,” he
said; “you will be weary, for I have much to say, and there is no time
to lose.”
Hereupon he sat down, having first indicated to us with a gracious air
where we were to sit. We both sat in front of him, but each one a
little to one side. Then he began. “The material,” he said, “of your
world and of such worlds as yours is limited. The material of our
world envelops and pervades it all, and extends to immeasurable
distances, as I believe to infinity, but the knowledge of infinity is
reserved to the Infinite One Himself.
“The material of our world is the basis of the material of yours. The
latter is made out of the former by a simple process of agglomeration.
All the material of worlds like yours is resolvable ultimately into
extremely minute particles, each of which is just a little twist of
the ether. You may compare these particles to knots that you make upon
a cord. Just as the parts of the cord in the knot act upon one another
in a way in which they could not act if they remained in one
continuous line, so the knotted or twisted ether becomes capable of a
great variety of interactions which are not possible to it in its
original state, and as the knots increase in complexity these possible
interactions are multiplied. The motion by which the first
agglomeration of ether is formed generates the various processes which
are known to you as heat, magnetism, electricity, and the different
chemical affinities, and so the matter of your world is built up. The
bodies of the dwellers in ether are composed of ether in the simple
state, and by a process which is simple enough although not fully
explicable to you, we can transform them into the material of which
your bodies are made and retransform them again.
“Two analogies, one mechanical and one chemical, may help you, if not
to understand the process at least to see how it is possible. Suppose
a string of immense length so thin as to be quite invisible; and
suppose it to be knitted and woven and re-woven until it be formed
into a piece of cloth, compact but very small. Suppose the process of
knitting or weaving to be performed very quickly, and then suppose the
web so formed to be as rapidly unravelled again. In that case the
piece of cloth would appear and disappear just as you have seen our
bodies do.
“Or suppose two vast masses of oxygen and hydrogen in the proportions
in which they exist together as water. Suppose them to be brought
together and subjected to the chemical process which is needed in
order to make them combine: what happens? A small quantity of water
suddenly appears. Reverse the process and it disappears.
“By means roughly analogous to these we are able to assume terrestrial
bodies and to pass into the ether again. But while our bodies are in
terrestrial form they are subject to the same laws as yours; we need
food and sleep, and we are subject to the various accidents and
conditions of humanity.”
Here he paused for a moment and Jack spoke.
“But you are not subject to death as we are. Any cause that would kill
us only resolves your material bodies into their ethereal form.”
“That is the case,” he said; “but the difference is not such as you
suppose. All the material of your bodies is ultimately resolved into
ethereal matter, but not all of it is essential to your being, and
that which is essential is resolved by a much speedier process.
“But to speak of ourselves: while we remain in our own world we have
instruments of sensation fitted to our condition and analogous to
yours, just as hearing is analogous to seeing. But I cannot explain to
you any more exactly our means of sensation, just as you could not
explain sight to a man born blind.
“But our sensations are throughout strictly analogous to yours and
pass into yours when we assume terrestrial bodies.”
Here he paused again, and I asked, “Can you see our worlds from
yours?”
“No,” he replied. “The ether as far as we know pervades the universe
and passes freely through worlds like yours, and we, while dwelling in
the ether, have no more cognisance of your world than you of ours.
“But there are certain links,” he added, “which bind both worlds
together, and two of these are known to you as _light_ and _gravity_.
Our world is for ever in motion; motion is of the essence of its
being, and it communicates its motion to all that is formed out of it
and continued by it as your worlds are. Such motion is communicated in
exact proportion to the vastly varied complexities of the matter of
your worlds, and out of this proportionate communication arise the
movements and the laws of movement of all the stars and planets, all
of which movements and laws of movement are amenable to calculation.
Much of this is already known to you, and the day will probably come
when your men of science will be able to calculate the proper motion
of the remotest star that your instruments can discover with as much
precision as they now calculate the motions of your moon.
“Light is another link between your worlds and ours. And light is the
one means which we have of detecting from our world the presence of
yours. Not that we see light as you see it. The sort of perception
that you have by means of light we have in our world by analogous but
higher means. The presence of light is known to us when in our own
world only by a slight shuddering motion of the ether. Just as you
perceive a difference in the mode of motion when you travel on land
and on the water or in the air; just so we perceive an analogous
difference when we pass to the regions of light from the regions
where light is not. A shuddering motion of the material of our world
warns that we are where your worlds are. And just as for you sometimes
the motion of the air or water passes into a hurricane or a whirlpool,
so to us a vastly increased movement of the ether (not the regular
movement which is the cause of gravity, but a quivering movement)
indicates the presence of one of the secular outbursts of
conflagration which form part of the process by which your worlds
become fitted for your occupation.”
