Title: Four Weird Tales
Author: Blackwood, Algernon, 1869-1951
Language: English
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FOUR WEIRD TALES

BY

ALGERNON BLACKWOOD


INCLUDING:

"The Insanity of Jones"
"The Man Who Found Out"
"The Glamour of the Snow" and
"Sand"



A NOTE ON THE TEXT

These stories first appeared in Blackwood's story collections:
"The Insanity of Jones" in _The Listener and Other Stories_ (1907);
"The Man Who Found Out" in _The Wolves of God and Other Fey Stories_
    (1921);
"The Glamour of the Snow," and "Sand" in _Pan's Garden_ (1912).

       *       *       *       *       *



_The Insanity of Jones_

(A Study in Reincarnation)


Adventures come to the adventurous, and mysterious things fall in the
way of those who, with wonder and imagination, are on the watch for
them; but the majority of people go past the doors that are half ajar,
thinking them closed, and fail to notice the faint stirrings of the
great curtain that hangs ever in the form of appearances between them
and the world of causes behind.

For only to the few whose inner senses have been quickened, perchance
by some strange suffering in the depths, or by a natural temperament
bequeathed from a remote past, comes the knowledge, not too welcome,
that this greater world lies ever at their elbow, and that any moment a
chance combination of moods and forces may invite them to cross the
shifting frontier.

Some, however, are born with this awful certainty in their hearts, and
are called to no apprenticeship, and to this select company Jones
undoubtedly belonged.

All his life he had realised that his senses brought to him merely a
more or less interesting set of sham appearances; that space, as men
measure it, was utterly misleading; that time, as the clock ticked it
in a succession of minutes, was arbitrary nonsense; and, in fact, that
all his sensory perceptions were but a clumsy representation of _real_
things behind the curtain--things he was for ever trying to get at, and
that sometimes he actually did get at.

He had always been tremblingly aware that he stood on the borderland
of another region, a region where time and space were merely forms of
thought, where ancient memories lay open to the sight, and where the
forces behind each human life stood plainly revealed and he could see
the hidden springs at the very heart of the world. Moreover, the fact
that he was a clerk in a fire insurance office, and did his work with
strict attention, never allowed him to forget for one moment that, just
beyond the dingy brick walls where the hundred men scribbled with
pointed pens beneath the electric lamps, there existed this glorious
region where the important part of himself dwelt and moved and had its
being. For in this region he pictured himself playing the part of a
spectator to his ordinary workaday life, watching, like a king, the
stream of events, but untouched in his own soul by the dirt, the noise,
and the vulgar commotion of the outer world.

And this was no poetic dream merely. Jones was not playing prettily with
idealism to amuse himself. It was a living, working belief. So convinced
was he that the external world was the result of a vast deception
practised upon him by the gross senses, that when he stared at a great
building like St. Paul's he felt it would not very much surprise him to
see it suddenly quiver like a shape of jelly and then melt utterly away,
while in its place stood all at once revealed the mass of colour, or the
great intricate vibrations, or the splendid sound--the spiritual
idea--which it represented in stone.

For something in this way it was that his mind worked.

Yet, to all appearances, and in the satisfaction of all business claims,
Jones was normal and unenterprising. He felt nothing but contempt for
the wave of modern psychism. He hardly knew the meaning of such words as
"clairvoyance" and "clairaudience." He had never felt the least desire
to join the Theosophical Society and to speculate in theories of
astral-plane life, or elementals. He attended no meetings of the
Psychical Research Society, and knew no anxiety as to whether his "aura"
was black or blue; nor was he conscious of the slightest wish to mix in
with the revival of cheap occultism which proves so attractive to weak
minds of mystical tendencies and unleashed imaginations.

There were certain things he _knew_, but none he cared to argue about;
and he shrank instinctively from attempting to put names to the contents
of this other region, knowing well that such names could only limit and
define things that, according to any standards in use in the ordinary
world, were simply undefinable and illusive.

So that, although this was the way his mind worked, there was clearly a
very strong leaven of common sense in Jones. In a word, the man the
world and the office knew as Jones _was_ Jones. The name summed him up
and labelled him correctly--John Enderby Jones.

Among the things that he _knew_, and therefore never cared to speak or
speculate about, one was that he plainly saw himself as the inheritor
of a long series of past lives, the net result of painful evolution,
always as himself, of course, but in numerous different bodies each
determined by the behaviour of the preceding one. The present John Jones
was the last result to date of all the previous thinking, feeling,
and doing of John Jones in earlier bodies and in other centuries. He
pretended to no details, nor claimed distinguished ancestry, for he
realised his past must have been utterly commonplace and insignificant
to have produced his present; but he was just as sure he had been at
this weary game for ages as that he breathed, and it never occurred to
him to argue, to doubt, or to ask questions. And one result of this
belief was that his thoughts dwelt upon the past rather than upon the
future; that he read much history, and felt specially drawn to certain
periods whose spirit he understood instinctively as though he had lived
in them; and that he found all religions uninteresting because, almost
without exception, they start from the present and speculate ahead as to
what men shall become, instead of looking back and speculating why men
have got here as they are.

In the insurance office he did his work exceedingly well, but without
much personal ambition. Men and women he regarded as the impersonal
instruments for inflicting upon him the pain or pleasure he had earned
by his past workings, for chance had no place in his scheme of things at
all; and while he recognised that the practical world could not get
along unless every man did his work thoroughly and conscientiously, he
took no interest in the accumulation of fame or money for himself, and
simply, therefore, did his plain duty, with indifference as to results.

In common with others who lead a strictly impersonal life, he possessed
the quality of utter bravery, and was always ready to face any
combination of circumstances, no matter how terrible, because he saw in
them the just working-out of past causes he had himself set in motion
which could not be dodged or modified. And whereas the majority of
people had little meaning for him, either by way of attraction or
repulsion, the moment he met some one with whom he felt his past had
been _vitally_ interwoven his whole inner being leapt up instantly and
shouted the fact in his face, and he regulated his life with the utmost
skill and caution, like a sentry on watch for an enemy whose feet could
already be heard approaching.

Thus, while the great majority of men and women left him
uninfluenced--since he regarded them as so many souls merely passing
with him along the great stream of evolution--there were, here and
there, individuals with whom he recognised that his smallest intercourse
was of the gravest importance. These were persons with whom he knew
in every fibre of his being he had accounts to settle, pleasant or
otherwise, arising out of dealings in past lives; and into his relations
with these few, therefore, he concentrated as it were the efforts that
most people spread over their intercourse with a far greater number. By
what means he picked out these few individuals only those conversant
with the startling processes of the subconscious memory may say, but the
point was that Jones believed the main purpose, if not quite the entire
purpose, of his present incarnation lay in his faithful and thorough
settling of these accounts, and that if he sought to evade the least
detail of such settling, no matter how unpleasant, he would have lived
in vain, and would return to his next incarnation with this added duty
to perform. For according to his beliefs there was no Chance, and could
be no ultimate shirking, and to avoid a problem was merely to waste time
and lose opportunities for development.

And there was one individual with whom Jones had long understood clearly
he had a very large account to settle, and towards the accomplishment
of which all the main currents of his being seemed to bear him with
unswerving purpose. For, when he first entered the insurance office as a
junior clerk ten years before, and through a glass door had caught sight
of this man seated in an inner room, one of his sudden overwhelming
flashes of intuitive memory had burst up into him from the depths, and
he had seen, as in a flame of blinding light, a symbolical picture of
the future rising out of a dreadful past, and he had, without any act of
definite volition, marked down this man for a real account to be
settled.

"With _that_ man I shall have much to do," he said to himself, as he
noted the big face look up and meet his eye through the glass. "There is
something I cannot shirk--a vital relation out of the past of both of
us."

And he went to his desk trembling a little, and with shaking knees, as
though the memory of some terrible pain had suddenly laid its icy hand
upon his heart and touched the scar of a great horror. It was a moment
of genuine terror when their eyes had met through the glass door, and
he was conscious of an inward shrinking and loathing that seized upon
him with great violence and convinced him in a single second that the
settling of this account would be almost, perhaps, more than he could
manage.

The vision passed as swiftly as it came, dropping back again into the
submerged region of his consciousness; but he never forgot it, and
the whole of his life thereafter became a sort of natural though
undeliberate preparation for the fulfilment of the great duty when the
time should be ripe.

In those days--ten years ago--this man was the Assistant Manager,
but had since been promoted as Manager to one of the company's local
branches; and soon afterwards Jones had likewise found himself
transferred to this same branch. A little later, again, the branch
at Liverpool, one of the most important, had been in peril owing to
mismanagement and defalcation, and the man had gone to take charge of
it, and again, by mere chance apparently, Jones had been promoted to the
same place. And this pursuit of the Assistant Manager had continued for
several years, often, too, in the most curious fashion; and though Jones
had never exchanged a single word with him, or been so much as noticed
indeed by the great man, the clerk understood perfectly well that these
moves in the game were all part of a definite purpose. Never for one
moment did he doubt that the Invisibles behind the veil were slowly and
surely arranging the details of it all so as to lead up suitably to the
climax demanded by justice, a climax in which himself and the Manager
would play the leading _roles_.

"It is inevitable," he said to himself, "and I feel it may be terrible;
but when the moment comes I shall be ready, and I pray God that I may
face it properly and act like a man."

Moreover, as the years passed, and nothing happened, he felt the horror
closing in upon him with steady increase, for the fact was Jones hated
and loathed the Manager with an intensity of feeling he had never before
experienced towards any human being. He shrank from his presence, and
from the glance of his eyes, as though he remembered to have suffered
nameless cruelties at his hands; and he slowly began to realise,
moreover, that the matter to be settled between them was one of very
ancient standing, and that the nature of the settlement was a discharge
of accumulated punishment which would probably be very dreadful in the
manner of its fulfilment.

When, therefore, the chief cashier one day informed him that the man
was to be in London again--this time as General Manager of the head
office--and said that he was charged to find a private secretary for him
from among the best clerks, and further intimated that the selection
had fallen upon himself, Jones accepted the promotion quietly,
fatalistically, yet with a degree of inward loathing hardly to be
described. For he saw in this merely another move in the evolution of
the inevitable Nemesis which he simply dared not seek to frustrate by
any personal consideration; and at the same time he was conscious of a
certain feeling of relief that the suspense of waiting might soon be
mitigated. A secret sense of satisfaction, therefore, accompanied the
unpleasant change, and Jones was able to hold himself perfectly well in
hand when it was carried into effect and he was formally introduced as
private secretary to the General Manager.

Now the Manager was a large, fat man, with a very red face and bags
beneath his eyes. Being short-sighted, he wore glasses that seemed to
magnify his eyes, which were always a little bloodshot. In hot weather a
sort of thin slime covered his cheeks, for he perspired easily. His head
was almost entirely bald, and over his turn-down collar his great neck
folded in two distinct reddish collops of flesh. His hands were big and
his fingers almost massive in thickness.

He was an excellent business man, of sane judgment and firm will,
without enough imagination to confuse his course of action by showing
him possible alternatives; and his integrity and ability caused him to
be held in universal respect by the world of business and finance. In
the important regions of a man's character, however, and at heart, he
was coarse, brutal almost to savagery, without consideration for others,
and as a result often cruelly unjust to his helpless subordinates.

In moments of temper, which were not infrequent, his face turned a dull
purple, while the top of his bald head shone by contrast like white
marble, and the bags under his eyes swelled till it seemed they would
presently explode with a pop. And at these times he presented a
distinctly repulsive appearance.

But to a private secretary like Jones, who did his duty regardless of
whether his employer was beast or angel, and whose mainspring was
principle and not emotion, this made little difference. Within the
narrow limits in which any one _could_ satisfy such a man, he pleased
the General Manager; and more than once his piercing intuitive faculty,
amounting almost to clairvoyance, assisted the chief in a fashion that
served to bring the two closer together than might otherwise have
been the case, and caused the man to respect in his assistant a power
of which he possessed not even the germ himself. It was a curious
relationship that grew up between the two, and the cashier, who enjoyed
the credit of having made the selection, profited by it indirectly as
much as any one else.

So for some time the work of the office continued normally and very
prosperously. John Enderby Jones received a good salary, and in the
outward appearance of the two chief characters in this history there
was little change noticeable, except that the Manager grew fatter and
redder, and the secretary observed that his own hair was beginning to
show rather greyish at the temples.

There were, however, two changes in progress, and they both had to do
with Jones, and are important to mention.

One was that he began to dream evilly. In the region of deep sleep,
where the possibility of significant dreaming first develops itself, he
was tormented more and more with vivid scenes and pictures in which a
tall thin man, dark and sinister of countenance, and with bad eyes, was
closely associated with himself. Only the setting was that of a past
age, with costumes of centuries gone by, and the scenes had to do with
dreadful cruelties that could not belong to modern life as he knew it.

The other change was also significant, but is not so easy to describe,
for he had in fact become aware that some new portion of himself,
hitherto unawakened, had stirred slowly into life out of the very depths
of his consciousness. This new part of himself amounted almost to
another personality, and he never observed its least manifestation
without a strange thrill at his heart.

For he understood that it had begun to _watch_ the Manager!



II


It was the habit of Jones, since he was compelled to work among
conditions that were utterly distasteful, to withdraw his mind wholly
from business once the day was over. During office hours he kept the
strictest possible watch upon himself, and turned the key on all inner
dreams, lest any sudden uprush from the deeps should interfere with his
duty. But, once the working day was over, the gates flew open, and he
began to enjoy himself.

He read no modern books on the subjects that interested him, and, as
already said, he followed no course of training, nor belonged to any
society that dabbled with half-told mysteries; but, once released from
the office desk in the Manager's room, he simply and naturally entered
the other region, because he was an old inhabitant, a rightful denizen,
and because he belonged there. It was, in fact, really a case of
dual personality; and a carefully drawn agreement existed between
Jones-of-the-fire-insurance-office and Jones-of-the-mysteries, by the
terms of which, under heavy penalties, neither region claimed him out of
hours.

For the moment he reached his rooms under the roof in Bloomsbury, and
had changed his city coat to another, the iron doors of the office
clanged far behind him, and in front, before his very eyes, rolled up
the beautiful gates of ivory, and he entered into the places of flowers
and singing and wonderful veiled forms. Sometimes he quite lost touch
with the outer world, forgetting to eat his dinner or go to bed, and lay
in a state of trance, his consciousness working far out of the body. And
on other occasions he walked the streets on air, half-way between the
two regions, unable to distinguish between incarnate and discarnate
forms, and not very far, probably, beyond the strata where poets,
saints, and the greatest artists have moved and thought and found their
inspiration. But this was only when some insistent bodily claim
prevented his full release, and more often than not he was entirely
independent of his physical portion and free of the real region, without
let or hindrance.

One evening he reached home utterly exhausted after the burden of the
day's work. The Manager had been more than usually brutal, unjust,
ill-tempered, and Jones had been almost persuaded out of his settled
policy of contempt into answering back. Everything seemed to have gone
amiss, and the man's coarse, underbred nature had been in the ascendant
all day long: he had thumped the desk with his great fists, abused,
found fault unreasonably, uttered outrageous things, and behaved
generally as he actually was--beneath the thin veneer of acquired
business varnish. He had done and said everything to wound all that was
woundable in an ordinary secretary, and though Jones fortunately dwelt
in a region from which he looked down upon such a man as he might look
down on the blundering of a savage animal, the strain had nevertheless
told severely upon him, and he reached home wondering for the first time
in his life whether there was perhaps a point beyond which he would be
unable to restrain himself any longer.

