He paused. The listeners all shifted position a little, all but Yuki, who sat upright and motionless, her soul living in her long dark eyes.
"Even in so small a temple its power began to attract many worshippers and wonder-seekers. The fame of it grew like the grasses of summer. At the time of our Restoration, the beginning of that cycle of our time called 'Mei-ji,' its destruction was officially decreed. It was designated 'the object of slavish superstition.' My father was requested, with his own hands, to annihilate it."
"Ah," muttered Pierre, with feeling. "But, thank the good God, it wasn't destroyed, since you are soon to show it!"
One of Mrs. Todd's thick feet had gone to sleep. She stretched it out under her skirt with great caution.
Haganè looked up into Pierre's bright eyes. "As you observe, Monsieur, it was not annihilated. My father made request of Government that it be sold privately to him, and in return he gave pledge that it never again be used—publicly—as the altarpiece. Thus it came into my possession."
There had been something suggestive, almost sinister, in his use of the word "publicly." His glance had just brushed Yuki's face. Gwendolen's hands turned cold. "But what power needed to be suppressed—what harm could a picture do?" cried the blonde girl, eagerly.
Before attempting an answer, Haganè clapped for a servant, and, with a few low words, sent him off for the picture. He turned, looking first at Gwendolen, then at Yuki. "It is a painting of the Red God, Aizen Bosatsu. It was prayed to, and sacrificed to by men and women who loved. Generally they were persons who wished to become the man and wife against the wishes of parents and guardians; less often, of some guilty one already married, and wishing an impure love. Its strange power is this,—that one consumed with passion, making offerings, passing long nights in prayer, and crying forth incessantly desperate invocation, may see the red flesh and crimson lotos petals fall away like shrivelled bark, revealing the white and shining face of Kwannon the Merciful. This is the reward of those who pray for the strength to be loyal, who wish, in their deeper essence, the ultimate Good. But the painting has another—and more awful power—"
"Yes, yes, Lord," whispered Yuki, speaking now for the first time.
"Should the mad soul clamor on for earthly desire, ignoring what is high,—then will the Red God burn, burn, burn, even as the heated heart of evil passion burns; and the power of that suppliant to do evil will be strengthened. Circumstances may be compelled, and the wish, however harmful, be attained. With each new triumph of a soul, the merit of the picture deepens; with each malefic use, the evil grows more strong."
"What, Lord, would be the penalty—what to a wicked soul would be the price?" asked Yuki's bloodless lips.