“But how,” inquired I, “can you come into our world without having any
direct sensation of its whereabouts?”
“Once we have been here,” he said, “it is a matter of easy calculation
to us to fix the locality; and we can communicate the elements of the
calculation to others who have not been here.”
Here he paused, and rose to his feet, and as we were about to rise he
signed to us to keep sitting.
“Now,” he said, “hearken carefully while I tell you of those into
whose power you are fallen.” And as he spoke it seemed to me that his
attention was directed more especially to myself.
He went on—“The Infinite One, ages before your worlds were formed,
called the ethereal host into being. And at first they were like your
brute creatures, only with vastly greater powers and intelligence;
yet, like them, for their vast powers were not under the control of
any will of their own, for there was no such thing then as will,
except the will of the Infinite One.
“But it pleased the Infinite One at last to give His creatures will.
That which is His own prerogative He communicated to them in order
that He might give manifold scope to the eternal love which is His
essence. That will of theirs it was His will that they should exercise
in conformity with that eternal love. But being free it might oppose
that eternal love, not indeed to eternity, but for incalculable cycles
of time.
“A few, a very few, as compared to the whole number, opposed
themselves to Him, and as the ages passed these grew ever more evil,
and ever more full of hatred of Him and of all who hold with Him. A
very few they were as compared with those who held with Him, but a
great many when compared with all the men who inhabit this little
world of yours, or who ever have inhabited it.”
Here he paused again, and there was dead silence for a space, and then
Jack spoke, and his voice was like that of a man hurried and somewhat
overawed.
“But how did the will to resist the will of the Infinite One ever come
into being at all?”
“It was a possibility from the moment when the first free being was
created, and it became actual by the gradual and undue admixture of
things in themselves good. The desire to do great things is good, and
the joy to be able to do great things is good. But if these two good
things are suffered to govern the whole being, they become the
possible germs, inert as yet, of self-assertion and pride. And then
when the call for self-sacrifice comes, as it must, to the finite in
the presence of the Infinite, the will, the spark of divine life which
the Creator has committed to the creature, rises up against the
sacrifice, and by its action fertilises the germs of self-assertion
and pride.
“So began the deadly war of the finite with the Infinite. That had its
origin in ‘worlds before the man,’ and it speedily passed over into
man’s world, and would long ago have destroyed it had not the Infinite
One Himself become human in order to teach men by His own example and
in His own Person the divine lesson of self-sacrifice.”
Here Leäfar paused again and sat down, and seemed to wait for some
question from us. I was quite powerless to speak. I felt quite
awe-stricken and shamed, but presently I heard Jack’s voice ringing
out clearly and confidently like the voice of a fearless and innocent
child.
“Sir Leäfar,” he said, “do the men who inhabit this valley belong to
the evil race you speak of?”
“Yes,” he replied, “they are some of the least powerful, though not
the least evil among them.”
“And what is their purpose here?”
“Their purpose in general is to set the inhabitants of your world
against the will and purpose of the Infinite One, to teach them to
call evil good and good evil. And they work out this purpose by a
great variety of methods.
“They assume human forms, and they have dwellings in the most
inaccessible parts of your worlds, near the summits of the loftiest
mountain ranges, and in the polar regions, and in remote islands, and
in deserts as here. When civilised men move into their neighbourhood
they move away; and they destroy most of the marks of their
occupation. Sometimes nothing remains; sometimes, it may be, a few
huge rocks standing on end, or piled one upon another. Such remains,
when you discover them, you account for by attributing their formation
to races of men who have passed away.
“From these remote settlements of theirs they make excursions into the
inhabited world; they mingle sometimes among men, stirring them to
murder and rapine, sowing discontent among the people, and prompting
rulers to tyrannous deeds of cruelty and violence. This Niccolo
Davelli, as he calls himself, was very active in the most corrupt and
violent years of the tenth century, when he was the active adviser of
an Italian bandit baron.
