With my finger on the trigger of my revolver I covered Cazotl as he walked round to the other side of the fire, and I prayed that just one little nervous twitch of my forefinger might do the deed. But if there was any one thing in the world of which I was absolutely certain at that moment, it was that I could not shoot.
I saw him approach Crystal, and their two figures were clearly lined against the background of shadow—the one like a slender lily, the other like a giant—powerful, majestic, but vile.
With a bow and a polished grace that marked him a man of cities, he bent his head and spoke to her words which revolted my very soul; for, sweet, musical, and poetical as they seemed, I knew them for the world-wide lie by which the basest passion gains its end. The tones of his voice were rich and deep, as he spoke slowly and distinctly.
“I am the one you love; the one you have longed for. You called me and I came. This is the garden where love meets love. The scent of roses is wafted about. Sweet music fills the air. Honeysuckle climbs over the bowers, and the soft beds of moss are full of violets. You hear the birds sing in the dreamy trees; they are saying, ‘I love you! I love you!’ and your bosom throbs with delight, for those are the words of your own pure heart.”
He paused, and by the growing light of the fire I saw her face. It was half raised to his with a wistful expression, and her bosom rose and fell as a sigh escaped her parted lips. Heaven forbid! but, by the cunning suggestion of his words, following the strange effect of the drug, she thought herself standing with Kahikatea in ideal surroundings, listening to his confession of love. The rich voice went on.
“You hear the cascade pour into the shaded pool, leaping and dancing in the sunlight: so rushes your quick blood with strong desire—a wild cascade of love’s delight. Listen! the wind murmurs through the trees: it is your own sweet voice whispering ‘yes’ a thousand times, ‘yes, yes!’ You are all a-tremble with love. Your passion thrills within you like honey and fire. It darts into your eyes like love lightning. All your desires and aspirations, your deep inward purity, your joy of laughter and speech, your power of song, and every intense longing for what is good and beautiful—all are thronging in your bosom to swell the tide of love. Now your eyes are on fire with the intensity of your being. You give yourself to me body and soul—come!”
With horror I saw the truth of his words. Crystal’s hands were clasped over her bosom. She turned to him, and all he had spoken was in her eyes. Her purest prayers were there, the essence of all her music and poetry and rippling laughter, the splendour of her world of dreams and the beauty of her love of beauty—all were there combined in a moment of supreme love and within reach of a devil in angel’s guise. A great wave of horror surged through me as I looked on at this terrible thing, and, if ever I came near to pressing the trigger and sending a bullet through that vile heart it was then. But the words, “You cannot fire!” seemed to have me in a vice, and the torment of an age in hell crowded into my consciousness while I watched.
The vile one looked down at the love he had wrought in his victim. Triumph appeared on his evil face and he gave a low, coarse laugh. He drew nearer to her. His leering lips approached hers; they bore a calm half smile of masterly disdain—a satisfied sneer for all that is good, and pure, and true, and beautiful. His hand touched her waist to draw her towards him. Then, suddenly, even as I gazed with unspeakable agony in my helplessness, a weird thing happened. With a bellow like that of a wild beast in pain, Cazotl sprang erect and threw up his great arms, as if a dart of horror had pierced his vitals. A hideous, awful cry it was that rang out over the plain, as he staggered and fell heavily to the ground, where he writhed and twisted and fought against some master hand which held him down.
Had I fired? No! I was sure of that. Then what had struck him. In a flash it came into my mind that this was the dread makutu, the fierce ancient magic which Ngaraki, the terrible guardian of the temple, was even now hurling at the granite images in the abyss. A profound awe took possession of me as I realised that the ancient curse had found its mark.
My eyes and revolver were still fixed on Cazotl, as his huge form rolled about, his bloodshot eyes starting from his head and his body doubled up as if there were seething pitch within his vitals. His hissings and groanings were terrible. Now and again hoarse cries, like those of a soul in torment, rang out—deep curses in some hellish tongue unknown on earth. And through it all I had a vague side picture of Crystal standing in the same attitude as that in which I had last seen her, and I pictured on her face the entranced longing of pure love, undesecrated by this fiend of lust.