For something out of the usual had happened. At the close of a passage
of great stress between the two, every nerve in the secretary's body
tingling from undeserved abuse, the Manager had suddenly turned full
upon him, in the corner of the private room where the safes stood, in
such a way that the glare of his red eyes, magnified by the glasses,
looked straight into his own. And at this very second that other
personality in Jones--the one that was ever _watching_--rose up swiftly
from the deeps within and held a mirror to his face.

A moment of flame and vision rushed over him, and for one single
second--one merciless second of clear sight--he saw the Manager as the
tall dark man of his evil dreams, and the knowledge that he had suffered
at his hands some awful injury in the past crashed through his mind like
the report of a cannon.

It all flashed upon him and was gone, changing him from fire to ice,
and then back again to fire; and he left the office with the certain
conviction in his heart that the time for his final settlement with the
man, the time for the inevitable retribution, was at last drawing very
near.

According to his invariable custom, however, he succeeded in putting
the memory of all this unpleasantness out of his mind with the changing
of his office coat, and after dozing a little in his leather chair
before the fire, he started out as usual for dinner in the Soho French
restaurant, and began to dream himself away into the region of flowers
and singing, and to commune with the Invisibles that were the very
sources of his real life and being.

For it was in this way that his mind worked, and the habits of years had
crystallised into rigid lines along which it was now necessary and
inevitable for him to act.

At the door of the little restaurant he stopped short, a half-remembered
appointment in his mind. He had made an engagement with some one, but
where, or with whom, had entirely slipped his memory. He thought it was
for dinner, or else to meet just after dinner, and for a second it came
back to him that it had something to do with the office, but, whatever
it was, he was quite unable to recall it, and a reference to his pocket
engagement book showed only a blank page. Evidently he had even omitted
to enter it; and after standing a moment vainly trying to recall either
the time, place, or person, he went in and sat down.

But though the details had escaped him, his subconscious memory seemed
to know all about it, for he experienced a sudden sinking of the heart,
accompanied by a sense of foreboding anticipation, and felt that
beneath his exhaustion there lay a centre of tremendous excitement. The
emotion caused by the engagement was at work, and would presently cause
the actual details of the appointment to reappear.

Inside the restaurant the feeling increased, instead of passing: some
one was waiting for him somewhere--some one whom he had definitely
arranged to meet. He was expected by a person that very night and just
about that very time. But by whom? Where? A curious inner trembling came
over him, and he made a strong effort to hold himself in hand and to be
ready for anything that might come.

And then suddenly came the knowledge that the place of appointment was
this very restaurant, and, further, that the person he had promised to
meet was already here, waiting somewhere quite close beside him.

He looked up nervously and began to examine the faces round him. The
majority of the diners were Frenchmen, chattering loudly with much
gesticulation and laughter; and there was a fair sprinkling of clerks
like himself who came because the prices were low and the food good, but
there was no single face that he recognised until his glance fell upon
the occupant of the corner seat opposite, generally filled by himself.

"There's the man who's waiting for me!" thought Jones instantly.

He knew it at once. The man, he saw, was sitting well back into the
corner, with a thick overcoat buttoned tightly up to the chin. His skin
was very white, and a heavy black beard grew far up over his cheeks. At
first the secretary took him for a stranger, but when he looked up and
their eyes met, a sense of familiarity flashed across him, and for a
second or two Jones imagined he was staring at a man he had known years
before. For, barring the beard, it was the face of an elderly clerk who
had occupied the next desk to his own when he first entered the service
of the insurance company, and had shown him the most painstaking
kindness and sympathy in the early difficulties of his work. But a
moment later the illusion passed, for he remembered that Thorpe had been
dead at least five years. The similarity of the eyes was obviously a
mere suggestive trick of memory.

The two men stared at one another for several seconds, and then Jones
began to act _instinctively_, and because he had to. He crossed over and
took the vacant seat at the other's table, facing him; for he felt it
was somehow imperative to explain why he was late, and how it was he had
almost forgotten the engagement altogether.

No honest excuse, however, came to his assistance, though his mind had
begun to work furiously.

"Yes, you _are_ late," said the man quietly, before he could find a
single word to utter. "But it doesn't matter. Also, you had forgotten
the appointment, but that makes no difference either."

"I knew--that there was an engagement," Jones stammered, passing his
hand over his forehead; "but somehow--"

"You will recall it presently," continued the other in a gentle voice,
and smiling a little. "It was in deep sleep last night we arranged this,
and the unpleasant occurrences of to-day have for the moment obliterated
it."

A faint memory stirred within him as the man spoke, and a grove of trees
with moving forms hovered before his eyes and then vanished again, while
for an instant the stranger seemed to be capable of self-distortion and
to have assumed vast proportions, with wonderful flaming eyes.

"Oh!" he gasped. "It was there--in the other region?"

"Of course," said the other, with a smile that illumined his whole face.
"You will remember presently, all in good time, and meanwhile you have
no cause to feel afraid."

There was a wonderful soothing quality in the man's voice, like the
whispering of a great wind, and the clerk felt calmer at once. They sat
a little while longer, but he could not remember that they talked much
or ate anything. He only recalled afterwards that the head waiter came
up and whispered something in his ear, and that he glanced round and saw
the other people were looking at him curiously, some of them laughing,
and that his companion then got up and led the way out of the
restaurant.

They walked hurriedly through the streets, neither of them speaking; and
Jones was so intent upon getting back the whole history of the affair
from the region of deep sleep, that he barely noticed the way they took.
Yet it was clear he knew where they were bound for just as well as his
companion, for he crossed the streets often ahead of him, diving down
alleys without hesitation, and the other followed always without
correction.

The pavements were very full, and the usual night crowds of London were
surging to and fro in the glare of the shop lights, but somehow no one
impeded their rapid movements, and they seemed to pass through the
people as if they were smoke. And, as they went, the pedestrians and
traffic grew less and less, and they soon passed the Mansion House and
the deserted space in front of the Royal Exchange, and so on down
Fenchurch Street and within sight of the Tower of London, rising dim and
shadowy in the smoky air.

Jones remembered all this perfectly well, and thought it was his intense
preoccupation that made the distance seem so short. But it was when the
Tower was left behind and they turned northwards that he began to notice
how altered everything was, and saw that they were in a neighbourhood
where houses were suddenly scarce, and lanes and fields beginning,
and that their only light was the stars overhead. And, as the deeper
consciousness more and more asserted itself to the exclusion of the
surface happenings of his mere body during the day, the sense of
exhaustion vanished, and he realised that he was moving somewhere in the
region of causes behind the veil, beyond the gross deceptions of the
senses, and released from the clumsy spell of space and time.

Without great surprise, therefore, he turned and saw that his companion
had altered, had shed his overcoat and black hat, and was moving beside
him absolutely _without sound_. For a brief second he saw him, tall as a
tree, extending through space like a great shadow, misty and wavering of
outline, followed by a sound like wings in the darkness; but, when he
stopped, fear clutching at his heart, the other resumed his former
proportions, and Jones could plainly see his normal outline against the
green field behind.

Then the secretary saw him fumbling at his neck, and at the same moment
the black beard came away from the face in his hand.

"Then you _are_ Thorpe!" he gasped, yet somehow without overwhelming
surprise.

They stood facing one another in the lonely lane, trees meeting overhead
and hiding the stars, and a sound of mournful sighing among the
branches.

"I am Thorpe," was the answer in a voice that almost seemed part of the
wind. "And I have come out of our far past to help you, for my debt to
you is large, and in this life I had but small opportunity to repay."

Jones thought quickly of the man's kindness to him in the office, and a
great wave of feeling surged through him as he began to remember dimly
the friend by whose side he had already climbed, perhaps through vast
ages of his soul's evolution.

"To help me _now_?" he whispered.

"You will understand me when you enter into your real memory and recall
how great a debt I have to pay for old faithful kindnesses of long ago,"
sighed the other in a voice like falling wind.

"Between us, though, there can be no question of _debt_," Jones heard
himself saying, and remembered the reply that floated to him on the air
and the smile that lightened for a moment the stern eyes facing him.

"Not of debt, indeed, but of privilege."

Jones felt his heart leap out towards this man, this old friend, tried
by centuries and still faithful. He made a movement to seize his hand.
But the other shifted like a thing of mist, and for a moment the clerk's
head swam and his eyes seemed to fail.

"Then you are _dead_?" he said under his breath with a slight shiver.

"Five years ago I left the body you knew," replied Thorpe. "I tried to
help you then instinctively, not fully recognising you. But now I can
accomplish far more."

With an awful sense of foreboding and dread in his heart, the secretary
was beginning to understand.

"It has to do with--with--?"

"Your past dealings with the Manager," came the answer, as the wind rose
louder among the branches overhead and carried off the remainder of the
sentence into the air.

Jones's memory, which was just beginning to stir among the deepest
layers of all, shut down suddenly with a snap, and he followed his
companion over fields and down sweet-smelling lanes where the air was
fragrant and cool, till they came to a large house, standing gaunt and
lonely in the shadows at the edge of a wood. It was wrapped in utter
stillness, with windows heavily draped in black, and the clerk, as he
looked, felt such an overpowering wave of sadness invade him that his
eyes began to burn and smart, and he was conscious of a desire to shed
tears.

The key made a harsh noise as it turned in the lock, and when the door
swung open into a lofty hall they heard a confused sound of rustling and
whispering, as of a great throng of people pressing forward to meet
them. The air seemed full of swaying movement, and Jones was certain he
saw hands held aloft and dim faces claiming recognition, while in his
heart, already oppressed by the approaching burden of vast accumulated
memories, he was aware of the _uncoiling of something_ that had been
asleep for ages.

As they advanced he heard the doors close with a muffled thunder behind
them, and saw that the shadows seemed to retreat and shrink away towards
the interior of the house, carrying the hands and faces with them. He
heard the wind singing round the walls and over the roof, and its
wailing voice mingled with the sound of deep, collective breathing that
filled the house like the murmur of a sea; and as they walked up the
broad staircase and through the vaulted rooms, where pillars rose like
the stems of trees, he knew that the building was crowded, row upon row,
with the thronging memories of his own long past.

"This is the _House of the Past_," whispered Thorpe beside him, as they
moved silently from room to room; "the house of _your_ past. It is full
from cellar to roof with the memories of what you have done, thought,
and felt from the earliest stages of your evolution until now.

"The house climbs up almost to the clouds, and stretches back into the
heart of the wood you saw outside, but the remoter halls are filled with
the ghosts of ages ago too many to count, and even if we were able to
waken them you could not remember them now. Some day, though, they will
come and claim you, and you must know them, and answer their questions,
for they can never rest till they have exhausted themselves again
through you, and justice has been perfectly worked out.

"But now follow me closely, and you shall see the particular memory
for which I am permitted to be your guide, so that you may know and
understand a great force in your present life, and may use the sword of
justice, or rise to the level of a great forgiveness, according to your
degree of power."

Icy thrills ran through the trembling clerk, and as he walked slowly
beside his companion he heard from the vaults below, as well as from
more distant regions of the vast building, the stirring and sighing of
the serried ranks of sleepers, sounding in the still air like a chord
swept from unseen strings stretched somewhere among the very foundations
of the house.

Stealthily, picking their way among the great pillars, they moved up the
sweeping staircase and through several dark corridors and halls, and
presently stopped outside a small door in an archway where the shadows
were very deep.

"Remain close by my side, and remember to utter no cry," whispered the
voice of his guide, and as the clerk turned to reply he saw his face was
stern to whiteness and even shone a little in the darkness.

The room they entered seemed at first to be pitchy black, but gradually
the secretary perceived a faint reddish glow against the farther end,
and thought he saw figures moving silently to and fro.

"Now watch!" whispered Thorpe, as they pressed close to the wall near
the door and waited. "But remember to keep absolute silence. It is a
torture scene."

Jones felt utterly afraid, and would have turned to fly if he dared, for
an indescribable terror seized him and his knees shook; but some power
that made escape impossible held him remorselessly there, and with eyes
glued on the spots of light he crouched against the wall and waited.

The figures began to move more swiftly, each in its own dim light that
shed no radiance beyond itself, and he heard a soft clanking of chains
and the voice of a man groaning in pain. Then came the sound of a door
closing, and thereafter Jones saw but one figure, the figure of an old
man, naked entirely, and fastened with chains to an iron framework on
the floor. His memory gave a sudden leap of fear as he looked, for the
features and white beard were familiar, and he recalled them as though
of yesterday.

The other figures had disappeared, and the old man became the centre of
the terrible picture. Slowly, with ghastly groans; as the heat below him
increased into a steady glow, the aged body rose in a curve of agony,
resting on the iron frame only where the chains held wrists and ankles
fast. Cries and gasps filled the air, and Jones felt exactly as though
they came from his own throat, and as if the chains were burning into
his own wrists and ankles, and the heat scorching the skin and flesh
upon his own back. He began to writhe and twist himself.

"Spain!" whispered the voice at his side, "and four hundred years ago."

"And the purpose?" gasped the perspiring clerk, though he knew quite
well what the answer must be.

"To extort the name of a friend, to his death and betrayal," came the
reply through the darkness.

A sliding panel opened with a little rattle in the wall immediately
above the rack, and a face, framed in the same red glow, appeared and
looked down upon the dying victim. Jones was only just able to choke
a scream, for he recognised the tall dark man of his dreams. With
horrible, gloating eyes he gazed down upon the writhing form of the old
man, and his lips moved as in speaking, though no words were actually
audible.

"He asks again for the name," explained the other, as the clerk
struggled with the intense hatred and loathing that threatened every
moment to result in screams and action. His ankles and wrists pained him
so that he could scarcely keep still, but a merciless power held him to
the scene.

He saw the old man, with a fierce cry, raise his tortured head and spit
up into the face at the panel, and then the shutter slid back again, and
a moment later the increased glow beneath the body, accompanied by awful
writhing, told of the application of further heat. There came the odour
of burning flesh; the white beard curled and burned to a crisp; the body
fell back limp upon the red-hot iron, and then shot up again in fresh
agony; cry after cry, the most awful in the world, rang out with
deadened sound between the four walls; and again the panel slid back
creaking, and revealed the dreadful face of the torturer.

Again the name was asked for, and again it was refused; and this time,
after the closing of the panel, a door opened, and the tall thin man
with the evil face came slowly into the chamber. His features were
savage with rage and disappointment, and in the dull red glow that fell
upon them he looked like a very prince of devils. In his hand he held a
pointed iron at white heat.

"Now the murder!" came from Thorpe in a whisper that sounded as if it
was outside the building and far away.