“But they have seldom taken prominent action in their own persons in
more modern times, although here and there they appear in subordinate
characters, stirring up strife and all kinds of evil, and then they
pass elsewhither.
“But this Davelli has lately taken up a line of action against God and
man which some of the more powerful of his kind took up ages ago with
far wider success; he has established here, and in the inaccessible
parts of the Himalayas, and in one or two other places, artificial
seed-beds of pestilence. His emissaries gather, from all quarters,
germs of natural and healthful growth, and submit them to a special
cultivation under which they become obnoxious and hurtful to human
nature. And then they sow them here and there in the most likely
places, and thus produce disease, death, and disaster among men. The
black death, and the plague, and smallpox, and cholera, and typhus and
typhoid fevers have all had their origin in this way, and some of
these are kept alive since by the carelessness of men. But of later
years men are beginning to understand health and disease better, and
so the power of these evil beings is becoming greatly restricted in
this direction.”
Here he paused again, and I took heart and said—
“Is it simply to gratify their love of inflicting pain that they
cultivate and propagate these plagues?”
“Partly that, no doubt,” he said, “but, above all, their purpose is to
set men against the Infinite One by making them believe Him to be the
Creator of painful and abominable diseases.”
“But why should they not blame Him,” said I, “if He has called into
existence those evil beings who invent such diseases?”
“Suppose,” replied Leäfar, “that a human enemy were to poison your
water supply. Would you blame God or man?”
“Man, I suppose,” replied I.
“Yes,” he said, “for you would recognise the fact that man, being man,
is free, and that once his freedom absolutely ceases he is no longer
man. The Infinite One may, if He so please, take away his freedom,
but by so doing He annihilates the man.”
“You raise a hard question,” said I; “is the Infinite One, then,
committed to the eternal prevalence of evil? Is He pledged never to
annihilate the power to do evil?”
Leäfar answered very slowly and solemnly, and yet there was a smile
upon his countenance as he spoke.
“There is one thing impossible to the Eternal Love, and that is to
annihilate Himself: and it would be to annihilate Himself if He were
to permit the existence of Eternal hatred.”
“Then,” said I, “if I understand you rightly, these beings are doomed
to annihilation?”
He smiled again and said, “Surely the freedom which opposes and
continues to oppose God must perish: it is self-doomed; that is as
certain as that the Love of God is infinite. The creature who so
misuses his freedom must lose it at last, and then he is as if he had
never possessed it. And so his moral being is, as you say,
annihilated. All his other powers remain, but his will is dead. He
becomes, like the brute, or like the earliest of the ethereal
creation; nothing but an instrument in the hand of God. Such is the
eternal doom of those who choose evil and abide by their choice. No
pain remains, no hatred remains, no sin remains, because no opposition
to God remains. But no real soul remains. The moral being is dead and
done with, only an intellectual being remains.”
“And what becomes of them?”
“They become the beasts of burden of the universe: they become
instruments for carrying on the various mechanisms of the visible
creation. They become subject to us just as your horse is to you. Many
such are under my own direction and control.”
Here Jack started and almost interrupted him, then hesitated and said,
“I beg your pardon.”
“Say on,” replied Leäfar, quite softly and kindly.
“What I was going to say,” said Jack, “was this: It seems to me that
the final doom of which you tell us must have come to some of them
before this.”
“Some of them are meeting it every day,” said he. “The mightiest of
them can hold out for periods of secular vastness without losing their
power of will in any appreciable degree; others, again, lose it all
after a period comparable with the life of a man.”
“And do they all know that they must lose it?”
“As well as you know that you must die.”
“Ah!” said Jack, “I thought so, and now, sir, tell me one thing more:
if this doom comes upon them while they are in human form, what
happens then?”
“They pass back at once into their own world and are dealt with as I
have told you there.”
“Yes, I see it now. Two of the men here appeared to be missing the
other morning, and when Davelli missed them I saw his face change with
terror and malignity. I said to my friend here, ‘Depend upon it the
loss of these men has got something to do with his damnation.’ Did I
not say so, Bob?”
I nodded assent.
“It is true,” said Leäfar.
“Then surely,” said I, “they must be dying out rapidly.”
“Dying out, certainly, but not as rapidly as you might suppose.”
“Have they,” said I, “the power to reproduce their kind?”
