CHAPTER XI.
Had King Hiram vanished into the mystery of Baal? No. He had vanished under a mystery of Hanno.
When Hiram entered the sacred pavilion the place was exceedingly dark by reason of the heavy curtains that enclosed it, and the glare of the outer light that he had just left, for the instant, prevented his eyes from adapting themselves to their new environment. By degrees his power of vision was regained. He observed that the tapestried walls were wrought with the various symbols of worship; the sun of Baal, the moon of Astarte, the fish of Dagon, the star of Adonis, and the like. Beneath his feet lay a rug of silken shreds, pure white. He threw himself down upon this to collect his thoughts; to gather up his strength for the final act in this terrible tragedy. Surely Hanno's hopeful words had been merely to cheer him; they meant nothing, or his friend's plans for his rescue had miscarried. There was now no escape.
He prayed; to whom? He knew not; but still he prayed. For what? Not for himself; it was too late for that. He prayed for Hanno; that, in the desperation of his love, he might not attempt to make good his pledge of dying with his king; that he might be restrained from making a useless assault upon the priests, or from throwing himself into the flames. Then he prayed for her who was more to him than life—for Zillah. He gathered up his whole soul in a loving thought of her, and laid it—where? Upon the highest altar in the highest heavens, if there were any such place where pity for mortals existed. Then, as the sweet face of his beloved one filled his imagination, a tear fell—the first during all these days of agony; for the bodily humors seemed to have been dried by the hot fury of his grief. The tear fell upon his hand. He bowed to kiss it, because it fell for her. As he did so, his eye caught a spot of gleaming red in the white rug. Mechanically, without definite purpose in doing so, he traced the red line as it ran through the silken nap. It took shape. A wing!—and a circle! It was only a half-conscious thought—"The Winged Circle," such as was used as a religious device by the Persians, and was also carved on the stone architraves of some temples of Astarte. Then the full thought flashed upon him, "The mark of the circle!" Hanno's sign! Was it designed?
He raised the rug. A similar mark was rudely scratched upon a broad stone that lay just beneath it. He felt the edge of the stone. It moved. A tilting stone! He lifted it a little. A cool and dank air rushed out. This, surely, was a door into some passage! By a little exertion he was able to swing the stone upon its edge. Adjusting the rug over it in such a way that it would again cover the stone when restored to its horizontal position, he let himself carefully down through the opening. So strong was the draught of air that he scarcely needed to feel his way by touching the wall on either side, but guided himself very much as he had sometimes done when, on a dark night at sea, he helmed his ship by feeling the wind against his cheek.
He thought of this just for an instant, but it was long enough to think of Hanno too, as, in their last sail, they had steered the craft together. He could not restrain a subdued cry of gratitude.
"Noble fellow! Thy hand is on the other oar, as thou didst pledge. Thou art the only god that is left to me!"
For a little way he crawled over and around the débris that obstructed the labyrinth. Then he felt the space enlarging. A smooth pavement was beneath him. With extended hands he hurried forward. He heard the roar of fire, and knew that he was passing near to the pit beneath the image of Baal. A hot gleam shot through a crevice. It revealed a door of bronze covering an old entrance into the pit, through which anciently the priests had been accustomed to feed the flames. The door moved as he touched its hot surface. He opened it a little, that the light might illumine the passage. In the glare he saw several stout pieces of timber standing upright. These had been recently put in to brace the great idol, the foundation of which had given way on that side. Hiram took this in at a glance—he had time only for a glance, for the flames burst forth upon him and drove him away before he could close the door. The fire caught the timbers, and, a little later, consuming them, toppled the image above. But of this he knew nothing, as, taking advantage of the light, he plunged on through several hundred cubits of open way.
The passage he had followed ended in a small chamber into which struggled a ray of daylight. Here lay a coarse skull-cap of leather and a ragged chiton—a mere bag with holes at the bottom for the head and arms, the only garment worn by the poorest herdsmen. By the side of it was a club of heavy wood, knobbed with great spikes at one end—the ordinary weapon with which the herdsman defended himself and his flocks from prowling beasts. A little wallet contained dried dates and thin cakes of black bread; another was filled with small coins.
To divest himself of his princely clothing, don the chiton, and tie the bags about his waist beneath it, was the task of a moment. Then on he went, working his way like a mole between the great stones that, in confused ruin, would have blocked his progress, had he not been guided by his faith in the prevision of his friend Hanno.