Jones knew quite well what was coming, but was unable even to close his
eyes. He felt all the fearful pains himself just as though he were
actually the sufferer; but now, as he stared, he felt something more
besides; and when the tall man deliberately approached the rack and
plunged the heated iron first into one eye and then into the other, he
heard the faint fizzing of it, and felt his own eyes burst in frightful
pain from his head. At the same moment, unable longer to control
himself, he uttered a wild shriek and dashed forward to seize the
torturer and tear him to a thousand pieces. Instantly, in a flash, the
entire scene vanished; darkness rushed in to fill the room, and he felt
himself lifted off his feet by some force like a great wind and borne
swiftly away into space.

When he recovered his senses he was standing just outside the house and
the figure of Thorpe was beside him in the gloom. The great doors were
in the act of closing behind him, but before they shut he fancied he
caught a glimpse of an immense veiled figure standing upon the
threshold, with flaming eyes, and in his hand a bright weapon like a
shining sword of fire.

"Come quickly now--all is over!" Thorpe whispered.

"And the dark man--?" gasped the clerk, as he moved swiftly by the
other's side.

"In this present life is the Manager of the company."

"And the victim?"

"Was yourself!"

"And the friend he--_I_ refused to betray?"

"I was that friend," answered Thorpe, his voice with every moment
sounding more and more like the cry of the wind. "You gave your life in
agony to save mine."

"And again, in this life, we have all three been together?"

"Yes. Such forces are not soon or easily exhausted, and justice is not
satisfied till all have reaped what they sowed."

Jones had an odd feeling that he was slipping away into some other state
of consciousness. Thorpe began to seem unreal. Presently he would be
unable to ask more questions. He felt utterly sick and faint with it
all, and his strength was ebbing.

"Oh, quick!" he cried, "now tell me more. Why did I see this? What must
I do?"

The wind swept across the field on their right and entered the wood
beyond with a great roar, and the air round him seemed filled with
voices and the rushing of hurried movement.

"To the ends of justice," answered the other, as though speaking out
of the centre of the wind and from a distance, "which sometimes is
entrusted to the hands of those who suffered and were strong. One wrong
cannot be put right by another wrong, but your life has been so worthy
that the opportunity is given to--"

The voice grew fainter and fainter, already it was far overhead with the
rushing wind.

"You may punish or--" Here Jones lost sight of Thorpe's figure
altogether, for he seemed to have vanished and melted away into the
wood behind him. His voice sounded far across the trees, very weak, and
ever rising.

"Or if you can rise to the level of a great forgiveness--"

The voice became inaudible.... The wind came crying out of the wood
again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jones shivered and stared about him. He shook himself violently and
rubbed his eyes. The room was dark, the fire was out; he felt cold and
stiff. He got up out of his armchair, still trembling, and lit the gas.
Outside the wind was howling, and when he looked at his watch he saw
that it was very late and he must go to bed.

He had not even changed his office coat; he must have fallen asleep in
the chair as soon as he came in, and he had slept for several hours.
Certainly he had eaten no dinner, for he felt ravenous.



III


Next day, and for several weeks thereafter, the business of the office
went on as usual, and Jones did his work well and behaved outwardly with
perfect propriety. No more visions troubled him, and his relations with
the Manager became, if anything, somewhat smoother and easier.

True, the man _looked_ a little different, because the clerk kept seeing
him with his inner and outer eye promiscuously, so that one moment he
was broad and red-faced, and the next he was tall, thin, and dark,
enveloped, as it were, in a sort of black atmosphere tinged with red.
While at times a confusion of the two sights took place, and Jones saw
the two faces mingled in a composite countenance that was very horrible
indeed to contemplate. But, beyond this occasional change in the outward
appearance of the Manager, there was nothing that the secretary noticed
as the result of his vision, and business went on more or less as
before, and perhaps even with a little less friction.

But in the rooms under the roof in Bloomsbury it was different, for
there it was perfectly clear to Jones that Thorpe had come to take up
his abode with him. He never saw him, but he knew all the time he was
there. Every night on returning from his work he was greeted by the
well-known whisper, "Be ready when I give the sign!" and often in the
night he woke up suddenly out of deep sleep and was aware that Thorpe
had that minute moved away from his bed and was standing waiting and
watching somewhere in the darkness of the room. Often he followed him
down the stairs, though the dim gas jet on the landings never revealed
his outline; and sometimes he did not come into the room at all, but
hovered outside the window, peering through the dirty panes, or sending
his whisper into the chamber in the whistling of the wind.

For Thorpe had come to stay, and Jones knew that he would not get rid of
him until he had fulfilled the ends of justice and accomplished the
purpose for which he was waiting.

Meanwhile, as the days passed, he went through a tremendous struggle
with himself, and came to the perfectly honest decision that the "level
of a great forgiveness" was impossible for him, and that he must
therefore accept the alternative and use the secret knowledge placed
in his hands--and execute justice. And once this decision was arrived
at, he noticed that Thorpe no longer left him alone during the day as
before, but now accompanied him to the office and stayed more or less at
his side all through business hours as well. His whisper made itself
heard in the streets and in the train, and even in the Manager's room
where he worked; sometimes warning, sometimes urging, but never for a
moment suggesting the abandonment of the main purpose, and more than
once so plainly audible that the clerk felt certain others must have
heard it as well as himself.

The obsession was complete. He felt he was always under Thorpe's eye day
and night, and he knew he must acquit himself like a man when the moment
came, or prove a failure in his own sight as well in the sight of the
other.

And now that his mind was made up, nothing could prevent the carrying
out of the sentence. He bought a pistol, and spent his Saturday
afternoons practising at a target in lonely places along the Essex
shore, marking out in the sand the exact measurements of the Manager's
room. Sundays he occupied in like fashion, putting up at an inn
overnight for the purpose, spending the money that usually went into the
savings bank on travelling expenses and cartridges. Everything was done
very thoroughly, for there must be no possibility of failure; and at the
end of several weeks he had become so expert with his six-shooter that
at a distance of 25 feet, which was the greatest length of the Manager's
room, he could pick the inside out of a halfpenny nine times out of a
dozen, and leave a clean, unbroken rim.

There was not the slightest desire to delay. He had thought the matter
over from every point of view his mind could reach, and his purpose was
inflexible. Indeed, he felt proud to think that he had been chosen as
the instrument of justice in the infliction of so well-deserved and so
terrible a punishment. Vengeance may have had some part in his decision,
but he could not help that, for he still felt at times the hot chains
burning his wrists and ankles with fierce agony through to the bone.
He remembered the hideous pain of his slowly roasting back, and the
point when he thought death _must_ intervene to end his suffering, but
instead new powers of endurance had surged up in him, and awful further
stretches of pain had opened up, and unconsciousness seemed farther off
than ever. Then at last the hot irons in his eyes.... It all came back
to him, and caused him to break out in icy perspiration at the mere
thought of it ... the vile face at the panel ... the expression of the
dark face.... His fingers worked. His blood boiled. It was utterly
impossible to keep the idea of vengeance altogether out of his mind.

Several times he was temporarily baulked of his prey. Odd things
happened to stop him when he was on the point of action. The first day,
for instance, the Manager fainted from the heat. Another time when he
had decided to do the deed, the Manager did not come down to the office
at all. And a third time, when his hand was actually in his hip pocket,
he suddenly heard Thorpe's horrid whisper telling him to wait, and
turning, he saw that the head cashier had entered the room noiselessly
without his noticing it. Thorpe evidently knew what he was about, and
did not intend to let the clerk bungle the matter.

He fancied, moreover, that the head cashier was watching him. He was
always meeting him in unexpected corners and places, and the cashier
never seemed to have an adequate excuse for being there. His movements
seemed suddenly of particular interest to others in the office as well,
for clerks were always being sent to ask him unnecessary questions,
and there was apparently a general design to keep him under a sort of
surveillance, so that he was never much alone with the Manager in the
private room where they worked. And once the cashier had even gone so
far as to suggest that he could take his holiday earlier than usual if
he liked, as the work had been very arduous of late and the heat
exceedingly trying.

He noticed, too, that he was sometimes followed by a certain individual
in the streets, a careless-looking sort of man, who never came face to
face with him, or actually ran into him, but who was always in his train
or omnibus, and whose eye he often caught observing him over the top of
his newspaper, and who on one occasion was even waiting at the door of
his lodgings when he came out to dine.

There were other indications too, of various sorts, that led him to
think something was at work to defeat his purpose, and that he must act
at once before these hostile forces could prevent.

And so the end came very swiftly, and was thoroughly approved by Thorpe.

It was towards the close of July, and one of the hottest days London had
ever known, for the City was like an oven, and the particles of dust
seemed to burn the throats of the unfortunate toilers in street and
office. The portly Manager, who suffered cruelly owing to his size, came
down perspiring and gasping with the heat. He carried a light-coloured
umbrella to protect his head.

"He'll want something more than that, though!" Jones laughed quietly to
himself when he saw him enter.

The pistol was safely in his hip pocket, every one of its six chambers
loaded.

The Manager saw the smile on his face, and gave him a long steady look
as he sat down to his desk in the corner. A few minutes later he touched
the bell for the head cashier--a single ring--and then asked Jones to
fetch some papers from another safe in the room upstairs.

A deep inner trembling seized the secretary as he noticed these
precautions, for he saw that the hostile forces were at work against
him, and yet he felt he could delay no longer and must act that very
morning, interference or no interference. However, he went obediently up
in the lift to the next floor, and while fumbling with the combination
of the safe, known only to himself, the cashier, and the Manager, he
again heard Thorpe's horrid whisper just behind him:

"You must do it to-day! You must do it to-day!"

He came down again with the papers, and found the Manager alone. The
room was like a furnace, and a wave of dead heated air met him in the
face as he went in. The moment he passed the doorway he realised that he
had been the subject of conversation between the head cashier and his
enemy. They had been discussing him. Perhaps an inkling of his secret
had somehow got into their minds. They had been watching him for days
past. They had become suspicious.

Clearly, he must act now, or let the opportunity slip by perhaps for
ever. He heard Thorpe's voice in his ear, but this time it was no mere
whisper, but a plain human voice, speaking out loud.

"Now!" it said. "Do it now!"

The room was empty. Only the Manager and himself were in it.

Jones turned from his desk where he had been standing, and locked the
door leading into the main office. He saw the army of clerks scribbling
in their shirt-sleeves, for the upper half of the door was of glass. He
had perfect control of himself, and his heart was beating steadily.

The Manager, hearing the key turn in the lock, looked up sharply.

"What's that you're doing?" he asked quickly.

"Only locking the door, sir," replied the secretary in a quite even
voice.

"Why? Who told you to--?"

"The voice of Justice, sir," replied Jones, looking steadily into the
hated face.

The Manager looked black for a moment, and stared angrily across the
room at him. Then suddenly his expression changed as he stared, and he
tried to smile. It was meant to be a kind smile evidently, but it only
succeeded in being frightened.

"That _is_ a good idea in this weather," he said lightly, "but it would
be much better to lock it on the _outside_, wouldn't it, Mr. Jones?"

"I think not, sir. You might escape me then. Now you can't."

Jones took his pistol out and pointed it at the other's face. Down the
barrel he saw the features of the tall dark man, evil and sinister. Then
the outline trembled a little and the face of the Manager slipped back
into its place. It was white as death, and shining with perspiration.

"You tortured me to death four hundred years ago," said the clerk in the
same steady voice, "and now the dispensers of justice have chosen me to
punish you."

The Manager's face turned to flame, and then back to chalk again. He
made a quick movement towards the telephone bell, stretching out a hand
to reach it, but at the same moment Jones pulled the trigger and the
wrist was shattered, splashing the wall behind with blood.

"That's _one_ place where the chains burnt," he said quietly to himself.
His hand was absolutely steady, and he felt that he was a hero.

The Manager was on his feet, with a scream of pain, supporting himself
with his right hand on the desk in front of him, but Jones pressed the
trigger again, and a bullet flew into the other wrist, so that the big
man, deprived of support, fell forward with a crash on to the desk.

"You damned madman!" shrieked the Manager. "Drop that pistol!"

"That's _another_ place," was all Jones said, still taking careful aim
for another shot.

The big man, screaming and blundering, scrambled beneath the desk,
making frantic efforts to hide, but the secretary took a step forward
and fired two shots in quick succession into his projecting legs,
hitting first one ankle and then the other, and smashing them horribly.

"Two more places where the chains burnt," he said, going a little
nearer.

The Manager, still shrieking, tried desperately to squeeze his bulk
behind the shelter of the opening beneath the desk, but he was far too
large, and his bald head protruded through on the other side. Jones
caught him by the scruff of his great neck and dragged him yelping out
on to the carpet. He was covered with blood, and flopped helplessly upon
his broken wrists.

"Be quick now!" cried the voice of Thorpe.

There was a tremendous commotion and banging at the door, and Jones
gripped his pistol tightly. Something seemed to crash through his brain,
clearing it for a second, so that he thought he saw beside him a great
veiled figure, with drawn sword and flaming eyes, and sternly approving
attitude.

"Remember the eyes! Remember the eyes!" hissed Thorpe in the air above
him.

Jones felt like a god, with a god's power. Vengeance disappeared from
his mind. He was acting impersonally as an instrument in the hands of
the Invisibles who dispense justice and balance accounts. He bent down
and put the barrel close into the other's face, smiling a little as he
saw the childish efforts of the arms to cover his head. Then he pulled
the trigger, and a bullet went straight into the right eye, blackening
the skin. Moving the pistol two inches the other way, he sent another
bullet crashing into the left eye. Then he stood upright over his victim
with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

The Manager wriggled convulsively for the space of a single second, and
then lay still in death.

There was not a moment to lose, for the door was already broken in and
violent hands were at his neck. Jones put the pistol to his temple and
once more pressed the trigger with his finger.

But this time there was no report. Only a little dead click answered the
pressure, for the secretary had forgotten that the pistol had only six
chambers, and that he had used them all. He threw the useless weapon
on to the floor, laughing a little out loud, and turned, without a
struggle, to give himself up.

"I _had_ to do it," he said quietly, while they tied him. "It was simply
my duty! And now I am ready to face the consequences, and Thorpe will be
proud of me. For justice has been done and the gods are satisfied."

He made not the slightest resistance, and when the two policemen marched
him off through the crowd of shuddering little clerks in the office, he
again saw the veiled figure moving majestically in front of him, making
slow sweeping circles with the flaming sword, to keep back the host of
faces that were thronging in upon him from the Other Region.


       *       *       *       *       *



_The Man Who Found Out_

(A Nightmare)

1


Professor Mark Ebor, the scientist, led a double life, and the only
persons who knew it were his assistant, Dr. Laidlaw, and his publishers.
But a double life need not always be a bad one, and, as Dr. Laidlaw and
the gratified publishers well knew, the parallel lives of this
particular man were equally good, and indefinitely produced would
certainly have ended in a heaven somewhere that can suitably contain
such strangely opposite characteristics as his remarkable personality
combined.

For Mark Ebor, F.R.S., etc., etc., was that unique combination hardly
ever met with in actual life, a man of science and a mystic.

As the first, his name stood in the gallery of the great, and as the
second--but there came the mystery! For under the pseudonym of "Pilgrim"
(the author of that brilliant series of books that appealed to so many),
his identity was as well concealed as that of the anonymous writer of
the weather reports in a daily newspaper. Thousands read the sanguine,
optimistic, stimulating little books that issued annually from the pen
of "Pilgrim," and thousands bore their daily burdens better for having
read; while the Press generally agreed that the author, besides being an
incorrigible enthusiast and optimist, was also--a woman; but no one ever
succeeded in penetrating the veil of anonymity and discovering that
"Pilgrim" and the biologist were one and the same person.

