Evarne's brown eyes had grown graver, and all-unconsciously she had sighed deeply as she stood amidst those numerous Sekhets seated beneath the clear blue sky. They had struck strange awe to her heart, these symbolic counterfeits of the goddess who presided over the most powerful—the most eternal—forces in heaven and earth, Sekhet—goddess both of Love and of Cruelty! Ah, they were a subtle people, those ancient Egyptians, skilful in reading the heart of humanity, fearless of the truth, defiant in stripping the gloss from life!
The light laughter and exclamations of her companions had jarred upon Evarne's ear. She felt weighed down with an unreasoning reverence. These solemn figures in the great ruined hall of the temple had seemed instinct with a supernatural power. Battered by the passing of much time, discredited for centuries as representing a great divinity—objects but of curiosity and wonder to this age—they had yet appealed to her as invested with the calm complacency of conscious power. Serenely they sat, confidently awaiting at least the individual recognition and homage of mankind. Strangely did they convey the idea that theirs was the triumphant knowledge that, for so long as human hearts can pulsate, for so long, too, Sekhet—the personification of Love and Lust, and the suffering both bring—shall find her throne, her shrine, her arena.
This figure that Evarne now stood before was not seated. Somewhat over life-size it stood, stiffly erect, one foot advanced, the symbol of Life held in its grasp. It was raised above the sand of the floor on a low pedestal. Evarne stood motionless, gazing upwards. The battered figures in the open had been impressive, but this one—uninjured, and with the artificial advantage of its surroundings—was more than that! It was terrible, awe-inspiring, with its inhuman head, the menacing feline features bearing so clearly the impress of unpitying and vindictive cruelty, malignant spite, merciless joy in the inflicting and witnessing of the direst agonies that can rack tortured brain or flesh or spirit.
Evarne had been the last to enter, and as she rejoined her companions outside, the party commenced to retrace its steps. Unperceived, she left them and returned to the temple. She had something to say to Sekhet.
Alone she stood, facing the goddess—the lifeless marble into which the hand of an artist, long since pulseless, had wrought this unhallowed expression with such marvellous realism that it was difficult to remember that no knowledge, no power, no fearsome intelligence, lay behind those gleaming eyes, that low animal brow. Evarne stood motionless, gazing intently up at the brutal face, trying to forget her own individuality and all that was modern. It had been a little prayer that was in her heart as she hastened back, but now she shook her head slowly as the conception of the innate and unalterable cruelty of Sekhet impressed itself with yet greater force upon her mind. This was a goddess who surely had ever been more inclined to fulfil curses than to answer prayers.
As she commenced her half-whispered appeal she recalled some of the titles under which this cat-headed image had been invoked—doubtless many a time and oft—in the dim and distant past. "Oh, Queen of the Goddesses! Oh, Crusher of Hearts! If you can hear me and still wield power, let just tribulation fall on all those who set forth to steal a love that is not free for them—a love to which they have no right—a love that is another's! May success but open the gates of sorrow; may that which they desired and schemed to gain crush the heart, even in its triumph, down to the very dust! Deal out stern justice, untempered by all mercy, to the false, the scornful, the treacherous, the hypocritical, to those who are unscrupulous and base in thy service, and who cast aside all honour when in pursuit of that which thou dost offer!"
Then she stood silent awhile, still gazing with fixed eyes at the impassive countenance before her, monstrous, yet so strangely human. She had not originally designed to send forth such a plea into the universe, but it had arisen spontaneously from the depth of her soul, and she would not have recalled one word.
Then she turned, and slowly, with strange reluctance proceeded to quit this dim sanctuary. Still her mind was not relieved. Impulsively she hastened back and stood close under the grim black statue.
"Sekhet," she whispered softly and rapidly, "help me—help me always. Whatever be the price of your aid I will pay it ungrudgingly. Watch over me; be ever near me. I cannot live without love. I do not shrink from its suffering. Sekhet, at all costs, I am thy worshipper. Do not forsake me. Do not forsake me ever."
At the throat of her gown were fastened a couple of crimson roses. They drooped now after the long day, yet were still rich in perfume. These she unclasped and laid on the yellow sand at the base of the statue. Then, with a final glance around the little chamber—once well accustomed to the sound of prayer, now but the relic of a dead religion—she hurried away.