“Who has done it?” she muttered—“Who has claimed her? It must be the Christ,—the cold, quiet, pallid Christ, with His bleeding hands and beckoning eyes! He is a new god,—He has called, and she, Lilith, has obeyed! Without love, without life, without aught in the world save the lily-garb of untouched holiness,—it is what the pale Christ seeks, and He has found it here,—here, with the child who slept the sleep of innocent ignorance—here where no thought of passion ever entered unless I breathed it,—or perchance he—El-Râmi—thought it—unknowingly. O what a white flower for the Christ in Heaven, is Lilith!—What a branch of bud and blossom! ... Ah, cruel, cold new gods of the Earth!—how long shall their sorrowful reign endure! Who will bring back the wise old gods,—the gods of the ancient days,—the gods who loved and were not ashamed,—the gods of mirth and life and health,—they would have left me Lilith,—they would have said—‘Lo, how this woman is old and poor,—she hath lost all that she ever had,—let us leave her the child she loves, albeit it is not her own but ours;—we are great gods, but we are merciful!’ Oh, Lilith, Lilith! child of the sun and air, and daughter of sleep! would I had perished instead of thee!—Would I had passed away into darkness, and thou been spared to the light!”
Thus she wailed and moaned, her face hidden, her limbs quivering, and she knew not how long she had stayed thus, though all the morning had passed and the afternoon had begun. At last she was roused by the gentle yet firm pressure of a hand on her shoulder, and, slowly uncovering her drawn and anguished features she met the sorrowful eyes of Féraz looking into hers. With a mute earnest gesture he bade her rise. She obeyed, but so feebly and tremblingly, that he assisted her, and led her to a chair, where she sat down, still quaking all over with fear and utter wretchedness. Then he took a pencil and wrote on the slate which his brother had been wont to use,—
“A great trouble has come upon us. God has been pleased to so darken the mind of the beloved El-Râmi, that he knows us no longer, and is ignorant of where he is. The wise man has been rendered simple,—and the world seems to him as it seems to a child who has everything in its life to learn. We must accept this ordinance as the Will of the Supreme, and bring our own will in accordance with it, believing the ultimate intention to be for the Highest Good. But for his former life, El-Râmi exists no more,—the mind that guided his actions then is gone.”
Slowly, and with pained, aching eyes Zaroba read these words,—she grasped their purport and meaning thoroughly, and yet, she said not a word. She was not surprised,—she was scarcely affected;—her feelings seemed blunted or paralysed. El-Râmi was mad? To her, he had always seemed mad,—with a madness born of terrible knowledge and power. To be mad now was nothing; the loss of Lilith was amply sufficient cause for his loss of wit. Nothing could be worse in her mind than to have loved Lilith and lost her,—what was the use of uttering fresh cries and ejaculations of woe! It was all over,—everything was ended,—so far as she, Zaroba, was concerned. So she sat speechless,—her grand old face rigid as bronze, with an expression upon it of stern submission, as of one who waits immovably for more onslaughts from the thunderbolts of destiny.
Féraz looked at her very compassionately, and wrote again—
“Good Zaroba, I know your grief. Rest—try to sleep. Do not see El-Râmi to-day. It is better I should be alone with him. He is quite peaceful and happy,—happier indeed than he has ever been. He has so much to learn, he says, and he is quite satisfied. For to-day we must be alone with our sorrows,—to-morrow we shall be able to see more clearly what we must do.”
Still Zaroba said nothing. Presently however she arose, and walked totteringly to the side of Lilith’s couch, ... there with an eloquently tragic gesture of supremest despair, she pointed to the gray-white ashes that were spread in that dreadfully suggestive outline on the satin coverlet and pillows. Féraz, shuddering, shut his eyes for a moment;—then, as he opened them again, he saw, confronting him, the uncurtained picture of the “Christ and His Disciples.” He remembered it well,—El-Râmi had bought it long ago from among the despoiled treasures of an old dismantled monastery,—and besides being a picture it was also a reliquary. He stepped hastily up to it and felt for the secret spring which used, he knew, to be there. He found and pressed it,—the whole of the picture flew back like a door on a hinge, and showed the interior to be a Gothic-shaped casket, lined with gold, at the back of which was inserted a small piece of wood, supposed to have been a fragment of the “True Cross.” There was nothing else in the casket,—and Féraz leaving it open, turned to Zaroba who had watched him with dull, scarcely comprehending eyes.
“Gather together these sacred ashes,”—he wrote again on the slate,—“and place them in this golden recess,—it is a holy place fit for such holy relics. El-Râmi would wish it, I know, if he could understand or wish for anything,—and wherever we go, the picture will go with us, for one day perhaps he will remember, ... and ask, ...”
He could trust himself to write no more,—and stood sadly enrapt, and struggling with his own emotion.
“The Christ claims all!” muttered Zaroba wearily, resorting to her old theme—“The crucified Christ, ... He must have all; the soul, the body, the life, the love, the very ashes of the dead,—He must have all ... all!”