It was opened to him at once by a white-haired, picturesque old man, who received him with a mute sign of welcome, and who at the same time laid one hand lightly but expressively on his own lips to signify that he was dumb. This was Elzear himself. He was attired in the same sort of flowing garb as that worn by the monks of Dariel, and with his tall, spare figure, long, silvery beard and deep-sunken yet still brilliant dark eyes, he might have served as a perfect model for one of the inspired prophets of bygone ancient days. Though Nature had deprived him of speech, his serene countenance spoke eloquently in his favor, its mild benevolent expression betokening that inward peace of the heart which so often renders old age more beautiful than youth. He perused with careful slowness the letter Alwyn presented to him,—and then, inclining his head gravely, he made a courteous and comprehensive gesture, to intimate that himself and all that his house contained were at the service of the newcomer. He proceeded to testify the sincerity of this assurance at once by setting a plentiful supply of food and wine before his guest, waiting upon him, moreover, while he ate and drank, with a respectful humility which somewhat embarrassed Alwyn, who wished to spare him the trouble of such attendance and told him so many times with much earnestness. But all to no purpose—Elzear only smiled gently and continued to perform the duties of hospitality in his own way … it was evidently no use interfering with him. Later on he showed his visitor a small cell-like apartment containing a neat bed, together with a table, a chair, and a large Crucifix, which latter object was suspended against the wall, . . and indicating by eloquent signs that here the weariest traveller might find good repose, he made a low salutation and departed altogether for the night.
What a still place the "Hermitage" was, thought Alwyn, as soon as Elzear's retreating steps had died away into silence. There was not a sound to be heard anywhere, … not even the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. And what a haunting, grave, wistfully tender expression filled the face of that sculptured Image on the Cross, which in intimate companionship with himself seemed to possess the little room! He could not bear the down-drooping appealing, penetrating look in those heavenly-kind yet piteous Eyes, … turning abruptly away he opened the narrow window, and folding his arms on the sill surveyed the scene before him. The full moon was rising slowly, … round and large, she hung like a yellow shield on the dark, dense wall of the sky. The Rums of Babylon were plainly visible.. the river shone like a golden ribbon,—the outline of Birs-Nimoud was faintly rimmed with light, and had little streaks of amber radiance wandering softly up and down its shadowy slopes.
"'AND I WENT INTO THE FIELD CALLED ARDATH AND THERE I SAT AMONG THE FLOWERS!'" mused Alwyn half aloud, his dreamy gaze fixed on the gradually brightening heavens … "Why not go there at once … NOW!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE FIELD OF FLOWERS.
This idea had no sooner entered his mind than he prepared to act upon it,—though only a short while previously, feeling thoroughly overcome by fatigue, he had resolved to wait till next day before setting out for the chief goal of his long pilgrimage. But now, strangely enough, all sense of weariness had suddenly left him,—a keen impatience burned in his veins,—and a compelling influence stronger than himself seemed to urge him on to the instant fulfillment of his purpose. The more he thought about it the more restless he became, and the more eagerly desirous to prove, with the least possible delay, the truth or the falsity of his mystic vision at Danel. By the light of the small lamp left on the table he consulted his map,—the map Heliobas had traced,—and also the written directions that accompanied it—though these he had read so often over and over again that he knew them by heart. They were simply and concisely worded thus: "On the east bank of the Euphrates, nearly opposite the 'Hermitage,' there is the sunken fragment of a bronze Gate, formerly belonging to the Palace of the Babylonian Kings. Three miles and a half to the southwest of this fragment and in a direct line with it, straight across country, will be found a fallen pillar of red granite half buried in the earth. The square tract of land extending beyond this broken column is the field known to the Prophet Esdras as the 'FIELD OF ARDATH'"
He was on the east bank of the Euphrates already,—and a walk of three miles and a half could surely be accomplished in an hour or very little over that time. Hesitating no longer he made his way out of the house, deciding that if he met Elzear he would say he was going for a moonlight stroll before retiring to rest. That venerable recluse, however, was nowhere to be seen,—and as the door of the "Hermitage" was only fastened with a light latch he had no difficulty in effecting a noiseless exit. Once in the open air he stopped, . . startled by the sound of full, fresh, youthful voices singing in clear and harmonious unison … "KYRIE ELEISON! CHRISTE ELEISON! KYRIE ELEISON!" He listened, . . looking everywhere about him in utter amazement. There was no habitation in sight save Elzear's,—and the chorus certainly did not proceed from thence, but rather seemed to rise upward through the earth, floating in released sweet echoes to and fro upon the hushed air. "KYRIE ELEISON! … CHRISTE ELEISON!" How it swayed about him like a close chime of bells!
