[1] The mystery of these keys had been explained in an earlier chapter. The plagues were supposed to be locked up like the winds in the cave of Æolus, and by turning the key of death they would be blown about the world, whilst by turning the key of life they would be rendered harmless.
The priest, who at first had seemed thunderstruck, and too much astonished to say or do aught, now poising his javelin, hurled it at Philetos with a fierce curse. But wrath or fear misdirected the aim, and the javelin struck the sculpture of the wrestlers, and broke off the hand of the ideal of intellect and cruelty. The Egyptian himself seemed a prey to the most violent agitation; at one time he looked to his ancestors, and at another to Philetos, seeming in doubt which to obey. Yet he drew not his sword, nor made any effort to kill his friend, as in similar circumstances he had done before. On his visage, usually, even in the most perilous and exciting circumstances, as cold and immovable as marble, was depicted a most terrible struggle of emotion. On the one hand, the friendship for which he had already sacrificed so much, and which year by year had been growing in intensity, urged him in one direction; but on the other, the purpose of his life, and the lives of his ancestors—the tremendous weight that accrued to this purpose by the already accomplished resurrection, the vividness with which he saw his hereditary object before him, and in addition his sombre religion, which had never ceased to have the greatest sway over him—urged him to kill Philetos. At length, as men driven this way and that by doubts at last appeal to chance, and then become firm in one resolution by the upshot of a most trivial event, so the Egyptian, when he saw the priest raise his javelin, did not attempt to hinder him, but seemed to decide to act according to the javelin;—if it struck Philetos ever so slightly, to slay him at once—and if it failed, to renounce his ancestors. Accordingly, when not only did it not strike Philetos, but ominously released the fair statue from the grasp of its destroyer, he grasped Philetos by the hand, but remained silent through emotion. But the priest, whom this act seemed to render furious, thinking that the fate of the world and his revered masters depended on him alone, drew his sword and rushed at Philetos. But he, for the first time in his life enraged with a fellow-man, avoiding the blow, caught the priest and hurled him into the lake. Still the Egyptian spoke not, nor raised a hand against him. Then arose a faint cry, yet a cry which seemed in its purpose naturally strong enough to have shaken the temple to the ground, from the multitude who filled the temple. Yet they moved not, but with all their efforts could only look their hatred, and mutter faintly. Then followed a deep silence, for Philetos, after slaying the priest, seemed struck with deep sorrow, for never before had he slain a man. At length the father of all these haters of men, in a tremulous voice, thus spoke, and as he spoke, not one of his descendants, nor Philetos, moved ever so slightly, but in the deepest silence all gave heed to him:—
“Verily thou art born in my image, and I should think thee my own son, but that a multitudinous murmuring, which only hundreds of my descendants could have uttered, has cursed thee, as I curse thee now. Think not that I, who have waited for my vengeance these thousands of years, will now stoop to entreat thee, puny weakling, to do what do thou must; for I command thee on the instant to slay this man, and unlock the gates of death. Thinkest thou because I am feeble and but half aroused from this deathly sleep, that therefore thou canst with impunity mock me thus? Nay, rather, but that Will which has kept me fixed in my resolve, and has made these hundreds keep most strictly all my laws, that Will, though now it be manifested by a feeble voice, cannot fail to force thy sickly nature as it listeth. By the wrongs I suffered from the foolish race of men, who would none of my counsel, though to every tribe I offered life and peace; by the blood which flows in thy veins, by the mighty ties of nature, by the oath I and these have sworn, I charge thee to do my bidding; tarry an instant and I curse thee with the fatal curse. Darest thou look on me, and these thy forefathers, and still let doubt divide thy mind? I charge thee, pour out on the world the measure of my hate; unlock these fatal gates, and, unworthy as thou art, look no longer on us, but cast thyself headlong, having fulfilled thine oath. My voice already fails—slay—slay—slay!”
Thus ended the father of the haters of men, and the Egyptian drawing his sword, struck fiercely at Philetos; but less violent was the stroke than that with which the grass, bent by a gentle wind, smites the earth. He muttered—
“I cannot; thrice before have I thus purposed, and thrice have I failed.”
Then arose a shriek of horror from those dying men, and the father of them all, with a low, feeble, passionate voice, broke forth—
“By the stars of heaven, by the caves of the sea, by mighty nature, mother of all things, who once articulately promised me this power over one man, I consign thee to unfathomable misery for a thousand thousand years. On the instant thou shalt die, and thy spirit herd with the loathliest animals. In murky darkness and loathsome air, now sinking in mire, with reptiles for thy pillow, now in burning sands alive with fiery serpents, thou shalt pass a miserable afterlife; more horrors than ever I could devise shall be thy portion. It is spoken! I curse thee with the fated curse!”
And from the lips of those dying men arose the cry of “We curse thee!”
They spoke no more, but with tottering steps advanced towards the two who were still in the flush of life. Then murmured the Egyptian—
“Philetos, thou seest what I have done for thee; and now I cannot have my reward in simply clasping thy hand, for then thou must share my fate.”