Mark Ebor, as Dr. Laidlaw knew him in his laboratory, was one man; but
Mark Ebor, as he sometimes saw him after work was over, with rapt eyes
and ecstatic face, discussing the possibilities of "union with God" and
the future of the human race, was quite another.

"I have always held, as you know," he was saying one evening as he
sat in the little study beyond the laboratory with his assistant and
intimate, "that Vision should play a large part in the life of the
awakened man--not to be regarded as infallible, of course, but to be
observed and made use of as a guide-post to possibilities--"

"I am aware of your peculiar views, sir," the young doctor put in
deferentially, yet with a certain impatience.

"For Visions come from a region of the consciousness where observation
and experiment are out of the question," pursued the other with
enthusiasm, not noticing the interruption, "and, while they should be
checked by reason afterwards, they should not be laughed at or ignored.
All inspiration, I hold, is of the nature of interior Vision, and all
our best knowledge has come--such is my confirmed belief--as a sudden
revelation to the brain prepared to receive it--"

"Prepared by hard work first, by concentration, by the closest possible
study of ordinary phenomena," Dr. Laidlaw allowed himself to observe.

"Perhaps," sighed the other; "but by a process, none the less, of
spiritual illumination. The best match in the world will not light a
candle unless the wick be first suitably prepared."

It was Laidlaw's turn to sigh. He knew so well the impossibility of
arguing with his chief when he was in the regions of the mystic, but at
the same time the respect he felt for his tremendous attainments was so
sincere that he always listened with attention and deference, wondering
how far the great man would go and to what end this curious combination
of logic and "illumination" would eventually lead him.

"Only last night," continued the elder man, a sort of light coming into
his rugged features, "the vision came to me again--the one that has
haunted me at intervals ever since my youth, and that will not be
denied."

Dr. Laidlaw fidgeted in his chair.

"About the Tablets of the Gods, you mean--and that they lie somewhere
hidden in the sands," he said patiently. A sudden gleam of interest came
into his face as he turned to catch the professor's reply.

"And that I am to be the one to find them, to decipher them, and to give
the great knowledge to the world--"

"Who will not believe," laughed Laidlaw shortly, yet interested in spite
of his thinly-veiled contempt.

"Because even the keenest minds, in the right sense of the word, are
hopelessly--unscientific," replied the other gently, his face positively
aglow with the memory of his vision. "Yet what is more likely," he
continued after a moment's pause, peering into space with rapt eyes that
saw things too wonderful for exact language to describe, "than that
there should have been given to man in the first ages of the world some
record of the purpose and problem that had been set him to solve? In a
word," he cried, fixing his shining eyes upon the face of his perplexed
assistant, "that God's messengers in the far-off ages should have given
to His creatures some full statement of the secret of the world, of the
secret of the soul, of the meaning of life and death--the explanation of
our being here, and to what great end we are destined in the ultimate
fullness of things?"

Dr. Laidlaw sat speechless. These outbursts of mystical enthusiasm he
had witnessed before. With any other man he would not have listened to
a single sentence, but to Professor Ebor, man of knowledge and profound
investigator, he listened with respect, because he regarded this
condition as temporary and pathological, and in some sense a reaction
from the intense strain of the prolonged mental concentration of many
days.

He smiled, with something between sympathy and resignation as he met the
other's rapt gaze.

"But you have said, sir, at other times, that you consider the ultimate
secrets to be screened from all possible--"

"The _ultimate_ secrets, yes," came the unperturbed reply; "but that
there lies buried somewhere an indestructible record of the secret
meaning of life, originally known to men in the days of their pristine
innocence, I am convinced. And, by this strange vision so often
vouchsafed to me, I am equally sure that one day it shall be given to me
to announce to a weary world this glorious and terrific message."

And he continued at great length and in glowing language to describe the
species of vivid dream that had come to him at intervals since earliest
childhood, showing in detail how he discovered these very Tablets of the
Gods, and proclaimed their splendid contents--whose precise nature was
always, however, withheld from him in the vision--to a patient and
suffering humanity.

"The _Scrutator_, sir, well described 'Pilgrim' as the Apostle of
Hope," said the young doctor gently, when he had finished; "and now, if
that reviewer could hear you speak and realize from what strange depths
comes your simple faith--"

The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a little child broke
over his face like sunshine in the morning.

"Half the good my books do would be instantly destroyed," he said sadly;
"they would say that I wrote with my tongue in my cheek. But wait," he
added significantly; "wait till I find these Tablets of the Gods! Wait
till I hold the solutions of the old world-problems in my hands! Wait
till the light of this new revelation breaks upon confused humanity, and
it wakes to find its bravest hopes justified! Ah, then, my dear
Laidlaw--"

He broke off suddenly; but the doctor, cleverly guessing the thought in
his mind, caught him up immediately.

"Perhaps this very summer," he said, trying hard to make the suggestion
keep pace with honesty; "in your explorations in Assyria--your digging
in the remote civilization of what was once Chaldea, you may find--what
you dream of--"

The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a fine old face.

"Perhaps," he murmured softly, "perhaps!"

And the young doctor, thanking the gods of science that his leader's
aberrations were of so harmless a character, went home strong in the
certitude of his knowledge of externals, proud that he was able to refer
his visions to self-suggestion, and wondering complaisantly whether in
his old age he might not after all suffer himself from visitations of
the very kind that afflicted his respected chief.

And as he got into bed and thought again of his master's rugged face,
and finely shaped head, and the deep lines traced by years of work and
self-discipline, he turned over on his pillow and fell asleep with a
sigh that was half of wonder, half of regret.



2


It was in February, nine months later, when Dr. Laidlaw made his way to
Charing Cross to meet his chief after his long absence of travel and
exploration. The vision about the so-called Tablets of the Gods had
meanwhile passed almost entirely from his memory.

There were few people in the train, for the stream of traffic was now
running the other way, and he had no difficulty in finding the man he
had come to meet. The shock of white hair beneath the low-crowned felt
hat was alone enough to distinguish him by easily.

"Here I am at last!" exclaimed the professor, somewhat wearily, clasping
his friend's hand as he listened to the young doctor's warm greetings
and questions. "Here I am--a little older, and _much_ dirtier than when
you last saw me!" He glanced down laughingly at his travel-stained
garments.

"And _much_ wiser," said Laidlaw, with a smile, as he bustled about the
platform for porters and gave his chief the latest scientific news.

At last they came down to practical considerations.

"And your luggage--where is that? You must have tons of it, I suppose?"
said Laidlaw.

"Hardly anything," Professor Ebor answered. "Nothing, in fact, but what
you see."

"Nothing but this hand-bag?" laughed the other, thinking he was joking.

"And a small portmanteau in the van," was the quiet reply. "I have no
other luggage."

"You have no other luggage?" repeated Laidlaw, turning sharply to see if
he were in earnest.

"Why should I need more?" the professor added simply.

Something in the man's face, or voice, or manner--the doctor hardly knew
which--suddenly struck him as strange. There was a change in him, a
change so profound--so little on the surface, that is--that at first he
had not become aware of it. For a moment it was as though an utterly
alien personality stood before him in that noisy, bustling throng. Here,
in all the homely, friendly turmoil of a Charing Cross crowd, a curious
feeling of cold passed over his heart, touching his life with icy
finger, so that he actually trembled and felt afraid.

He looked up quickly at his friend, his mind working with startled and
unwelcome thoughts.

"Only this?" he repeated, indicating the bag. "But where's all the stuff
you went away with? And--have you brought nothing home--no treasures?"

"This is all I have," the other said briefly. The pale smile that went
with the words caused the doctor a second indescribable sensation of
uneasiness. Something was very wrong, something was very queer; he
wondered now that he had not noticed it sooner.

"The rest follows, of course, by slow freight," he added tactfully, and
as naturally as possible. "But come, sir, you must be tired and in want
of food after your long journey. I'll get a taxi at once, and we can see
about the other luggage afterwards."

It seemed to him he hardly knew quite what he was saying; the change in
his friend had come upon him so suddenly and now grew upon him more and
more distressingly. Yet he could not make out exactly in what it
consisted. A terrible suspicion began to take shape in his mind,
troubling him dreadfully.

"I am neither very tired, nor in need of food, thank you," the professor
said quietly. "And this is all I have. There is no luggage to follow. I
have brought home nothing--nothing but what you see."

His words conveyed finality. They got into a taxi, tipped the porter,
who had been staring in amazement at the venerable figure of the
scientist, and were conveyed slowly and noisily to the house in the
north of London where the laboratory was, the scene of their labours of
years.

And the whole way Professor Ebor uttered no word, nor did Dr. Laidlaw
find the courage to ask a single question.

It was only late that night, before he took his departure, as the two
men were standing before the fire in the study--that study where they
had discussed so many problems of vital and absorbing interest--that
Dr. Laidlaw at last found strength to come to the point with direct
questions. The professor had been giving him a superficial and desultory
account of his travels, of his journeys by camel, of his encampments
among the mountains and in the desert, and of his explorations among the
buried temples, and, deeper, into the waste of the pre-historic sands,
when suddenly the doctor came to the desired point with a kind of
nervous rush, almost like a frightened boy.

"And you found--" he began stammering, looking hard at the other's
dreadfully altered face, from which every line of hope and cheerfulness
seemed to have been obliterated as a sponge wipes markings from a
slate--"you found--"

"I found," replied the other, in a solemn voice, and it was the voice of
the mystic rather than the man of science--"I found what I went to seek.
The vision never once failed me. It led me straight to the place like a
star in the heavens. I found--the Tablets of the Gods."

Dr. Laidlaw caught his breath, and steadied himself on the back of a
chair. The words fell like particles of ice upon his heart. For the
first time the professor had uttered the well-known phrase without the
glow of light and wonder in his face that always accompanied it.

"You have--brought them?" he faltered.

"I have brought them home," said the other, in a voice with a ring like
iron; "and I have--deciphered them."

Profound despair, the bloom of outer darkness, the dead sound of a
hopeless soul freezing in the utter cold of space seemed to fill in the
pauses between the brief sentences. A silence followed, during which Dr.
Laidlaw saw nothing but the white face before him alternately fade and
return. And it was like the face of a dead man.

"They are, alas, indestructible," he heard the voice continue, with its
even, metallic ring.

"Indestructible," Laidlaw repeated mechanically, hardly knowing what he
was saying.

Again a silence of several minutes passed, during which, with a creeping
cold about his heart, he stood and stared into the eyes of the man he
had known and loved so long--aye, and worshipped, too; the man who had
first opened his own eyes when they were blind, and had led him to the
gates of knowledge, and no little distance along the difficult path
beyond; the man who, in another direction, had passed on the strength of
his faith into the hearts of thousands by his books.

"I may see them?" he asked at last, in a low voice he hardly recognized
as his own. "You will let me know--their message?"

Professor Ebor kept his eyes fixedly upon his assistant's face as he
answered, with a smile that was more like the grin of death than a
living human smile.

"When I am gone," he whispered; "when I have passed away. Then you
shall find them and read the translation I have made. And then, too, in
your turn, you must try, with the latest resources of science at your
disposal to aid you, to compass their utter destruction." He paused
a moment, and his face grew pale as the face of a corpse. "Until
that time," he added presently, without looking up, "I must ask
you not to refer to the subject again--and to keep my confidence
meanwhile--_ab--so--lute--ly_."



3


A year passed slowly by, and at the end of it Dr. Laidlaw had found it
necessary to sever his working connexion with his friend and one-time
leader. Professor Ebor was no longer the same man. The light had gone
out of his life; the laboratory was closed; he no longer put pen to
paper or applied his mind to a single problem. In the short space of
a few months he had passed from a hale and hearty man of late middle
life to the condition of old age--a man collapsed and on the edge of
dissolution. Death, it was plain, lay waiting for him in the shadows of
any day--and he knew it.

To describe faithfully the nature of this profound alteration in his
character and temperament is not easy, but Dr. Laidlaw summed it up to
himself in three words: _Loss of Hope_. The splendid mental powers
remained indeed undimmed, but the incentive to use them--to use them for
the help of others--had gone. The character still held to its fine and
unselfish habits of years, but the far goal to which they had been the
leading strings had faded away. The desire for knowledge--knowledge for
its own sake--had died, and the passionate hope which hitherto had
animated with tireless energy the heart and brain of this splendidly
equipped intellect had suffered total eclipse. The central fires had
gone out. Nothing was worth doing, thinking, working for. There _was_
nothing to work for any longer!

The professor's first step was to recall as many of his books as
possible; his second to close his laboratory and stop all research. He
gave no explanation, he invited no questions. His whole personality
crumbled away, so to speak, till his daily life became a mere mechanical
process of clothing the body, feeding the body, keeping it in good
health so as to avoid physical discomfort, and, above all, doing nothing
that could interfere with sleep. The professor did everything he could
to lengthen the hours of sleep, and therefore of forgetfulness.

It was all clear enough to Dr. Laidlaw. A weaker man, he knew, would
have sought to lose himself in one form or another of sensual
indulgence--sleeping-draughts, drink, the first pleasures that came to
hand. Self-destruction would have been the method of a little bolder
type; and deliberate evil-doing, poisoning with his awful knowledge all
he could, the means of still another kind of man. Mark Ebor was none of
these. He held himself under fine control, facing silently and without
complaint the terrible facts he honestly believed himself to have been
unfortunate enough to discover. Even to his intimate friend and
assistant, Dr. Laidlaw, he vouchsafed no word of true explanation or
lament. He went straight forward to the end, knowing well that the end
was not very far away.

And death came very quietly one day to him, as he was sitting in the
arm-chair of the study, directly facing the doors of the laboratory--the
doors that no longer opened. Dr. Laidlaw, by happy chance, was with him
at the time, and just able to reach his side in response to the sudden
painful efforts for breath; just in time, too, to catch the murmured
words that fell from the pallid lips like a message from the other side
of the grave.

"Read them, if you must; and, if you can--destroy. But"--his
voice sank so low that Dr. Laidlaw only just caught the dying
syllables--"but--never, never--give them to the world."

And like a grey bundle of dust loosely gathered up in an old garment the
professor sank back into his chair and expired.

But this was only the death of the body. His spirit had died two years
before.



4


The estate of the dead man was small and uncomplicated, and Dr. Laidlaw,
as sole executor and residuary legatee, had no difficulty in settling
it up. A month after the funeral he was sitting alone in his upstairs
library, the last sad duties completed, and his mind full of poignant
memories and regrets for the loss of a friend he had revered and loved,
and to whom his debt was so incalculably great. The last two years,
indeed, had been for him terrible. To watch the swift decay of the
greatest combination of heart and brain he had ever known, and to
realize he was powerless to help, was a source of profound grief to him
that would remain to the end of his days.