He stood motionless, perplexed and wondering, … was there a subterranean grotto near at hand where devotional chants were sung?—or, . . and a slight tremor ran through him at the thought, . . was there something supernatural in the music, notwithstanding its human-seeming speech and sound? Just then it ceased, … all was again silent as before, . . and angry with himself for his own foolish fancies, he set about the task of discovering the "sunken fragment" Heliobas had mentioned. Very soon he found it, driven deep into the soil and so blackened and defaced by time that it was impossible to trace any of the elaborate carvings that must have once adorned it. In fact it would not have been recognizable as a portion of a gate at all, had it not still possessed an enormous hinge which partly clung to it by means of one huge thickly rusted nail, dose beside it, grew a tree of weird and melancholy appearance—its trunk was split asunder and one half of it was withered. The other half leaning mournfully on one side bent down its branches to the ground, trailing a wealth of long, glossy green leaves in the dust of the ruined city. This was the famous tree called by the natives Athel, of which old legends say that it used to be a favorite evergreen much cultivated and prized by the Babylonian nobility, who loving its pleasant shade, spared no pains to make it grow in their hanging gardens and spacious courts, though its nature was altogether foreign to the soil. And now, with none to tend it or care whether it flourishes or decays, it faithfully clings to the deserted spot where it was once so tenderly fostered, showing its sympathy with the surrounding desolation, by growing always in split halves, one withered and one green—a broken-hearted creature, yet loyal to the memory of past love and joy. Alwyn stood under its dark boughs, knowing nothing of its name or history,—every now and then a wailing whisper seemed to shudder through it, though there was no wind,—and he heard the eerie lamenting sigh with an involuntary sense of awe. The whole scene was far more impressive by night than by day,—the great earth mounds of Babylon looked like giant graves inclosing a glittering ring of winding waters. Again he examined the imbedded fragment of the ancient gate,—and then feeling quite certain of his starting-point he set his face steadily toward the southwest,—there the landscape before him lay flat and bare in the beamy lustre of the moon. The soil was sandy and heavy to the tread,—moreover it was an excessively hot night,—too hot to walk fast. He glanced at his watch,—it was a few minutes past ten o'clock. Keeping up the moderate pace the heat enforced, it was possible he might reach the mysterious field about half-past eleven, . . perhaps earlier. And now his nerves began to quiver with strong excitement, . . had he yielded to the promptings of his own feverish impatience, he would most probably have run all the way in spite of the sultriness of the air,—but he restrained this impulse, and walked leisurely on purpose, reproaching himself as he went along for the utter absurdity of his expectations.
"Was ever madman more mad than I!" he murmured with some self-contempt—"What logical human being in his right mind would be guilty of such egregious folly! But am I logical? Certainly not! Am I in my right mind? I think I am,—yet I may be wrong. The question remains, … what IS logic? … and what IS being in one's right mind? No one can absolutely decide! Let me see if I can review calmly my ridiculous position. It comes to this,—I insist on being mesmerized … I have a dream, … and I see a woman in the dream"—here he suddenly corrected himself … "a woman did I say? No! … she was something far more than that! A lovely phantom—a dazzling creature of my own imagination … an exquisite ideal whom I will one day immortalize … yes!—IMMORTALIZE in song!"
He raised his eyes as he spoke to the dusky firmament thickly studded with stars, and just then caught sight of a fleecy silver-rimmed cloud passing swiftly beneath the moon and floating downwards toward the earth,—it was shaped like a white-winged bird, and was here and there tenderly streaked with pink, as though it had just travelled from some distant land where the sun was rising. It was the only cloud in the sky,—and it had a peculiar, almost phenomenal effect by reason of its rapid motion, there being not the faintest breeze stirring. Alwyn watched it gliding down the heavens till it had entirely disappeared, and then began his meditations anew.