“No,” said he; “the dwellers in the ether ‘neither marry nor are given
in marriage.’ But they recruit their failing ranks from amongst men
and from races analogous to man in other worlds like yours; they win
them over to their side here and then claim them when they pass over
there. Sometimes they steal them away from this world. Their purpose
is to steal you away, one of you or both.”
“Steal us! Surely that would not be permitted?”
“It is not possible unless you yourselves give yourselves away.”
“How should we give ourselves away?”
“If you submit your will to theirs they get power over you, power
which is hard to shake off, and which is very easily increased.”
Here he paused, and the smile which usually attended his pauses did
not appear. A sad expression, severe yet very gentle, took its place.
There was a silence of several seconds. Then I stood up and spoke,
standing.
“Hear me, sir. I remember and repent my faults. I knew that this man
was a bad man. Nay, I had begun to suspect that he was something other
and worse than a bad man. But I saw that he knew things which I longed
to know, and so I suffered myself to forget his badness and I did for
the moment submit myself to his will. He exercised his power upon me
and he deceived me in its exercise. He transferred me to the surface
of the moon, or showed it me in a trance, I know not which. I am
conscious ever since of being somehow in bondage to him; although I am
now determined to resist him to the death. Is there any hope?”
“Yes, there is hope, surely, although you may have, as you say, to
resist him to the death. But if you die resisting him he will have no
power over you after death. I am come to rescue both you and your
friend. He runs no such risk as you do, although you are both in great
danger of your lives.”
“And but for my compliance, I suppose neither of us would have run any
risk at all.”
“Not so. You were both of you in great danger of your lives, and your
friend is still so. But any further compliance on your part will make
you the slave of this man, living or dead.”
I shuddered and said, “What is to be done?”
“Your penitence and your present purpose are accepted, and you will
have one more opportunity of asserting your own will against this
Davelli. Tell me what has passed between you since your first
compliance.”
I told him in brief all that I have told you in the last chapter.
“It is clear,” said Leäfar, “that he is going to make one more attempt
upon you. He will make it, no doubt, when you meet him to-morrow. If
you surrender your will to him again I see no hope. If you resist,
then he will have no power but over your body.”
“And what will he do then?”
“I cannot certainly say. He may kill you in his unrestrained fury. It
is not altogether unlikely that he will. But that is all that he can
do. You will have escaped him, and I will be able most probably to
extricate your friend. But I think it more probable that he will
resolve to make one other effort to enslave you, and, in that case,
before the effort is made, I shall probably be able to extricate you
both. I have little or no doubt that I shall be able, although the
strife will be hard.”
It occurred to me to ask him why he would not rescue us at once,
without waiting for any further conference between Davelli and me. But
I knew what the answer would be, and I felt its force. I knew that I
should be fit for nothing in earth or heaven until I had asserted my
will against this evil being, so I answered simply, “How shall I
resist him?”
“He will probably endeavour to throw you into a trance again, and if
you give your will to him for a moment, he will succeed. But if you
hold your soul firmly, then he will fail. Call inwardly upon God and
give yourself to God with your whole purpose. Think all the time of
the holiest event in the history of mankind when the power of evil
flung its whole force against One that was human, and was baffled, and
the victory was won through suffering. So you will keep your will
unsurrendered, and your adversary will be beaten back.”
“And then?”
“Then, as I have said, he may kill your body in his disappointment and
humiliation and rage, but you will be safe from him all the same.”
“Let me escape him, and I am willing to die.”
“That is the true temper; keep to that, and you need have no fear. And
now listen to my further counsel.”
But here again Jack interrupted him. “Surely, sir,” he said, “it is
better, is it not, to act at once? Why expose my friend here to a
fearful risk? Lead us now, and we will follow you any whither. Let the
risk, then, be what it may be, it cannot be more than the risk of
death.”
“Sir,” said Leäfar, “I deeply honour your spirit and feeling, but you
do not know the nature of the case. It is true that I might be able to
rescue both of you from the place without any further contact between
your friend and him whom you call Niccolo Davelli. I might be able and
yet I might not, for although I am stronger than these men they have
great odds against me here. But that is not the question, for suppose
that I were quite certain that I could take you both alive out of this
place, your friend remaining as he now is, I should not try to do so,
for his own sake I would not. Wherever he would be, the power which
this evil being has gained over him would remain and might be
exercised at the most inopportune time for him. Davelli would select
his own time, and that would be, no doubt, when your friend would be
not so likely as now to resist him successfully. I see that you are
willing to risk your life on his account, and your willingness will,
no doubt, help him greatly. But not even all the wealth of sacrifice
can save a man against his will. You may win his will but you cannot
dispense with its exercise as long as he is man, or no less than man.