At the same time an insatiable curiosity possessed him. The study of
dementia was, of course, outside his special province as a specialist,
but he knew enough of it to understand how small a matter might be the
actual cause of how great an illusion, and he had been devoured from the
very beginning by a ceaseless and increasing anxiety to know what the
professor had found in the sands of "Chaldea," what these precious
Tablets of the Gods might be, and particularly--for this was the real
cause that had sapped the man's sanity and hope--what the inscription
was that he had believed to have deciphered thereon.

The curious feature of it all to his own mind was, that whereas his
friend had dreamed of finding a message of glorious hope and comfort, he
had apparently found (so far as he had found anything intelligible at
all, and not invented the whole thing in his dementia) that the secret
of the world, and the meaning of life and death, was of so terrible a
nature that it robbed the heart of courage and the soul of hope. What,
then, could be the contents of the little brown parcel the professor had
bequeathed to him with his pregnant dying sentences?

Actually his hand was trembling as he turned to the writing-table and
began slowly to unfasten a small old-fashioned desk on which the small
gilt initials "M.E." stood forth as a melancholy memento. He put the key
into the lock and half turned it. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked
about him. Was that a sound at the back of the room? It was just as
though someone had laughed and then tried to smother the laugh with a
cough. A slight shiver ran over him as he stood listening.

"This is absurd," he said aloud; "too absurd for belief--that I should
be so nervous! It's the effect of curiosity unduly prolonged." He smiled
a little sadly and his eyes wandered to the blue summer sky and the
plane trees swaying in the wind below his window. "It's the reaction,"
he continued. "The curiosity of two years to be quenched in a single
moment! The nervous tension, of course, must be considerable."

He turned back to the brown desk and opened it without further delay.
His hand was firm now, and he took out the paper parcel that lay inside
without a tremor. It was heavy. A moment later there lay on the table
before him a couple of weather-worn plaques of grey stone--they looked
like stone, although they felt like metal--on which he saw markings of
a curious character that might have been the mere tracings of natural
forces through the ages, or, equally well, the half-obliterated
hieroglyphics cut upon their surface in past centuries by the more or
less untutored hand of a common scribe.

He lifted each stone in turn and examined it carefully. It seemed to him
that a faint glow of heat passed from the substance into his skin, and
he put them down again suddenly, as with a gesture of uneasiness.

"A very clever, or a very imaginative man," he said to himself, "who
could squeeze the secrets of life and death from such broken lines as
those!"

Then he turned to a yellow envelope lying beside them in the desk, with
the single word on the outside in the writing of the professor--the word
_Translation_.

"Now," he thought, taking it up with a sudden violence to conceal his
nervousness, "now for the great solution. Now to learn the meaning of
the worlds, and why mankind was made, and why discipline is worth while,
and sacrifice and pain the true law of advancement."

There was the shadow of a sneer in his voice, and yet something in him
shivered at the same time. He held the envelope as though weighing it in
his hand, his mind pondering many things. Then curiosity won the day,
and he suddenly tore it open with the gesture of an actor who tears open
a letter on the stage, knowing there is no real writing inside at all.

A page of finely written script in the late scientist's handwriting lay
before him. He read it through from beginning to end, missing no word,
uttering each syllable distinctly under his breath as he read.

The pallor of his face grew ghastly as he neared the end. He began to
shake all over as with ague. His breath came heavily in gasps. He still
gripped the sheet of paper, however, and deliberately, as by an intense
effort of will, read it through a second time from beginning to end. And
this time, as the last syllable dropped from his lips, the whole face of
the man flamed with a sudden and terrible anger. His skin became deep,
deep red, and he clenched his teeth. With all the strength of his
vigorous soul he was struggling to keep control of himself.

For perhaps five minutes he stood there beside the table without
stirring a muscle. He might have been carved out of stone. His eyes were
shut, and only the heaving of the chest betrayed the fact that he was a
living being. Then, with a strange quietness, he lit a match and applied
it to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. The ashes fell slowly
about him, piece by piece, and he blew them from the window-sill into
the air, his eyes following them as they floated away on the summer wind
that breathed so warmly over the world.

He turned back slowly into the room. Although his actions and movements
were absolutely steady and controlled, it was clear that he was on the
edge of violent action. A hurricane might burst upon the still room any
moment. His muscles were tense and rigid. Then, suddenly, he whitened,
collapsed, and sank backwards into a chair, like a tumbled bundle of
inert matter. He had fainted.

In less than half an hour he recovered consciousness and sat up. As
before, he made no sound. Not a syllable passed his lips. He rose
quietly and looked about the room.

Then he did a curious thing.

Taking a heavy stick from the rack in the corner he approached the
mantlepiece, and with a heavy shattering blow he smashed the clock to
pieces. The glass fell in shivering atoms.

"Cease your lying voice for ever," he said, in a curiously still, even
tone. "There is no such thing as _time_!"

He took the watch from his pocket, swung it round several times by the
long gold chain, smashed it into smithereens against the wall with a
single blow, and then walked into his laboratory next door, and hung its
broken body on the bones of the skeleton in the corner of the room.

"Let one damned mockery hang upon another," he said smiling oddly.
"Delusions, both of you, and cruel as false!"

He slowly moved back to the front room. He stopped opposite the bookcase
where stood in a row the "Scriptures of the World," choicely bound and
exquisitely printed, the late professor's most treasured possession, and
next to them several books signed "Pilgrim."

One by one he took them from the shelf and hurled them through the open
window.

"A devil's dreams! A devil's foolish dreams!" he cried, with a vicious
laugh.

Presently he stopped from sheer exhaustion. He turned his eyes slowly to
the wall opposite, where hung a weird array of Eastern swords and
daggers, scimitars and spears, the collections of many journeys. He
crossed the room and ran his finger along the edge. His mind seemed to
waver.

"No," he muttered presently; "not that way. There are easier and better
ways than that."

He took his hat and passed downstairs into the street.



5


It was five o'clock, and the June sun lay hot upon the pavement. He felt
the metal door-knob burn the palm of his hand.

"Ah, Laidlaw, this is well met," cried a voice at his elbow; "I was in
the act of coming to see you. I've a case that will interest you, and
besides, I remembered that you flavoured your tea with orange
leaves!--and I admit--"

It was Alexis Stephen, the great hypnotic doctor.

"I've had no tea to-day," Laidlaw said, in a dazed manner, after staring
for a moment as though the other had struck him in the face. A new idea
had entered his mind.

"What's the matter?" asked Dr. Stephen quickly. "Something's wrong with
you. It's this sudden heat, or overwork. Come, man, let's go inside."

A sudden light broke upon the face of the younger man, the light of a
heaven-sent inspiration. He looked into his friend's face, and told a
direct lie.

"Odd," he said, "I myself was just coming to see you. I have something
of great importance to test your confidence with. But in _your_ house,
please," as Stephen urged him towards his own door--"in your house. It's
only round the corner, and I--I cannot go back there--to my rooms--till
I have told you.

"I'm your patient--for the moment," he added stammeringly as soon as
they were seated in the privacy of the hypnotist's sanctum, "and I
want--er--"

"My dear Laidlaw," interrupted the other, in that soothing voice of
command which had suggested to many a suffering soul that the cure for
its pain lay in the powers of its own reawakened will, "I am always at
your service, as you know. You have only to tell me what I can do for
you, and I will do it." He showed every desire to help him out. His
manner was indescribably tactful and direct.

Dr. Laidlaw looked up into his face.

"I surrender my will to you," he said, already calmed by the other's
healing presence, "and I want you to treat me hypnotically--and at once.
I want you to suggest to me"--his voice became very tense--"that I shall
forget--forget till I die--everything that has occurred to me during the
last two hours; till I die, mind," he added, with solemn emphasis, "till
I die."

He floundered and stammered like a frightened boy. Alexis Stephen
looked at him fixedly without speaking.

"And further," Laidlaw continued, "I want you to ask me no questions. I
wish to forget for ever something I have recently discovered--something
so terrible and yet so obvious that I can hardly understand why it
is not patent to every mind in the world--for I have had a moment of
absolute _clear vision_--of merciless clairvoyance. But I want no one
else in the whole world to know what it is--least of all, old friend,
yourself."

He talked in utter confusion, and hardly knew what he was saying. But
the pain on his face and the anguish in his voice were an instant
passport to the other's heart.

"Nothing is easier," replied Dr. Stephen, after a hesitation so slight
that the other probably did not even notice it. "Come into my other room
where we shall not be disturbed. I can heal you. Your memory of the last
two hours shall be wiped out as though it had never been. You can trust
me absolutely."

"I know I can," Laidlaw said simply, as he followed him in.



6


An hour later they passed back into the front room again. The sun was
already behind the houses opposite, and the shadows began to gather.

"I went off easily?" Laidlaw asked.

"You were a little obstinate at first. But though you came in like a
lion, you went out like a lamb. I let you sleep a bit afterwards."

Dr. Stephen kept his eyes rather steadily upon his friend's face.

"What were you doing by the fire before you came here?" he asked,
pausing, in a casual tone, as he lit a cigarette and handed the case to
his patient.

"I? Let me see. Oh, I know; I was worrying my way through poor old
Ebor's papers and things. I'm his executor, you know. Then I got weary
and came out for a whiff of air." He spoke lightly and with perfect
naturalness. Obviously he was telling the truth. "I prefer specimens to
papers," he laughed cheerily.

"I know, I know," said Dr. Stephen, holding a lighted match for the
cigarette. His face wore an expression of content. The experiment had
been a complete success. The memory of the last two hours was wiped out
utterly. Laidlaw was already chatting gaily and easily about a dozen
other things that interested him. Together they went out into the
street, and at his door Dr. Stephen left him with a joke and a wry face
that made his friend laugh heartily.

"Don't dine on the professor's old papers by mistake," he cried, as he
vanished down the street.

Dr. Laidlaw went up to his study at the top of the house. Half way down
he met his housekeeper, Mrs. Fewings. She was flustered and excited, and
her face was very red and perspiring.

"There've been burglars here," she cried excitedly, "or something funny!
All your things is just any'ow, sir. I found everything all about
everywhere!" She was very confused. In this orderly and very precise
establishment it was unusual to find a thing out of place.

"Oh, my specimens!" cried the doctor, dashing up the rest of the stairs
at top speed. "Have they been touched or--"

He flew to the door of the laboratory. Mrs. Fewings panted up heavily
behind him.

"The labatry ain't been touched," she explained, breathlessly, "but they
smashed the libry clock and they've 'ung your gold watch, sir, on the
skelinton's hands. And the books that weren't no value they flung out er
the window just like so much rubbish. They must have been wild drunk,
Dr. Laidlaw, sir!"

The young scientist made a hurried examination of the rooms. Nothing of
value was missing. He began to wonder what kind of burglars they were.
He looked up sharply at Mrs. Fewings standing in the doorway. For a
moment he seemed to cast about in his mind for something.

"Odd," he said at length. "I only left here an hour ago and everything
was all right then."

"Was it, sir? Yes, sir." She glanced sharply at him. Her room looked out
upon the courtyard, and she must have seen the books come crashing down,
and also have heard her master leave the house a few minutes later.

"And what's this rubbish the brutes have left?" he cried, taking up
two slabs of worn gray stone, on the writing-table. "Bath brick, or
something, I do declare."

He looked very sharply again at the confused and troubled housekeeper.

"Throw them on the dust heap, Mrs. Fewings, and--and let me know if
anything is missing in the house, and I will notify the police this
evening."

When she left the room he went into the laboratory and took his watch
off the skeleton's fingers. His face wore a troubled expression, but
after a moment's thought it cleared again. His memory was a complete
blank.

"I suppose I left it on the writing-table when I went out to take the
air," he said. And there was no one present to contradict him.

He crossed to the window and blew carelessly some ashes of burned paper
from the sill, and stood watching them as they floated away lazily over
the tops of the trees.


       *       *       *       *       *



_The Glamour of the Snow_

I


Hibbert, always conscious of two worlds, was in this mountain village
conscious of three. It lay on the slopes of the Valais Alps, and he had
taken a room in the little post office, where he could be at peace to
write his book, yet at the same time enjoy the winter sports and find
companionship in the hotels when he wanted it.

The three worlds that met and mingled here seemed to his imaginative
temperament very obvious, though it is doubtful if another mind less
intuitively equipped would have seen them so well-defined. There was
the world of tourist English, civilised, quasi-educated, to which he
belonged by birth, at any rate; there was the world of peasants to which
he felt himself drawn by sympathy--for he loved and admired their
toiling, simple life; and there was this other--which he could only call
the world of Nature. To this last, however, in virtue of a vehement
poetic imagination, and a tumultuous pagan instinct fed by his very
blood, he felt that most of him belonged. The others borrowed from it,
as it were, for visits. Here, with the soul of Nature, hid his central
life.

Between all three was conflict--potential conflict. On the skating-rink
each Sunday the tourists regarded the natives as intruders; in the
church the peasants plainly questioned: "Why do you come? We are here
to worship; you to stare and whisper!" For neither of these two worlds
accepted the other. And neither did Nature accept the tourists, for it
took advantage of their least mistakes, and indeed, even of the
peasant-world "accepted" only those who were strong and bold enough to
invade her savage domain with sufficient skill to protect themselves
from several forms of--death.

Now Hibbert was keenly aware of this potential conflict and want of
harmony; he felt outside, yet caught by it--torn in the three directions
because he was partly of each world, but wholly in only one. There
grew in him a constant, subtle effort--or, at least, desire--to unify
them and decide positively to which he should belong and live in.
The attempt, of course, was largely subconscious. It was the natural
instinct of a richly imaginative nature seeking the point of
equilibrium, so that the mind could feel at peace and his brain be free
to do good work.

Among the guests no one especially claimed his interest. The men were
nice but undistinguished--athletic schoolmasters, doctors snatching a
holiday, good fellows all; the women, equally various--the clever, the
would-be-fast, the dare-to-be-dull, the women "who understood," and the
usual pack of jolly dancing girls and "flappers." And Hibbert, with his
forty odd years of thick experience behind him, got on well with the
lot; he understood them all; they belonged to definite, predigested
types that are the same the world over, and that he had met the world
over long ago.

But to none of them did he belong. His nature was too "multiple" to
subscribe to the set of shibboleths of any one class. And, since all
liked him, and felt that somehow he seemed outside of them--spectator,
looker-on--all sought to claim him.

In a sense, therefore, the three worlds fought for him: natives,
tourists, Nature....

It was thus began the singular conflict for the soul of Hibbert. _In_
his own soul, however, it took place. Neither the peasants nor the
tourists were conscious that they fought for anything. And Nature, they
say, is merely blind and automatic.

The assault upon him of the peasants may be left out of account, for it
is obvious that they stood no chance of success. The tourist world,
however, made a gallant effort to subdue him to themselves. But the
evenings in the hotel, when dancing was not in order, were--English. The
provincial imagination was set upon a throne and worshipped heavily
through incense of the stupidest conventions possible. Hibbert used to
go back early to his room in the post office to work.

"It is a mistake on my part to have _realised_ that there is any
conflict at all," he thought, as he crunched home over the snow at
midnight after one of the dances. "It would have been better to have
kept outside it all and done my work. Better," he added, looking back
down the silent village street to the church tower, "and--safer."

