And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her tomb by the sounding sea!”
With a shaking hand El-Râmi shut the door more swiftly than he had opened it, and dragged the heavy portière across it to deaden the sound of that song!—to keep it out from his ears ... from his heart, ... to stop its passionate vibration from throbbing along his nerves like creeping fire. ...
“And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride.” ...
“God!—my God!” he muttered incoherently—“What ails me? ... Am I going mad that I should dream thus?”
He gazed round the room wildly, his hand still clutching the velvet portière,—and met the keenly watchful glance of Zaroba. Her hands were mechanically busy with her thread-work,—but her eyes, black, piercing and brilliant, were fixed on him steadfastly. Something in her look compelled his attention,—something in his compelled hers. They stared across the room at each other, as though a Thought had sprung between them like an armed soldier with drawn sword, demanding from each the pass-word to a mystery. In and out, across and across went the filmy glistening threads in Zaroba’s wrinkled hands, but her eyes never moved from El-Râmi’s face, and she looked like some weird sorceress weaving a web of destiny.
“For you were the days of Ashtaroth!” she said in a low, monotonous, yet curiously thrilling tone—“You are born too late, El-Râmi,—the youth of the world has departed and the summer seasons of the heart are known on earth no more. You are born too late—too late!—the Christ claims all,—the body, the blood, the nerve and the spirit,—every muscle of His white limbs on the cross must be atoned for by the dire penance and torture of centuries of men. So that now even love is a thorn in the flesh and its prick must be paid with a price,—these are the hours of woe preceding the end. The blood that runs in your veins, El-Râmi, has sprung from kings and strong rulers of men,—and the pale faint spirits of this dull day have naught to do with its colour and glow. And it rebels, O El-Râmi!—as God liveth, it rebels!—it burns in your heart—the proud, strong heart,—like ruddy wine in a ruby cup; it rebels, El-Râmi!—it rises to passion as rise the waves of the sea to the moon, by a force and an impulse in Nature stronger than yours! Ay, ay!—for you were the days of Ashtaroth”—and her voice sank into a wailing murmur—“but now—now—the Christ claims all.”
He heard her as one may hear incoherencies in a nightmare vision;—only a few weeks ago he would have been angry with her for what he would then have termed her foolish jargon,—but he was not angry now. Why should he be angry? he wondered dully—had he time to even think of anger while thus unnerved by that keen tremor that quivered through his frame—a tremor he strove in vain to calm? His hand fell from the curtain,—the sweet distracting song of Poe’s “Annabel Lee” had ceased,—and he advanced into the room again, his heart beating painfully still, his head a little drooped as though with a sense of conscious shame. He moved slowly to where the roses in the Venetian vase exhaled their odours on the air, and breaking one off its branch toyed with it aimlessly, letting its pale pink leaves flutter down one by one on the violet carpet at his feet. Suddenly, as though he had resolved a doubt and made up his mind to something, he turned towards Zaroba, who watched him fixedly,—and with a mute signal bade her leave the apartment. She rose instantly, and crossing her hands upon her breast made her customary obeisance and waited,—for he looked at her with a meditative expression which implied that he had not yet completed his instructions. Presently, and with some hesitation, he made her another sign—a sign which had the effect of awakening a blaze of astonishment in her dark sunken eyes.