Gradually the air became purer. It revived his strength and courage. Light came in through an opening which was screened heavily by a clump of bushes beyond it. These guarded the northern end of the passage from the inspection of any one without. Crawling through a crevice in the rock, he emerged cautiously, concealing himself amid the dense foliage. The bushes grew in a little cleared space about which were piles of stone, which had anciently walled a portion of the temple. He crawled like a lizard to the top of the stones and raised his head. He was far beyond the crowd, whose faces were all turned in the opposite direction, watching with absorbed attention for his reappearance from the sacred pavilion. Over the stillness he heard distinctly the shrill voice of Egbalus, as it cried, "Come forth, thou accepted of Baal!" His impulse for flight was checked by tragic curiosity. The contagion of the general excitement caught him and held him almost spellbound. Danger always had for him a fascination; at this moment he felt it reinforced by a sudden passion for revenge. Why not join the crowd, work his way through it, dash into the cleared space, smite the high priest to the earth, and hurl his hated carcass into the flames? What if the priests then cut him into ten thousand pieces? It would be worth dying for. Why not be a Theseus to his people, and slay the Minotaur in the person of its most devilish representative? His brain reeled with the thought.
A wild cry of the multitude recalled him to his more cautious judgment. The people surged back. The great image toppled. Ah! how grimly he guessed the reason!
The crowd turned in his direction. Was it in flight? or had he been pointed out, and were they cutting off his escape? He gripped his club to brain the first who should climb the stone heap behind which he had taken refuge. As some came near he noted their terror-stricken faces, and knew that they were not seeking him in this direction, but fleeing from him yonder where he was a superstitious embodiment of their fears. Then a fiendish humor came upon him. He took the dirty cap from his head, and, bowing towards the distant figure of Egbalus, said:
"I obey, O priest of Baal! Lo, I have come forth!"
He climbed down the farther side of the pile of ruins; paused a moment to rub handfuls of dirt over his hair and face, his clean-skinned legs and feet; then, swinging his herdsman's club, he ran away, outstripping the most cowardly fugitive from the dread scene.
He looked for no new mark of the circle, for the country was well known to him. Often had he dashed over these fields on his horse after the fox. Here, as a boy, he had practised the sling at the running jackals. Yonder lay the road to Sidon, over which, in princely company, he had gone to discharge some duty of state, or more frequently to join in aristocratic revelry with the young nabobs who lived in the favor of Prince Esmanazar. This road he dared not take.
To the east rose the mountains that walled so narrowly the plain to the sea. In them were hiding-places, but they would be speedily searched.
Beyond the first range, between the Lebanons, a broad valley was open to the north, but that was a highway of traffic. The caravans were passing up and down it. He could not trust himself there, for in every company would be some one whose eyes were sharpened by the hope of reward for his capture.
Galilee was not far away, populated by a mongrel people, composed of the relic of ancient Jewish stock and the colonists who had come from Babylon. To the south was Samaria, and beyond, the land of Judea, her tribes long ago carried away by Nebuchadnezzar, but now returning to fortify again the heights of Jerusalem.
Westward shone the Great Sea, glowing with prismatic colors under the brush of the setting sun. Once upon the sea, he might be safe. But the road that lined the coast would be crowded with those returning on foot or in chariots from Tyre to Sidon. If he could pass them, how could he procure a ship? His present garb would awaken suspicion, if he even talked with any of such a purpose.
Oh, for another mark of the circle! But there was none in the sand that burned his naked feet, and none in the sky, now fiery as with the wrath of the outwitted sun-god.
On he went, scarcely thinking whither, except that the sort of instinct which leads wild animals, when pursued, to double on their tracks, prompted him to turn, making a detour to the east to avoid the scattering crowds; then working his way south, for the first pursuit of him was sure to be north, in the direction of his escape.
South of Old Tyre ran for miles a ruined aqueduct terminating in a reservoir. All the conduits of the latter he knew well, having but recently spent a day in company with an engineer exploring it, with a view of utilizing it in increasing the water supply of Tyre. Here he could be safe until the night darkness threw about him its all-covering shield.
His determination to hide was confirmed by observing two Galli at a distance. They evidently had him in their eyes, for, though their road was different, they kept coming near, as if by subtle purpose. He raised his club, and, balancing it carefully, flung it far in the opposite direction, accompanying its flight with the cry of the shepherds when frightening a jackal. He ran at topmost speed after the missile. As he stooped to pick it up he noted that the Galli had turned back. He was safe from them, but would be safer if he learned the lesson, and made himself invisible. The old aqueduct might become his fortress. Peering out between its disjointed stones, he could inspect the field, and at any moment drop into a conduit and make his exit far beyond.
