“Nor I,” said Grey. “Why was my wife so startled? I can understand her refusing to accept my statement when she had such good evidence that Crystal was dead, but why did she look so amazed? Surely she could not have imagined that Crystal had risen from the dead!”
“Yet she seemed to recognise me in some way,” said Crystal again.
“That is impossible,” I exclaimed. “The colour of your eyes would be the only thing that would not have altered, and in torchlight all dark eyes would look black. No! there is something to be explained. Do you know where we are going?”
“To the white cave you told us about?”
“Yes, the marble cave where Hinauri stands—Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn.”
Crystal was silent. Presently she said: “I don’t see how she can help us.”
The tone of her voice told me that the bitterness of her heart had come uppermost again. But I did not reply, for at that moment we came to some smooth white steps cut in the rock. Te Makawawa stood aside upon these steps, and as we passed him I saw, by the light of the torch moving into a dim but growing daylight before us, that he fixed his piercing eyes upon Crystal’s face in a long, bewildering scrutiny.
The steps led round to the right, and finally we stood upon the threshold of a pure white marble cave, lofty and spacious. Beyond the facts that the level floor was covered with snow-white dust, and that there was a large opening communicating with the outer air, I took small note of the details of the place, for there, standing where the fine, clear morning light flooded in, was the marble image of Hinauri, her arms held out in longing towards some vision she could see in the western sky through the opening of the cave. Her face was concealed from the side view by some of the waves of sculptured hair that fell over her left shoulder, but the lifelike pose of the figure showed the perfect body and lovely soul of one who had seen a vision of joy long sought, and, in yearning towards it, had for the moment “forgot herself to marble.”
Miriam Grey had now thrown down her torch, and was standing beyond the image with her hands clasped together, waiting. I was the first to move into the daylight and gaze into the face of Hinauri. What I saw there dashed to the ground my hopes of a heaven on earth. For one brief moment I looked upon that lovely face, startled, bewildered, dazed—but not at its loveliness. Then I staggered back into the shadow of the rocks and leaned against them, looking on at the scene in a helpless fashion. Grey, too, after one quick glance, started back and passed his hand over his brow, as if he doubted his senses. Then Crystal, who followed him, paused before the image. With a little cry she took a step towards it and stood in mute wonder. For a time they remained facing each other, the girl of to-day and the goddess of ancient night, for whom the giants of old had fought their grim battles—the pure woman whom the vile Cazotl had sought to degrade by his magic, and Hinauri who, from the time of Zun the Terrible, had been fiercely guarded from the Vile Ones of all time by a greater magic—Crystal Grey, who loved my perfect man, and the cold white being, which, set in the high solitudes of the world, my perfect man had loved. Crystal raised her arms to the radiant Daughter of the Dawn, and a single word fell upon the silence of the place: “Myself!”
Like a note of heavenly music the word fell from Crystal’s lips; like a discord of the tuneless earth it rankled through my brain. Then for a moment—so paramount is self—life and love forsook my heart, leaving it cold, like the stone on which I leant despairingly.