The adjective slipped from his mind before he was aware of it. He
turned with an involuntary start and looked about him. He knew perfectly
well what it meant--this thought that had thrust its head up from the
instinctive region. He understood, without being able to express it
fully, the meaning that betrayed itself in the choice of the adjective.
For if he had ignored the existence of this conflict he would at the
same time, have remained outside the arena. Whereas now he had entered
the lists. Now this battle for his soul must have issue. And he knew
that the spell of Nature was greater for him than all other spells in
the world combined--greater than love, revelry, pleasure, greater even
than study. He had always been afraid to let himself go. His pagan soul
dreaded her terrific powers of witchery even while he worshipped.

The little village already slept. The world lay smothered in snow. The
chalet roofs shone white beneath the moon, and pitch-black shadows
gathered against the walls of the church. His eye rested a moment on the
square stone tower with its frosted cross that pointed to the sky: then
travelled with a leap of many thousand feet to the enormous mountains
that brushed the brilliant stars. Like a forest rose the huge peaks
above the slumbering village, measuring the night and heavens. They
beckoned him. And something born of the snowy desolation, born of the
midnight and the silent grandeur, born of the great listening hollows of
the night, something that lay 'twixt terror and wonder, dropped from the
vast wintry spaces down into his heart--and called him. Very softly,
unrecorded in any word or thought his brain could compass, it laid its
spell upon him. Fingers of snow brushed the surface of his heart. The
power and quiet majesty of the winter's night appalled him....

Fumbling a moment with the big unwieldy key, he let himself in and went
upstairs to bed. Two thoughts went with him--apparently quite ordinary
and sensible ones:

"What fools these peasants are to sleep through such a night!" And the
other:

"Those dances tire me. I'll never go again. My work only suffers in the
morning." The claims of peasants and tourists upon him seemed thus in a
single instant weakened.

The clash of battle troubled half his dreams. Nature had sent her Beauty
of the Night and won the first assault. The others, routed and dismayed,
fled far away.



II


"Don't go back to your dreary old post office. We're going to have
supper in my room--something hot. Come and join us. Hurry up!"

There had been an ice carnival, and the last party, tailing up the
snow-slope to the hotel, called him. The Chinese lanterns smoked and
sputtered on the wires; the band had long since gone. The cold was
bitter and the moon came only momentarily between high, driving clouds.
From the shed where the people changed from skates to snow-boots he
shouted something to the effect that he was "following"; but no answer
came; the moving shadows of those who had called were already merged
high up against the village darkness. The voices died away. Doors
slammed. Hibbert found himself alone on the deserted rink.

And it was then, quite suddenly, the impulse came to--stay and skate
alone. The thought of the stuffy hotel room, and of those noisy people
with their obvious jokes and laughter, oppressed him. He felt a longing
to be alone with the night; to taste her wonder all by himself there
beneath the stars, gliding over the ice. It was not yet midnight, and he
could skate for half an hour. That supper party, if they noticed his
absence at all, would merely think he had changed his mind and gone to
bed.

It was an impulse, yes, and not an unnatural one; yet even at the time
it struck him that something more than impulse lay concealed behind it.
More than invitation, yet certainly less than command, there was a vague
queer feeling that he stayed because he had to, almost as though there
was something he had forgotten, overlooked, left undone. Imaginative
temperaments are often thus; and impulse is ever weakness. For with such
ill-considered opening of the doors to hasty action may come an invasion
of other forces at the same time--forces merely waiting their
opportunity perhaps!

He caught the fugitive warning even while he dismissed it as absurd, and
the next minute he was whirling over the smooth ice in delightful curves
and loops beneath the moon. There was no fear of collision. He could
take his own speed and space as he willed. The shadows of the towering
mountains fell across the rink, and a wind of ice came from the forests,
where the snow lay ten feet deep. The hotel lights winked and went out.
The village slept. The high wire netting could not keep out the wonder
of the winter night that grew about him like a presence. He skated on
and on, keen exhilarating pleasure in his tingling blood, and weariness
all forgotten.

And then, midway in the delight of rushing movement, he saw a figure
gliding behind the wire netting, watching him. With a start that almost
made him lose his balance--for the abruptness of the new arrival was so
unlooked for--he paused and stared. Although the light was dim he made
out that it was the figure of a woman and that she was feeling her way
along the netting, trying to get in. Against the white background of the
snow-field he watched her rather stealthy efforts as she passed with a
silent step over the banked-up snow. She was tall and slim and graceful;
he could see that even in the dark. And then, of course, he understood.
It was another adventurous skater like himself, stolen down unawares
from hotel or chalet, and searching for the opening. At once, making a
sign and pointing with one hand, he turned swiftly and skated over to
the little entrance on the other side.

But, even before he got there, there was a sound on the ice behind him
and, with an exclamation of amazement he could not suppress, he turned
to see her swerving up to his side across the width of the rink. She had
somehow found another way in.

Hibbert, as a rule, was punctilious, and in these free-and-easy places,
perhaps, especially so. If only for his own protection he did not seek
to make advances unless some kind of introduction paved the way. But for
these two to skate together in the semi-darkness without speech, often
of necessity brushing shoulders almost, was too absurd to think of.
Accordingly he raised his cap and spoke. His actual words he seems
unable to recall, nor what the girl said in reply, except that she
answered him in accented English with some commonplace about doing
figures at midnight on an empty rink. Quite natural it was, and right.
She wore grey clothes of some kind, though not the customary long gloves
or sweater, for indeed her hands were bare, and presently when he skated
with her, he wondered with something like astonishment at their dry and
icy coldness.

And she was delicious to skate with--supple, sure, and light, fast as a
man yet with the freedom of a child, sinuous and steady at the same
time. Her flexibility made him wonder, and when he asked where she had
learned she murmured--he caught the breath against his ear and recalled
later that it was singularly cold--that she could hardly tell, for she
had been accustomed to the ice ever since she could remember.

But her face he never properly saw. A muffler of white fur buried her
neck to the ears, and her cap came over the eyes. He only saw that she
was young. Nor could he gather her hotel or chalet, for she pointed
vaguely, when he asked her, up the slopes. "Just over there--" she said,
quickly taking his hand again. He did not press her; no doubt she wished
to hide her escapade. And the touch of her hand thrilled him more than
anything he could remember; even through his thick glove he felt the
softness of that cold and delicate softness.

The clouds thickened over the mountains. It grew darker. They talked
very little, and did not always skate together. Often they separated,
curving about in corners by themselves, but always coming together again
in the centre of the rink; and when she left him thus Hibbert was
conscious of--yes, of missing her. He found a peculiar satisfaction,
almost a fascination, in skating by her side. It was quite an
adventure--these two strangers with the ice and snow and night!

Midnight had long since sounded from the old church tower before they
parted. She gave the sign, and he skated quickly to the shed, meaning to
find a seat and help her take her skates off. Yet when he turned--she
had already gone. He saw her slim figure gliding away across the snow
... and hurrying for the last time round the rink alone he searched in
vain for the opening she had twice used in this curious way.

"How very queer!" he thought, referring to the wire netting. "She must
have lifted it and wriggled under ...!"

Wondering how in the world she managed it, what in the world had
possessed him to be so free with her, and who in the world she was, he
went up the steep slope to the post office and so to bed, her promise to
come again another night still ringing delightfully in his ears. And
curious were the thoughts and sensations that accompanied him. Most of
all, perhaps, was the half suggestion of some dim memory that he had
known this girl before, had met her somewhere, more--that she knew him.
For in her voice--a low, soft, windy little voice it was, tender and
soothing for all its quiet coldness--there lay some faint reminder of
two others he had known, both long since gone: the voice of the woman he
had loved, and--the voice of his mother.

But this time through his dreams there ran no clash of battle. He was
conscious, rather, of something cold and clinging that made him think of
sifting snowflakes climbing slowly with entangling touch and thickness
round his feet. The snow, coming without noise, each flake so light
and tiny none can mark the spot whereon it settles, yet the mass of it
able to smother whole villages, wove through the very texture of his
mind--cold, bewildering, deadening effort with its clinging network of
ten million feathery touches.



III


In the morning Hibbert realised he had done, perhaps, a foolish thing.
The brilliant sunshine that drenched the valley made him see this, and
the sight of his work-table with its typewriter, books, papers, and the
rest, brought additional conviction. To have skated with a girl alone
at midnight, no matter how innocently the thing had come about, was
unwise--unfair, especially to her. Gossip in these little winter resorts
was worse than in a provincial town. He hoped no one had seen them.
Luckily the night had been dark. Most likely none had heard the ring of
skates.

Deciding that in future he would be more careful, he plunged into work,
and sought to dismiss the matter from his mind.

But in his times of leisure the memory returned persistently to haunt
him. When he "ski-d," "luged," or danced in the evenings, and especially
when he skated on the little rink, he was aware that the eyes of his
mind forever sought this strange companion of the night. A hundred times
he fancied that he saw her, but always sight deceived him. Her face he
might not know, but he could hardly fail to recognise her figure. Yet
nowhere among the others did he catch a glimpse of that slim young
creature he had skated with alone beneath the clouded stars. He searched
in vain. Even his inquiries as to the occupants of the private chalets
brought no results. He had lost her. But the queer thing was that he
felt as though she were somewhere close; he _knew_ she had not really
gone. While people came and left with every day, it never once occurred
to him that she had left. On the contrary, he felt assured that they
would meet again.

This thought he never quite acknowledged. Perhaps it was the wish that
fathered it only. And, even when he did meet her, it was a question how
he would speak and claim acquaintance, or whether _she_ would recognise
himself. It might be awkward. He almost came to dread a meeting, though
"dread," of course, was far too strong a word to describe an emotion
that was half delight, half wondering anticipation.

Meanwhile the season was in full swing. Hibbert felt in perfect health,
worked hard, ski-d, skated, luged, and at night danced fairly often--in
spite of his decision. This dancing was, however, an act of subconscious
surrender; it really meant he hoped to find her among the whirling
couples. He was searching for her without quite acknowledging it to
himself; and the hotel-world, meanwhile, thinking it had won him over,
teased and chaffed him. He made excuses in a similar vein; but all the
time he watched and searched and--waited.

For several days the sky held clear and bright and frosty, bitterly
cold, everything crisp and sparkling in the sun; but there was no sign
of fresh snow, and the ski-ers began to grumble. On the mountains was an
icy crust that made "running" dangerous; they wanted the frozen, dry,
and powdery snow that makes for speed, renders steering easier and
falling less severe. But the keen east wind showed no signs of changing
for a whole ten days. Then, suddenly, there came a touch of softer air
and the weather-wise began to prophesy.

Hibbert, who was delicately sensitive to the least change in earth or
sky, was perhaps the first to feel it. Only he did not prophesy. He knew
through every nerve in his body that moisture had crept into the air,
was accumulating, and that presently a fall would come. For he responded
to the moods of Nature like a fine barometer.

And the knowledge, this time, brought into his heart a strange little
wayward emotion that was hard to account for--a feeling of unexplained
uneasiness and disquieting joy. For behind it, woven through it rather,
ran a faint exhilaration that connected remotely somewhere with that
touch of delicious alarm, that tiny anticipating "dread," that so
puzzled him when he thought of his next meeting with his skating
companion of the night. It lay beyond all words, all telling, this queer
relationship between the two; but somehow the girl and snow ran in a
pair across his mind.

Perhaps for imaginative writing-men, more than for other workers, the
smallest change of mood betrays itself at once. His work at any rate
revealed this slight shifting of emotional values in his soul. Not that
his writing suffered, but that it altered, subtly as those changes of
sky or sea or landscape that come with the passing of afternoon into
evening--imperceptibly. A subconscious excitement sought to push
outwards and express itself ... and, knowing the uneven effect such
moods produced in his work, he laid his pen aside and took instead to
reading that he had to do.

Meanwhile the brilliance passed from the sunshine, the sky grew slowly
overcast; by dusk the mountain tops came singularly close and sharp; the
distant valley rose into absurdly near perspective. The moisture
increased, rapidly approaching saturation point, when it must fall in
snow. Hibbert watched and waited.

And in the morning the world lay smothered beneath its fresh white
carpet. It snowed heavily till noon, thickly, incessantly, chokingly, a
foot or more; then the sky cleared, the sun came out in splendour, the
wind shifted back to the east, and frost came down upon the mountains
with its keenest and most biting tooth. The drop in the temperature was
tremendous, but the ski-ers were jubilant. Next day the "running" would
be fast and perfect. Already the mass was settling, and the surface
freezing into those moss-like, powdery crystals that make the ski run
almost of their own accord with the faint "sishing" as of a bird's wings
through the air.



IV


That night there was excitement in the little hotel-world, first because
there was a _bal costume_, but chiefly because the new snow had come.
And Hibbert went--felt drawn to go; he did not go in costume, but he
wanted to talk about the slopes and ski-ing with the other men, and at
the same time....

Ah, there was the truth, the deeper necessity that called. For the
singular connection between the stranger and the snow again betrayed
itself, utterly beyond explanation as before, but vital and insistent.
Some hidden instinct in his pagan soul--heaven knows how he phrased it
even to himself, if he phrased it at all--whispered that with the snow
the girl would be somewhere about, would emerge from her hiding place,
would even look for him.

Absolutely unwarranted it was. He laughed while he stood before the
little glass and trimmed his moustache, tried to make his black tie sit
straight, and shook down his dinner jacket so that it should lie upon
the shoulders without a crease. His brown eyes were very bright. "I
look younger than I usually do," he thought. It was unusual, even
significant, in a man who had no vanity about his appearance and
certainly never questioned his age or tried to look younger than he was.
Affairs of the heart, with one tumultuous exception that left no fuel
for lesser subsequent fires, had never troubled him. The forces of his
soul and mind not called upon for "work" and obvious duties, all went to
Nature. The desolate, wild places of the earth were what he loved;
night, and the beauty of the stars and snow. And this evening he felt
their claims upon him mightily stirring. A rising wildness caught his
blood, quickened his pulse, woke longing and passion too. But chiefly
snow. The snow whirred softly through his thoughts like white, seductive
dreams.... For the snow had come; and She, it seemed, had somehow come
with it--into his mind.

And yet he stood before that twisted mirror and pulled his tie and coat
askew a dozen times, as though it mattered. "What in the world is up
with me?" he thought. Then, laughing a little, he turned before leaving
the room to put his private papers in order. The green morocco desk that
held them he took down from the shelf and laid upon the table. Tied to
the lid was the visiting card with his brother's London address "in case
of accident." On the way down to the hotel he wondered why he had done
this, for though imaginative, he was not the kind of man who dealt in
presentiments. Moods with him were strong, but ever held in leash.

"It's almost like a warning," he thought, smiling. He drew his thick
coat tightly round the throat as the freezing air bit at him. "Those
warnings one reads of in stories sometimes ...!"

A delicious happiness was in his blood. Over the edge of the hills
across the valley rose the moon. He saw her silver sheet the world of
snow. Snow covered all. It smothered sound and distance. It smothered
houses, streets, and human beings. It smothered--life.