Night fell about him. Its shadows winged his feet, and its cool, crisp air freshened his vigor as he ran.
In the thickening darkness, a huge object loomed suddenly before him. Startled for an instant, he paused, but a second careful look enabled him to recognize it. It was the tomb of Hiram, his great ancestor, the most famous of all the kings of Tyre. Five centuries had drifted over it, wearing away the very stone as by the friction of the years, but only brightening the fame of him who lay within it.
If the living cherish the memory of the dead, do the dead have no interest in the living? It seemed to the young king as if the very dust within that great stone box must move with pity for him. Would the great king curse him for refusing to become a sacrifice to Baal for the welfare of Tyre? The mighty dead had been a worshipper of the gods of his people, but surely not with such cruel and bigoted frenzy as that of the priests now. The great Hiram had been the friend of the Judean kings, David and Solomon. He had built for them the temple of their God, Jehovah, though the Jews believed in no blood-loving Moloch; nay, they cursed the abominations of the Phœnician worship, as they cursed the other idols of the nations, and swept them from their land. Surely Hiram the Great would be a liberal monarch, were he living. A blessing seemed to drop into the young Hiram's soul from the white form of the marble, that clear-cut its shape out of the black night.
He climbed the lofty pedestal, and stood beside the upper shaft. It was but a moment he lingered, yet time seemed to halt, while the olden ages came back and passed in review before him, all grand with Phœnicia's prowess, since first his people taught the nations the alphabet, and pioneered the commerce of the world. Dark clouds came up on the horizon, and blotted out the bright early stars; and so, he thought, death's oblivion had buried one by one his ancestors, the kings of Tyre; yet their glory was untarnished, even as these stars will shine out again, and shine forever. But himself! Would not his flight from death blot his honorable memory in subsequent generations?
Suddenly the clouds parted, and the bright evening-star glowed in the east—the star of Astarte, Queen of Heaven, Goddess of Love. As he watched, it was again obscured. Then Hiram thought of Zillah, whose soul, purer than light, had set in his dark destiny. He clenched his hands as if to crush the edge of the stone beneath them, and swore a horrid oath, in which writhed all the black passions of his being; an oath at the star, at Astarte, at Baal, at all the powers that controlled the world, or at that blind chance that drifted its affairs. Then the star emerged again. It floated into a large lake of blue. Was it an omen? He worshipped it, and called it Zillah. He noted that it floated westward from over the Jews' land. Then he prayed:
"O spirit of Hiram, guide thy son! O spirits of David and Solomon, befriend the son of Hiram! O Jehovah, God of Israel, give me welcome to thy land!"
A wind stirred the dry grass that grew about the tomb. He leaped from the pedestal and ran. Turning from the highway, he threaded a path up a deep ravine. Moloch's fierce beams had drained its brook nearly dry; but in pools he found enough of tepid water to slake his burning thirst, and to wash away some of the heat of his throbbing temples.
Then on! He climbed the bank, that he might straighten his course. He passed a cave. Although he could see nothing within its dark opening, he knew that its walls were carved with symbols of the Egyptian religion, made during the passage of the army of a Pharaoh many centuries before. He prayed to all the gods of Egypt, if any might perchance be sojourning or travelling near. He knew that he believed in none, but, in his extremity, did not dare to admit his incredulity, lest peradventure they might be real; and he needed even the shadows to help him now.
Then on! A moment he stopped to placate with gentle tones a dog startled from sleep beside a shepherd guarding his flock. Again he turned far aside from the path, that he might avoid a tent whose lamp, burning all night, told that all its inmates were living. Inadvertently he came close to a hut shrouded in darkness, from which he was warned by the voices of wailing. He had no sympathy for such bereavement, since Nature, more kindly than men, had only exacted her due, and no horrid idol of Baal stood before the door.
The night seemed interminable, so many terrors massed before him, through which he must cut his way with naked soul. For men and beasts he had begun to lose fear, when suddenly a new menace appeared. The earth seemed to open before him. He descended a step or two cautiously. The ground was hot, and burned his bare feet. Strange! for the night air had chilled all else. The earth was hard and sharp, like the refuse heap near some factory of bronze. Chinks opened. Fire gleamed. Strangling gases were emitted. Had Moloch stirred up the gates of hell to join in pursuit of him? There came a roar not unlike that he had heard when passing the fire-vault of the idol, but deeper and more vengeful. The earth trembled. Great stones rolled down the sides of a precipitous bank, and with them he was hurled headlong. Whither?
"Moloch! Mercy!" was his cry.
Then all was dark.