Their voices ceased, and joining their delicate hands they melted into a shining circle about the Crown,—a circle of pure and penetrating light like the early sunbeams of a clear spring morning.
But the Angel of Darkness, resting on his sword, heard them and smiled—a smile darker and more implacable than any frown.
“Oh, foolish, evanescent Shapes! Oh, vain gods of perishable gems!” he cried; “How shall ye combat Me, who hold the mystic Opal!—the stone of sorrow and of death? What is your strength against mine? Less than the strength of reeds in a swift tide,—for I am the Spirit of Mammon, and Time’s great pendulum swings the hour to me! Lo, here shines the Crown’s mischief!—sparkling with a thousand fires of world’s wealth, world’s lust, world’s treachery, world’s vanity!—hues of the rainbow, as fleeting as they are fair! Emblem of ruin and disaster, take Thou thy place in the Crown, and shed My light upon the great King’s brow! Indestructible and terrible!—Jewel of devils and cursing, I set thee there to work My will!”
He raised on high the Opal, glittering like a foam-bell on a treacherous sea,—and then, bending his dark form above the Crown, strove to set it within that golden band. But the magic circle of fire around it grew brighter, and deeper, and wider, till it was like a flame of glory,—springing higher and ever higher, it surrounded the Angel of Light with countless arrowy beams.
“Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom!” said a distant Voice that echoed like thunder far away. “Fight on! Unto thee shall be given the victory!”
Then the Angel raised his sword of Light and struck the Opal from his enemy’s hand. It fell to the ground, shattered to atoms, and a rushing sound as of many waters filled the air.
“New and Old are as one!” said the Voice; “Past and Future are as Present! Fight on, God’s Angel of the Kingdom,—for Now is the acceptable time!”
And once again those mighty Spirits fought,—and, as they crossed their mystic Swords, there came a wailing noise as of the weeping of a great multitude. Cries of passionate grief echoed up from some dismal unseen abyss of suffering, and the anguish of a great People was borne on the double rhythmic beat of a Funeral march and a Battle song. Strange gleaming visions came and went in the darkness:—women’s pale faces worn with toil and sorrow;—dead soldiers slain in their youth, and lying unburied;—grim countenances of foul and lustful men, who occupied their time in digging gold out of newly-made graves, wherein the bodies had scarcely rested long enough to crumble into dust;—bold eyes of false women shining wickedly through skulls that were crowned with gems;—wide seas on which the great ships tossed, bearing the seeds of new nations;—flashing networks of light, on which the quick news travelled in dancing letters of flame! And over all—a Cloud,—and under all—the Crown! The night hours wore away, and still the combat raged,—and still the Angel of the Darkness fought fiercely with the Angel of the Light. And the visions came and went like shadows in a magic mirror—some beautiful, some terrible,—some that were like great storms raging over the land,—some floating by in the halcyon fairness of long summer days. Now and again while that mystic flashing of Swords made luminance in the air, there came a sound of young voices singing in the distance, and the words that broke through the music were like these—
“Sheathed be the sword for ever!—let the drum
Be school-boys’ pastime,—let your battles cease;—