“Come,” said he, “let us be off. There! midnight strikes; and as it echoes, in the far distance, from the wooden cross above the forest comes the bitter cry of him who had found his God.”
CHAPTER VII
We returned to the Palace, and still found it the centre of life and brilliancy. I noticed, on entering the large dining-hall in which supper was served, that neither Plucritus nor Vestné were there.
“Will you stay?” asked Vestasian.
“I think not,” I answered. “I am tired, and not accustomed to many people. I will return.”
Almost before the words were spoken I found myself alone in my own chamber.
In one way this evening had been different from the others. It had given me interest and food for thought. There was about Vestasian none of that cold languor and chilliness which nearly always distinguished Vestné, neither did there seem to be the same sneering cruelty that characterised Plucritus.
Yet as I thought about it the old, old feeling came back upon me by leaps and bounds, bringing the same old pain.
Now that I was away from him, from his clear voice, and quiet manner, and curious conversation, I recognised with horrible distrust the fascination he had held for me. I remembered how I had followed him as in a dream, seeing with his eyes, hearing almost with his ears, even arriving at the same thoughts as himself, listening to his stories with an interest as real as if I had taken part in them. I remembered too how he had singled me out for his attention, me, a solitary unknown guest, almost a prisoner, having neither friend nor rank in this great land.
When, however, the interest and glamour had gone I saw him as he was, or what I took him for—a terrible power, silent, strong and swift, covered with a veneer of lightness like all the rest.