By the waters of Babylon we next find Theos Alwyn, who is soon housed in the Hermitage, near Hillah, with one Elzear of Malyana, to whom Heliobas has supplied the traveler with a letter of introduction. So impatient is this lover to prove the truth or falsity of his mystic vision at Dariel, that, on the first night of his arrival at the Hermitage, he proceeds shortly before midnight to search for the Field of Ardath which was known to the Prophet Esdras. He sets forth, and the wondrous story of his experiences immediately commences. “Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison! Kyrie eleison!” sung by full, fresh, youthful voices in clear and harmonious unison, greets his ears; though whence comes the sound, and from whom, there is nothing to show. “Was ever madman more mad than I,” he murmurs. It is a sweet and fascinating madness none the less, for the angel-lover is true to her promise. “Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory hath the moon unveiled!” quoth the Prophet Esdras, and as Theos treads the Field of Ardath, which had appeared, when first his eyes rested upon it, a dreary and desolate place, he finds the turf covered with white blossoms, star-shaped and glossy-leaved, with deep golden centres, wherein bright drops of dew sparkled like brilliants, and whence puffs of perfume rose like incense swung at unseen altars. And here he finds, moving sedately along through the snow-white blossoms, a graceful girl. He no longer has eyes for the flower-transfiguration of the lately barren land. “My name is Edris; I came from a far, far country, Theos,—a land where no love is wasted and no promise forgotten!” she tells him. More than that, she adds that she has waited and prayed for him through long bright æons of endless glory, and he recognizes in Edris at last the angel of his vision. She upbraids him for his doubts and unhappiness, speaks slightingly of fame as a perishable diadem; and crying “O fair King Christ, Thou shalt prevail!” she leaves him, and as she goes Theos is told “prayers are heard, and God’s great patience never tires;—learn therefore from the perils of the past, the perils of the future.” Alwyn, falling senseless, drifts into the dream wherein he is to learn the story of his new self.
The description of Theos’s dream fills over fifteen score of pages. The reader is impelled on and on, finding in every step new subject for wonder. The city of Al-Kyris is a feast of scenic splendors, the skill of the writer providing fascinating word-pictures of incidents more strange than were ever imagined in an Arabian Nights’ entertainment. And through all runs a steady and strong undercurrent made up of the solid lesson of the book, “learn from the perils of the past, the perils of the future.”
Theos Alwyn could not tell how long he slept on the Field of Ardath, for his awakening was confusing. He had a consciousness of his previous life, its conditions, his position, and opinions. All now was changed. He was before a gate leading into a walled city, the entrance to which consisted of huge massive portals apparently made of finely moulded brass, and embellished on either side by thick round stone towers from the summits of which red pennons drooped idly in the air. Through the portals was seen a wide avenue paved entirely with mosaics, and along this passed an endless stream of wayfarers. A strange city and a strange people. Fruit-sellers, carrying their lovely luscious merchandise in huge gilded baskets, stood at almost every corner; flower-girls, fair as their own flowers, bore aloft in their gracefully upraised arms wide wicker trays overflowing with odorous blossoms tied into clusters and wreaths. Theos understood the language spoken. It was perfectly familiar to him—more so than his own native tongue. What was his native tongue? Who was he? “Theos Alwyn” was all he could remember. Whence did he come? The answer was direct and decisive. From Ardath. But what was Ardath? Neither a country nor a city. And his dress!—he glanced at it, dismayed and appalled—he had not noticed it till now. It bore some resemblance to the costume of ancient Greece, and consisted of a white linen tunic and loose upper vest, both garments being kept in place by a belt of silver. From this belt depended a sheathed dagger. His feet were shod with sandals, his arms were bare to the shoulder and clasped at the upper part by two broad silver armlets richly chased. The men were for the most part arrayed like himself, though here and there he met some few whose garments were of soft silk, instead of linen, who wore gold belts in place of silver, and who carried their daggers in sheaths that were literally encrusted all over with flashing jewels.
“The costume of the women was composed of a straight clinging gown, slightly gathered at the throat and bound about the waist with a twisted girdle of silver, gold, and, in some cases, jewels; their arms, like those of the men, were bare; and their small delicate feet were protected by sandals fastened with crossed bands of ribbon coquettishly knotted. The arrangement of their hair was evidently a matter of personal taste, and not the slavish copying of any set fashion. Some allowed it to hang in loosely flowing abundance over their shoulders; others had it closely braided or coiled carelessly in a thick, soft mass at the top of the head; but all without exception wore white veils—veils long, transparent and filmy as gossamer, which they flung back or draped about them at their pleasure.”
Dazed and bewildered, Theos Alwyn gazed about him. Then, following the crowd, he was borne along to a large square which bordered on the banks of a river that ran through the city. A strange gilded vessel was seen approaching. Huge oars, like golden fins, projected from the sides of the vessel and dipped lazily now and then into the water, wielded by the hands of invisible rowers. The ship sparkled all over as though it were carved out of one great burning jewel. Golden hangings, falling in rich, loose folds, draped it gorgeously from stem to stern; gold cordage looped the sails. On the deck a band of young girls, clad in white and crowned with flowers, knelt, playing softly on quaintly shaped instruments; and a cluster of tiny, semi-nude boys, fair as young cupids, were grouped in pretty, reposeful attitudes along the edge of the gilded prow, holding garlands of red and yellow blossoms which trailed down to the surface of the water.
Theos, gazing dreamily and wonderingly upon the scene, was suddenly roused to feverish excitement, and with a smothered cry of ecstasy fixed his straining eager gaze on one supreme, fair figure—the central glory of the marvelous picture.
“A woman or a Goddess?—a rainbow Flame in mortal shape?—a spirit of earth, air, fire, water?—or a Thought of Beauty embodied into human sweetness and made perfect? Clothed in gold attire, and girded with gems, she stood, leaning indolently against the middle mast of the vessel, her great sombre dusky eyes resting drowsily on the swarming masses of people, whose frenzied roar of rapture and admiration sounded like the breaking of billows.”
Beauty-stricken, Theos was roughly brought back to a sense of his position as a stranger in the city. Al-Kyris was given up to the worship of a serpent, Nagâya. This woman who had passed was Nagâya’s High Priestess, the chief power in the place. All the people worshiped her, and Theos had not, with them, fallen down before her. Immediately he was seized and roughly handled by the mob, who proclaimed him an infidel and a spy. At this opportune moment the Poet Laureate of the Realm, one Sah-Lûma, made his appearance. In Al-Kyris the Laureate was a great man, next only indeed to Zephorânim, the King.
Sah-Lûma rebuked the crowd for their ill-treatment of the stranger; and then, hearing that Theos was a poet from a far country, took him to his own palace.
Probably no vainer person than Sah-Lûma ever existed, whether in a real or imaginary world. They were very artistic in Al-Kyris. Nobody ever seemed to work except the black slaves. Apparently there was no necessity for that. The people, including the King, positively doted on poets. No wonder Sah-Lûma was the Prince of Egoists, seeing that he was the chief poet in Al-Kyris.