V


In the hall there was light and bustle; people were already arriving
from the other hotels and chalets, their costumes hidden beneath many
wraps. Groups of men in evening dress stood about smoking, talking
"snow" and "ski-ing." The band was tuning up. The claims of the
hotel-world clashed about him faintly as of old. At the big glass
windows of the verandah, peasants stopped a moment on their way home
from the _cafe_ to peer. Hibbert thought laughingly of that conflict he
used to imagine. He laughed because it suddenly seemed so unreal. He
belonged so utterly to Nature and the mountains, and especially to those
desolate slopes where now the snow lay thick and fresh and sweet, that
there was no question of a conflict at all. The power of the newly
fallen snow had caught him, proving it without effort. Out there, upon
those lonely reaches of the moonlit ridges, the snow lay ready--masses
and masses of it--cool, soft, inviting. He longed for it. It awaited
him. He thought of the intoxicating delight of ski-ing in the
moonlight....

Thus, somehow, in vivid flashing vision, he thought of it while he stood
there smoking with the other men and talking all the "shop" of ski-ing.

And, ever mysteriously blended with this power of the snow, poured also
through his inner being the power of the girl. He could not disabuse his
mind of the insinuating presence of the two together. He remembered that
queer skating-impulse of ten days ago, the impulse that had let her in.
That any mind, even an imaginative one, could pass beneath the sway of
such a fancy was strange enough; and Hibbert, while fully aware of the
disorder, yet found a curious joy in yielding to it. This insubordinate
centre that drew him towards old pagan beliefs had assumed command. With
a kind of sensuous pleasure he let himself be conquered.

And snow that night seemed in everybody's thoughts. The dancing couples
talked of it; the hotel proprietors congratulated one another; it meant
good sport and satisfied their guests; every one was planning trips and
expeditions, talking of slopes and telemarks, of flying speed and
distance, of drifts and crust and frost. Vitality and enthusiasm pulsed
in the very air; all were alert and active, positive, radiating currents
of creative life even into the stuffy atmosphere of that crowded
ball-room. And the snow had caused it, the snow had brought it; all this
discharge of eager sparkling energy was due primarily to the--Snow.

But in the mind of Hibbert, by some swift alchemy of his pagan
yearnings, this energy became transmuted. It rarefied itself, gleaming
in white and crystal currents of passionate anticipation, which he
transferred, as by a species of electrical imagination, into the
personality of the girl--the Girl of the Snow. She somewhere was waiting
for him, expecting him, calling to him softly from those leagues of
moonlit mountain. He remembered the touch of that cool, dry hand; the
soft and icy breath against his cheek; the hush and softness of her
presence in the way she came and the way she had gone again--like a
flurry of snow the wind sent gliding up the slopes. She, like himself,
belonged out there. He fancied that he heard her little windy voice come
sifting to him through the snowy branches of the trees, calling his name
... that haunting little voice that dived straight to the centre of his
life as once, long years ago, two other voices used to do....

But nowhere among the costumed dancers did he see her slender figure. He
danced with one and all, distrait and absent, a stupid partner as each
girl discovered, his eyes ever turning towards the door and windows,
hoping to catch the luring face, the vision that did not come ... and at
length, hoping even against hope. For the ball-room thinned; groups left
one by one, going home to their hotels and chalets; the band tired
obviously; people sat drinking lemon-squashes at the little tables, the
men mopping their foreheads, everybody ready for bed.

It was close on midnight. As Hibbert passed through the hall to get his
overcoat and snow-boots, he saw men in the passage by the "sport-room,"
greasing their ski against an early start. Knapsack luncheons were being
ordered by the kitchen swing doors. He sighed. Lighting a cigarette a
friend offered him, he returned a confused reply to some question as to
whether he could join their party in the morning. It seemed he did not
hear it properly. He passed through the outer vestibule between the
double glass doors, and went into the night.

The man who asked the question watched him go, an expression of anxiety
momentarily in his eyes.

"Don't think he heard you," said another, laughing. "You've got to shout
to Hibbert, his mind's so full of his work."

"He works too hard," suggested the first, "full of queer ideas and
dreams."

But Hibbert's silence was not rudeness. He had not caught the
invitation, that was all. The call of the hotel-world had faded. He no
longer heard it. Another wilder call was sounding in his ears.

For up the street he had seen a little figure moving. Close against the
shadows of the baker's shop it glided--white, slim, enticing.



VI


And at once into his mind passed the hush and softness of the snow--yet
with it a searching, crying wildness for the heights. He knew by some
incalculable, swift instinct she would not meet him in the village
street. It was not there, amid crowding houses, she would speak to him.
Indeed, already she had disappeared, melted from view up the white vista
of the moonlit road. Yonder, he divined, she waited where the highway
narrowed abruptly into the mountain path beyond the chalets.

It did not even occur to him to hesitate; mad though it seemed, and
was--this sudden craving for the heights with her, at least for open
spaces where the snow lay thick and fresh--it was too imperious to be
denied. He does not remember going up to his room, putting the sweater
over his evening clothes, and getting into the fur gauntlet gloves and
the helmet cap of wool. Most certainly he has no recollection of
fastening on his ski; he must have done it automatically. Some faculty
of normal observation was in abeyance, as it were. His mind was out
beyond the village--out with the snowy mountains and the moon.

Henri Defago, putting up the shutters over his _cafe_ windows, saw him
pass, and wondered mildly: "Un monsieur qui fait du ski a cette heure!
Il est Anglais, done ...!" He shrugged his shoulders, as though a man had
the right to choose his own way of death. And Marthe Perotti, the
hunchback wife of the shoemaker, looking by chance from her window,
caught his figure moving swiftly up the road. She had other thoughts,
for she knew and believed the old traditions of the witches and
snow-beings that steal the souls of men. She had even heard, 'twas said,
the dreaded "synagogue" pass roaring down the street at night, and now,
as then, she hid her eyes. "They've called to him ... and he must go,"
she murmured, making the sign of the cross.

But no one sought to stop him. Hibbert recalls only a single incident
until he found himself beyond the houses, searching for her along the
fringe of forest where the moonlight met the snow in a bewildering
frieze of fantastic shadows. And the incident was simply this--that he
remembered passing the church. Catching the outline of its tower against
the stars, he was aware of a faint sense of hesitation. A vague
uneasiness came and went--jarred unpleasantly across the flow of his
excited feelings, chilling exhilaration. He caught the instant's
discord, dismissed it, and--passed on. The seduction of the snow
smothered the hint before he realised that it had brushed the skirts of
warning.

And then he saw her. She stood there waiting in a little clear space of
shining snow, dressed all in white, part of the moonlight and the
glistening background, her slender figure just discernible.

"I waited, for I knew you would come," the silvery little voice of windy
beauty floated down to him. "You _had_ to come."

"I'm ready," he answered, "I knew it too."

The world of Nature caught him to its heart in those few words--the
wonder and the glory of the night and snow. Life leaped within him. The
passion of his pagan soul exulted, rose in joy, flowed out to her. He
neither reflected nor considered, but let himself go like the veriest
schoolboy in the wildness of first love.

"Give me your hand," he cried, "I'm coming ...!"

"A little farther on, a little higher," came her delicious answer. "Here
it is too near the village--and the church."

And the words seemed wholly right and natural; he did not dream of
questioning them; he understood that, with this little touch of
civilisation in sight, the familiarity he suggested was impossible. Once
out upon the open mountains, 'mid the freedom of huge slopes and
towering peaks, the stars and moon to witness and the wilderness of snow
to watch, they could taste an innocence of happy intercourse free from
the dead conventions that imprison literal minds.

He urged his pace, yet did not quite overtake her. The girl kept always
just a little bit ahead of his best efforts.... And soon they left the
trees behind and passed on to the enormous slopes of the sea of snow
that rolled in mountainous terror and beauty to the stars. The wonder of
the white world caught him away. Under the steady moonlight it was more
than haunting. It was a living, white, bewildering power that
deliciously confused the senses and laid a spell of wild perplexity upon
the heart. It was a personality that cloaked, and yet revealed, itself
through all this sheeted whiteness of snow. It rose, went with him, fled
before, and followed after. Slowly it dropped lithe, gleaming arms about
his neck, gathering him in....

Certainly some soft persuasion coaxed his very soul, urging him ever
forwards, upwards, on towards the higher icy slopes. Judgment and
reason left their throne, it seemed, completely, as in the madness of
intoxication. The girl, slim and seductive, kept always just ahead, so
that he never quite came up with her. He saw the white enchantment of
her face and figure, something that streamed about her neck flying like
a wreath of snow in the wind, and heard the alluring accents of her
whispering voice that called from time to time: "A little farther on, a
little higher.... Then we'll run home together!"

Sometimes he saw her hand stretched out to find his own, but each time,
just as he came up with her, he saw her still in front, the hand and arm
withdrawn. They took a gentle angle of ascent. The toil seemed nothing.
In this crystal, wine-like air fatigue vanished. The sishing of the ski
through the powdery surface of the snow was the only sound that broke
the stillness; this, with his breathing and the rustle of her skirts,
was all he heard. Cold moonshine, snow, and silence held the world. The
sky was black, and the peaks beyond cut into it like frosted wedges of
iron and steel. Far below the valley slept, the village long since
hidden out of sight. He felt that he could never tire.... The sound of
the church clock rose from time to time faintly through the air--more
and more distant.

"Give me your hand. It's time now to turn back."

"Just one more slope," she laughed. "That ridge above us. Then we'll
make for home." And her low voice mingled pleasantly with the purring of
their ski. His own seemed harsh and ugly by comparison.

"But I have never come so high before. It's glorious! This world of
silent snow and moonlight--and _you_. You're a child of the snow, I
swear. Let me come up--closer--to see your face--and touch your little
hand."

Her laughter answered him.

"Come on! A little higher. Here we're quite alone together."

"It's magnificent," he cried. "But why did you hide away so long? I've
looked and searched for you in vain ever since we skated--" he was going
to say "ten days ago," but the accurate memory of time had gone from
him; he was not sure whether it was days or years or minutes. His
thoughts of earth were scattered and confused.

"You looked for me in the wrong places," he heard her murmur just above
him. "You looked in places where I never go. Hotels and houses kill me.
I avoid them." She laughed--a fine, shrill, windy little laugh.

"I loathe them too--"

He stopped. The girl had suddenly come quite close. A breath of ice
passed through his very soul. She had touched him.

"But this awful cold!" he cried out, sharply, "this freezing cold that
takes me. The wind is rising; it's a wind of ice. Come, let us turn ...!"

But when he plunged forward to hold her, or at least to look, the girl
was gone again. And something in the way she stood there a few feet
beyond, and stared down into his eyes so steadfastly in silence, made
him shiver. The moonlight was behind her, but in some odd way he could
not focus sight upon her face, although so close. The gleam of eyes he
caught, but all the rest seemed white and snowy as though he looked
beyond her--out into space....

The sound of the church bell came up faintly from the valley far below,
and he counted the strokes--five. A sudden, curious weakness seized him
as he listened. Deep within it was, deadly yet somehow sweet, and hard
to resist. He felt like sinking down upon the snow and lying there....
They had been climbing for five hours.... It was, of course, the warning
of complete exhaustion.

With a great effort he fought and overcame it. It passed away as
suddenly as it came.

"We'll turn," he said with a decision he hardly felt. "It will be dawn
before we reach the village again. Come at once. It's time for home."

The sense of exhilaration had utterly left him. An emotion that was akin
to fear swept coldly through him. But her whispering answer turned it
instantly to terror--a terror that gripped him horribly and turned him
weak and unresisting.

"Our home is--_here_!" A burst of wild, high laughter, loud and shrill,
accompanied the words. It was like a whistling wind. The wind _had_
risen, and clouds obscured the moon. "A little higher--where we cannot
hear the wicked bells," she cried, and for the first time seized him
deliberately by the hand. She moved, was suddenly close against his
face. Again she touched him.

And Hibbert tried to turn away in escape, and so trying, found for the
first time that the power of the snow--that other power which does not
exhilarate but deadens effort--was upon him. The suffocating weakness
that it brings to exhausted men, luring them to the sleep of death in
her clinging soft embrace, lulling the will and conquering all desire
for life--this was awfully upon him. His feet were heavy and entangled.
He could not turn or move.

The girl stood in front of him, very near; he felt her chilly breath
upon his cheeks; her hair passed blindingly across his eyes; and that
icy wind came with her. He saw her whiteness close; again, it seemed,
his sight passed through her into space as though she had no face. Her
arms were round his neck. She drew him softly downwards to his knees. He
sank; he yielded utterly; he obeyed. Her weight was upon him,
smothering, delicious. The snow was to his waist.... She kissed him
softly on the lips, the eyes, all over his face. And then she spoke his
name in that voice of love and wonder, the voice that held the accent of
two others--both taken over long ago by Death--the voice of his mother,
and of the woman he had loved.

He made one more feeble effort to resist. Then, realising even while he
struggled that this soft weight about his heart was sweeter than
anything life could ever bring, he let his muscles relax, and sank back
into the soft oblivion of the covering snow. Her wintry kisses bore him
into sleep.



VII


They say that men who know the sleep of exhaustion in the snow find no
awakening on the hither side of death.... The hours passed and the moon
sank down below the white world's rim. Then, suddenly, there came a
little crash upon his breast and neck, and Hibbert--woke.

He slowly turned bewildered, heavy eyes upon the desolate mountains,
stared dizzily about him, tried to rise. At first his muscles would not
act; a numbing, aching pain possessed him. He uttered a long, thin cry
for help, and heard its faintness swallowed by the wind. And then he
understood vaguely why he was only warm--not dead. For this very wind
that took his cry had built up a sheltering mound of driven snow against
his body while he slept. Like a curving wave it ran beside him. It was
the breaking of its over-toppling edge that caused the crash, and the
coldness of the mass against his neck that woke him.

Dawn kissed the eastern sky; pale gleams of gold shot every peak with
splendour; but ice was in the air, and the dry and frozen snow blew like
powder from the surface of the slopes. He saw the points of his ski
projecting just below him. Then he--remembered. It seems he had just
strength enough to realise that, could he but rise and stand, he might
fly with terrific impetus towards the woods and village far beneath. The
ski would carry him. But if he failed and fell ...!

How he contrived it Hibbert never knew; this fear of death somehow
called out his whole available reserve force. He rose slowly, balanced a
moment, then, taking the angle of an immense zigzag, started down the
awful slopes like an arrow from a bow. And automatically the splendid
muscles of the practised ski-er and athlete saved and guided him, for he
was hardly conscious of controlling either speed or direction. The snow
stung face and eyes like fine steel shot; ridge after ridge flew past;
the summits raced across the sky; the valley leaped up with bounds to
meet him. He scarcely felt the ground beneath his feet as the huge
slopes and distance melted before the lightning speed of that descent
from death to life.

He took it in four mile-long zigzags, and it was the turning at each
corner that nearly finished him, for then the strain of balancing taxed
to the verge of collapse the remnants of his strength.

Slopes that have taken hours to climb can be descended in a short
half-hour on ski, but Hibbert had lost all count of time. Quite other
thoughts and feelings mastered him in that wild, swift dropping through
the air that was like the flight of a bird. For ever close upon his
heels came following forms and voices with the whirling snow-dust. He
heard that little silvery voice of death and laughter at his back.
Shrill and wild, with the whistling of the wind past his ears, he caught
its pursuing tones; but in anger now, no longer soft and coaxing. And it
was accompanied; she did not follow alone. It seemed a host of these
flying figures of the snow chased madly just behind him. He felt them
furiously smite his neck and cheeks, snatch at his hands and try to
entangle his feet and ski in drifts. His eyes they blinded, and they
caught his breath away.