Believe me that the very best thing that can be done for your friend
is to let him take at once the opportunity which presents itself of
asserting his will against the will of this evil one. He never can be
more favourably disposed to do so than he is now.”
It seemed as if Jack was going to answer, and I tried to catch his eye
to dissuade him, for I felt very certain that what Leäfar said was
true. But I could not catch his eye, and he tried to speak, but
hesitated before a word came. Leäfar waited courteously. Jack made a
further attempt. “But, sir,” he began, and then again hesitated. At
last he said, “No doubt, sir, you know best; let me not interrupt you
further.”
Then Leäfar continued, addressing himself to me. “I will suppose, now,
that you have been successful in your endeavour to resist your enemy,
and that he has resolved to make one other attempt to subdue your
will. For certain reasons, of which I am well aware, but which I have
now no time to explain, I know that in that case another night will
have to pass before the next attempt is made. And during that night
you must make your endeavour to escape. Come back at once when Davelli
leaves you and meet your friend at or near the entrance to these
rooms. Go and take some rest and refreshment, for you will need them,
and provide yourselves with as much food as you can carry with ease.
Then wander whither you will, only not far, and keep well within the
bounds of the valley. Make no attempt whatsoever at concealment while
the daylight lasts. As the darkness comes on return hitherward and
rest awhile within sight of these chambers.
“Wait there until you see two men about your own size enter the room,
and until you see the light settle down as usual before the door.
Then go both of you to the car”—(here he addressed himself especially
to Jack)—“the car, I mean, in which you rode yesterday; start at once;
lose no time, there is none to lose, for if you are pursued at all,
you will be pursued before daylight. I will see that the car is well
stored with food and provided with a spare battery and with glasses
and light.”
Here he added some further instructions, which I lost. Then I heard
him say further,
“If you are followed I will follow, and I will help you as far as I
may. There is everything to hope, and by that time there will be but
little to fear. Barring unforeseen accidents you will escape with your
lives. A brave man does all he can to save his life, but he is not
afraid to lose it.
“Be sure, at any rate, that one good result will come of your
adventure. These men will desert this place. No white man before you
ever set his foot here, and these beings always conceal their earthly
dwelling-places from civilised men. The next pioneers will find
nothing here but, perhaps, a few odd-looking rocks.
“You may not need my assistance any more, but if your enemies follow
you look up for a white flag and you will see that you are not
alone.”
Here he ceased and stood up, and we also stood up and bent our heads.
He lifted his hand simply, and said “God keep you.”
Then he disappeared in the same way in which he had appeared, but much
more quickly.
It was still quite dark in our quarters although the day may have been
beginning to break, and after exchanging a few hopeful words we tried
to sleep. Strange to say I slept soundly, and I did not awake until it
was full daylight.
When the appointed hour came I wrung Jack’s hand in silence, and went
to meet Signor Davelli. I reached the place of meeting only a few
minutes too soon, and presently I saw him coming.
I knew that this was the hour of destiny for me, and I remember
thinking that a man does not always know the hour of destiny when it
comes, and that it would be better for him if he did. Then, of a
sudden, it struck me that such reflection indicated a coolness that
was hardly native to me, and, was it a good sign or a bad? I thought
it was good, and yet that it was overdone. And I remembered to have
read, “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”
Just then Davelli came up, and I silently committed myself to God and
awaited his onset. It came without any delay, but without any
demonstration. He wasted no time, and he was evidently very confident.
I was standing when he arrived, and after the usual exchange of
salutations he invited me to sit down. I did so, and he sat down too,
not beside me but opposite me. Then, almost immediately, he rose up
again and looked straight into my face; rather, I should say, straight
into my eyes. Should I look away from him? No; straight back into his
eyes, and let him do his best. Then, as our eyes met, there began for
me a series of desperate encounters of which there was absolutely no
outward sign.
