“Fear nothing,” said a voice in a whisper.
Cornelia looked upwards; the voice was soft like the murmur of waters, and seemed to come from above.
“Fear nothing,” it repeated. “Thy prayer is heard. Thou shalt be blest above all mortal women.”
The figure came nearer, and Cornelia, with an awe-stricken shudder, recognized the grotesque hawk-head that she had so often seen in images. Yes, it was the same guise that Osiris wore down in the temple, where he stood on his plinth of ivory and sardonyx, an inscrutable combination of hideousness and dignity. A god with the head of a brute creature! How could she so ignore her sense of beauty! How could she do such violence to the instincts of her nature? By degrees her pious delusions had gained the mastery; but now—now, when the statue seemed to have come to life, when the god himself in the hawk mask had stepped down from his pedestal, what a shiver chilled her blood! She shuddered, as if a snake or a scorpion were creeping towards her.
By this time the shadowy form—which almost seemed to float in the air, so noiselessly had it moved—was standing close before her. A hand was softly laid upon her shoulder.
“Fear nothing,” said the voice above. “The ways of the gods are wonderful.”
But this god, who appeared in such a questionable shape, now threw both arms round the excited girl and clasped her to his breast with a vehemence not usually attributed to the divine beings; at the same time the mysterious Osiris heaved a sigh, almost a gasp, which in the midst of all his grotesque paraphernalia sounded remarkably human. Enough—in the next instant Cornelia had violently flung the god from her with a loud shriek, and, as he staggered backwards, she flew at him and seized him by the throat with the strength of desperation. A thunder-clap even, that broke close over her head, failed of its effect; after a short struggle Cornelia stood free in the middle of the room, with the hideous painted mask crushed and broken in her left hand, her right hand clenched and raised to strike. Before her, with distorted features, his eyes inflamed with rage and terror, was the sneering and repulsively-bloated face of the Emperor. From his cheek, where Cornelia’s nails had torn the flesh, blood was trickling out. He groaned and panted.
For some minutes they stood transfixed, looking at each other.
“Divine girl!” he said at last, in a broken voice. “Nothing but the wildest passion—a soul on fire....”
He came a step nearer, and pressed his hand to his heart.