First, it seemed as if I were enduring the most imperious cravings of
appetite—appetite as relentless and cruel as that which drove the
Samaritan mother to devour her son; such appetite as has ever been
ready to trample upon honour and hope and shame and love, for the sake
of its own immediate gratification. Such keen, hungry sense of desire
goaded me now, and along with its urgency came the consciousness,
full, clear, and strong, that it would be gratified at once, if I
would simply change the look of resistance with which I was meeting my
enemy’s eye for a look of acquiescence.
I do not know how long this lasted, it could hardly have been an
hour, but it seemed like days and years to me. But at last there was a
change, and of a sudden I became conscious of pain—physical pain
multiplied and intensified indefinitely beyond all my experience or
imagination—
“All fiery pangs on battle-fields
On fever beds where sick men toss.”
All these seemed to wring me, and rack me, and strive to wrench the
soul out of me, and ever as the pain grew, there grew also the
consciousness that if I would but meet my enemy’s eye with one
moment’s glance of acquiescence all the pain would be exchanged for
ease; and oh! how delicious the very thought of ease appeared to be,
more delicious than all the delights of all the senses.
Meantime, I was conscious of nothing external except the eyes of my
adversary, the expression of which was an extraordinary mixture of
persuasiveness and deadly determination, now and then crossed,
however, by a furious flash of malignity, and again by a flash of
hideous and awful terror.
But all the time also I was doing with all my might what Leäfar had
bade me do, and it seemed to me as if my will were growing one with
God’s will, and it seemed to me as if I stood under the cross, and
felt in my own flesh and sinews the very nails and thorns which
pierced the Divine Sufferer.
Again there was a change; all at once there began to crowd into my
mind in rapid succession all the questionings of life and of thought,
of knowing and of being, that ever have tantalized the mind of man.
And it seemed to me that only a thin veil was lying between me and the
answers to them all. It seemed to me that the key of all knowledge was
lying within my reach; as if the solution of all the moral and
intellectual riddles that ever have plagued humanity were there now
ready to my hand; as if all mysteries might be unsealed for me in one
way, and only one way, and as if that way once again were to change my
attitude of resistance, if only for a moment, for an attitude of
acquiescence.
And now the burning lust of knowledge seemed to grow into a force, far
exceeding all the other forces that had been brought to bear upon me.
Rather it seemed to draw them all up into itself, and then to let them
loose upon me. And for one dreadful moment I felt as if I must
surrender. But with a sheer and last effort I offered myself to God.
And then a whisper seemed to speak within, and say that the solution
of all mysteries was only to be found in the Divine Self-Sacrifice.
And then it seemed as if the cross and the figure upon the cross
filled all my sight, and the evil glare of the eyes that had been
fixed upon me slowly passed away.
I don’t know if I fainted, I suppose I did, but if I did I was roused
by a loud and furious curse, and starting into consciousness I saw
Signor Niccolo looking at me with a look of baffled malignity, hatred,
and fear.
“Wretch!” he said, “you have resisted me and you must die. And yet not
now, nor easily. Go back to prison. To-morrow you shall suffer again
all and more than all that you have suffered to-day. You are in my
power beyond hope of escape; you must yield to me or die.”
Then he put a little phial to his mouth, and his body seemed first to
melt and then to boil, and then to pass into a dark vapour, and then
to disappear almost as quickly as I have written the words.
After a few minutes I rose to my feet, saying, Thank God! I found that
I was quite exhausted and scarce able for any exertion. I walked very
slowly away.
I soon saw Jack standing near the foot of the eastern stairway. I made
a signal to him and he hurried towards me. We met in a few minutes
more; and in answer to Jack’s look of anxious inquiry, I whispered, “I
have beaten him,” and Jack said, “Thank God!” and strange as it may
seem, not another word on that part of the subject passed between us
for months after.
We returned to our quarters and rested and refreshed ourselves, and
then we compared notes briefly. We knew exactly what we had to do, and
the time was at hand. About an hour before sunset we left our quarters
for the last time, and wandered about without any attempt at
concealment, and exchanging only a brief word or two now and then.
The night came on cloudy and dark, and still we stayed without. It was
about an hour after dark when we saw such a light as that which rested
every night before our door moving about hither and thither. It seemed
as if the bearers of the light were in search of us, and we were
beginning to wonder how best we should baffle their scrutiny. Just
then we saw the figures of two men walk up to the door of our quarters
and enter. Then the door was closed, and the light settled down before
the door and all was quiet.