The terror of the heights and snow and winter desolation urged him
forward in the maddest race with death a human being ever knew; and so
terrific was the speed that before the gold and crimson had left the
summits to touch the ice-lips of the lower glaciers, he saw the friendly
forest far beneath swing up and welcome him.

And it was then, moving slowly along the edge of the woods, he saw a
light. A man was carrying it. A procession of human figures was passing
in a dark line laboriously through the snow. And--he heard the sound of
chanting.

Instinctively, without a second's hesitation, he changed his course. No
longer flying at an angle as before, he pointed his ski straight down
the mountain-side. The dreadful steepness did not frighten him. He knew
full well it meant a crashing tumble at the bottom, but he also knew it
meant a doubling of his speed--with safety at the end. For, though no
definite thought passed through his mind, he understood that it was the
village _cure_ who carried that little gleaming lantern in the dawn, and
that he was taking the Host to a chalet on the lower slopes--to some
peasant _in extremis_. He remembered her terror of the church and bells.
She feared the holy symbols.

There was one last wild cry in his ears as he started, a shriek of the
wind before his face, and a rush of stinging snow against closed
eyelids--and then he dropped through empty space. Speed took sight from
him. It seemed he flew off the surface of the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Indistinctly he recalls the murmur of men's voices, the touch of strong
arms that lifted him, and the shooting pains as the ski were unfastened
from the twisted ankle ... for when he opened his eyes again to normal
life he found himself lying in his bed at the post office with the
doctor at his side. But for years to come the story of "mad Hibbert's"
ski-ing at night is recounted in that mountain village. He went, it
seems, up slopes, and to a height that no man in his senses ever tried
before. The tourists were agog about it for the rest of the season, and
the very same day two of the bolder men went over the actual ground and
photographed the slopes. Later Hibbert saw these photographs. He noticed
one curious thing about them--though he did not mention it to any one:

There was only a single track.



       *       *       *       *       *



_Sand_

I


As Felix Henriot came through the streets that January night the fog was
stifling, but when he reached his little flat upon the top floor there
came a sound of wind. Wind was stirring about the world. It blew against
his windows, but at first so faintly that he hardly noticed it. Then,
with an abrupt rise and fall like a wailing voice that sought to claim
attention, it called him. He peered through the window into the blurred
darkness, listening.

There is no cry in the world like that of the homeless wind. A vague
excitement, scarcely to be analysed, ran through his blood. The curtain
of fog waved momentarily aside. Henriot fancied a star peeped down at
him.

"It will change things a bit--at last," he sighed, settling back into
his chair. "It will bring movement!"

Already something in himself had changed. A restlessness, as of that
wandering wind, woke in his heart--the desire to be off and away. Other
things could rouse this wildness too: falling water, the singing of a
bird, an odour of wood-fire, a glimpse of winding road. But the cry of
wind, always searching, questioning, travelling the world's great
routes, remained ever the master-touch. High longing took his mood in
hand. Mid seven millions he felt suddenly--lonely.


"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
    I hear it in the deep heart's core."


He murmured the words over softly to himself. The emotion that produced
Innisfree passed strongly through him. He too would be over the hills
and far away. He craved movement, change, adventure--somewhere far from
shops and crowds and motor-'busses. For a week the fog had stifled
London. This wind brought life.

Where should he go? Desire was long; his purse was short.

He glanced at his books, letters, newspapers. They had no interest now.
Instead he listened. The panorama of other journeys rolled in colour
through the little room, flying on one another's heels. Henriot enjoyed
this remembered essence of his travels more than the travels themselves.
The crying wind brought so many voices, all of them seductive:

There was a soft crashing of waves upon the Black Sea shores, where the
huge Caucasus beckoned in the sky beyond; a rustling in the umbrella
pines and cactus at Marseilles, whence magic steamers start about the
world like flying dreams. He heard the plash of fountains upon Mount
Ida's slopes, and the whisper of the tamarisk on Marathon. It was dawn
once more upon the Ionian Sea, and he smelt the perfume of the Cyclades.
Blue-veiled islands melted in the sunshine, and across the dewy lawns of
Tempe, moistened by the spray of many waterfalls, he saw--Great Heavens
above!--the dancing of white forms ... or was it only mist the sunshine
painted against Pelion?... "Methought, among the lawns together, we
wandered underneath the young grey dawn. And multitudes of dense white
fleecy clouds shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind...."

And then, into his stuffy room, slipped the singing perfume of a
wall-flower on a ruined tower, and with it the sweetness of hot ivy. He
heard the "yellow bees in the ivy bloom." Wind whipped over the open
hills--this very wind that laboured drearily through the London fog.

And--he was caught. The darkness melted from the city. The fog whisked
off into an azure sky. The roar of traffic turned into booming of the
sea. There was a whistling among cordage, and the floor swayed to and
fro. He saw a sailor touch his cap and pocket the two-franc piece. The
syren hooted--ominous sound that had started him on many a journey of
adventure--and the roar of London became mere insignificant clatter of a
child's toy carriages.

He loved that syren's call; there was something deep and pitiless in it.
It drew the wanderers forth from cities everywhere: "Leave your known
world behind you, and come with me for better or for worse! The anchor
is up; it is too late to change. Only--beware! You shall know curious
things--and alone!"

Henriot stirred uneasily in his chair. He turned with sudden energy to
the shelf of guide-books, maps and time-tables--possessions he most
valued in the whole room. He was a happy-go-lucky, adventure-loving
soul, careless of common standards, athirst ever for the new and
strange.

"That's the best of having a cheap flat," he laughed, "and no ties in
the world. I can turn the key and disappear. No one cares or knows--no
one but the thieving caretaker. And he's long ago found out that there's
nothing here worth taking!"

There followed then no lengthy indecision. Preparation was even shorter
still. He was always ready for a move, and his sojourn in cities was but
breathing-space while he gathered pennies for further wanderings. An
enormous kit-bag--sack-shaped, very worn and dirty--emerged speedily
from the bottom of a cupboard in the wall. It was of limitless capacity.
The key and padlock rattled in its depths. Cigarette ashes covered
everything while he stuffed it full of ancient, indescribable garments.
And his voice, singing of those "yellow bees in the ivy bloom," mingled
with the crying of the rising wind about his windows. His restlessness
had disappeared by magic.

This time, however, there could be no haunted Pelion, nor shady groves
of Tempe, for he lived in sophisticated times when money markets
regulated movement sternly. Travelling was only for the rich; mere
wanderers must pig it. He remembered instead an opportune invitation to
the Desert. "Objective" invitation, his genial hosts had called it,
knowing his hatred of convention. And Helouan danced into letters of
brilliance upon the inner map of his mind. For Egypt had ever held his
spirit in thrall, though as yet he had tried in vain to touch the great
buried soul of her. The excavators, the Egyptologists, the
archaeologists most of all, plastered her grey ancient face with labels
like hotel advertisements on travellers' portmanteaux. They told where
she had come from last, but nothing of what she dreamed and thought and
loved. The heart of Egypt lay beneath the sand, and the trifling robbery
of little details that poked forth from tombs and temples brought no
true revelation of her stupendous spiritual splendour. Henriot, in his
youth, had searched and dived among what material he could find,
believing once--or half believing--that the ceremonial of that ancient
system veiled a weight of symbol that was reflected from genuine
supersensual knowledge. The rituals, now taken literally, and so
pityingly explained away, had once been genuine pathways of approach.
But never yet, and least of all in his previous visits to Egypt itself,
had he discovered one single person, worthy of speech, who caught at his
idea. "Curious," they said, then turned away--to go on digging in the
sand. Sand smothered her world to-day. Excavators discovered skeletons.
Museums everywhere stored them--grinning, literal relics that told
nothing.

But now, while he packed and sang, these hopes of enthusiastic younger
days stirred again--because the emotion that gave them birth was real
and true in him. Through the morning mists upon the Nile an old pyramid
bowed hugely at him across London roofs: "Come," he heard its awful
whisper beneath the ceiling, "I have things to show you, and to tell."
He saw the flock of them sailing the Desert like weird grey solemn ships
that make no earthly port. And he imagined them as one: multiple
expressions of some single unearthly portent they adumbrated in mighty
form--dead symbols of some spiritual conception long vanished from the
world.

"I mustn't dream like this," he laughed, "or I shall get absent-minded
and pack fire-tongs instead of boots. It looks like a jumble sale
already!" And he stood on a heap of things to wedge them down still
tighter.

But the pictures would not cease. He saw the kites circling high in the
blue air. A couple of white vultures flapped lazily away over shining
miles. Felucca sails, like giant wings emerging from the ground, curved
towards him from the Nile. The palm-trees dropped long shadows over
Memphis. He felt the delicious, drenching heat, and the Khamasin, that
over-wind from Nubia, brushed his very cheeks. In the little gardens the
mish-mish was in bloom.... He smelt the Desert ... grey sepulchre of
cancelled cycles.... The stillness of her interminable reaches dropped
down upon old London....

The magic of the sand stole round him in its silent-footed tempest.

And while he struggled with that strange, capacious sack, the piles of
clothing ran into shapes of gleaming Bedouin faces; London garments
settled down with the mournful sound of camels' feet, half dropping
wind, half water flowing underground--sound that old Time has brought
over into modern life and left a moment for our wonder and perhaps our
tears.

He rose at length with the excitement of some deep enchantment in his
eyes. The thought of Egypt plunged ever so deeply into him, carrying
him into depths where he found it difficult to breathe, so strangely far
away it seemed, yet indefinably familiar. He lost his way. A touch of
fear came with it.

"A sack like that is the wonder of the world," he laughed again, kicking
the unwieldy, sausage-shaped monster into a corner of the room, and
sitting down to write the thrilling labels: "Felix Henriot, Alexandria
_via_ Marseilles." But his pen blotted the letters; there was sand in
it. He rewrote the words. Then he remembered a dozen things he had left
out. Impatiently, yet with confusion somewhere, he stuffed them in. They
ran away into shifting heaps; they disappeared; they emerged suddenly
again. It was like packing hot, dry, flowing sand. From the pockets of a
coat--he had worn it last summer down Dorset way--out trickled sand.
There was sand in his mind and thoughts.

And his dreams that night were full of winds, the old sad winds of
Egypt, and of moving, sifting sand. Arabs and Afreets danced amazingly
together across dunes he could never reach. For he could not follow fast
enough. Something infinitely older than these ever caught his feet and
held him back. A million tiny fingers stung and pricked him. Something
flung a veil before his eyes. Once it touched him--his face and hands
and neck. "Stay here with us," he heard a host of muffled voices crying,
but their sound was smothered, buried, rising through the ground. A
myriad throats were choked. Till, at last, with a violent effort he
turned and seized it. And then the thing he grasped at slipped between
his fingers and ran easily away. It had a grey and yellow face, and it
moved through all its parts. It flowed as water flows, and yet was
solid. It was centuries old.

He cried out to it. "Who are you? What is your name? I surely know you
... but I have forgotten ...?"

And it stopped, turning from far away its great uncovered countenance of
nameless colouring. He caught a voice. It rolled and boomed and
whispered like the wind. And then he woke, with a curious shaking in his
heart, and a little touch of chilly perspiration on the skin.

But the voice seemed in the room still--close beside him:

"I am the Sand," he heard, before it died away.

       *       *       *       *       *

And next he realised that the glitter of Paris lay behind him, and a
steamer was taking him with much unnecessary motion across a sparkling
sea towards Alexandria. Gladly he saw the Riviera fade below the
horizon, with its hard bright sunshine, treacherous winds, and its smear
of rich, conventional English. All restlessness now had left him. True
vagabond still at forty, he only felt the unrest and discomfort of life
when caught in the network of routine and rigid streets, no chance of
breaking loose. He was off again at last, money scarce enough indeed,
but the joy of wandering expressing itself in happy emotions of release.
Every warning of calculation was stifled. He thought of the American
woman who walked out of her Long Island house one summer's day to look
at a passing sail--and was gone eight years before she walked in again.
Eight years of roving travel! He had always felt respect and admiration
for that woman.

For Felix Henriot, with his admixture of foreign blood, was philosopher
as well as vagabond, a strong poetic and religious strain sometimes
breaking out through fissures in his complex nature. He had seen much
life; had read many books. The passionate desire of youth to solve the
world's big riddles had given place to a resignation filled to the brim
with wonder. Anything _might_ be true. Nothing surprised him. The most
outlandish beliefs, for all he knew, might fringe truth somewhere. He
had escaped that cheap cynicism with which disappointed men soothe their
vanity when they realise that an intelligible explanation of the
universe lies beyond their powers. He no longer expected final answers.

For him, even the smallest journeys held the spice of some adventure;
all minutes were loaded with enticing potentialities. And they shaped
for themselves somehow a dramatic form. "It's like a story," his friends
said when he told his travels. It always was a story.

But the adventure that lay waiting for him where the silent streets of
little Helouan kiss the great Desert's lips, was of a different kind to
any Henriot had yet encountered. Looking back, he has often asked
himself, "How in the world can I accept it?"

And, perhaps, he never yet has accepted it. It was sand that brought it.
For the Desert, the stupendous thing that mothers little Helouan,
produced it.



II


He slipped through Cairo with the same relief that he left the Riviera,
resenting its social vulgarity so close to the imperial aristocracy of
the Desert; he settled down into the peace of soft and silent little
Helouan. The hotel in which he had a room on the top floor had been
formerly a Khedivial Palace. It had the air of a palace still. He felt
himself in a country-house, with lofty ceilings, cool and airy
corridors, spacious halls. Soft-footed Arabs attended to his wants;
white walls let in light and air without a sign of heat; there was a
feeling of a large, spread tent pitched on the very sand; and the wind
that stirred the oleanders in the shady gardens also crept in to rustle
the palm leaves of his favourite corner seat. Through the large windows
where once the Khedive held high court, the sunshine blazed upon vistaed
leagues of Desert.

And from his bedroom windows he watched the sun dip into gold and
crimson behind the swelling Libyan sands. This side of the pyramids he
saw the Nile meander among palm groves and tilled fields. Across his
balcony railings the Egyptian stars trooped down beside his very bed,
shaping old constellations for his dreams; while, to the south, he
looked out upon the vast untamable Body of the sands that carpeted the
world for thousands of miles towards Upper Egypt, Nubia, and the dread
Sahara itself. He wondered again why people thought it necessary to go
so far afield to know the Desert. Here, within half an hour of Cairo, it
lay breathing solemnly at his very doors.

For little Helouan, caught thus between the shoulders of the Libyan and
Arabian Deserts, is utterly sand-haunted. The Desert lies all round it
like a sea. Henriot felt he never could escape from it, as he moved
about the island whose coasts are washed with sand. Down each broad and
shining street the two end houses framed a vista of its dim
immensity--glimpses of shimmering blue, or flame-touched purple. There
were stretches of deep sea-green as well, far off upon its bosom. The
streets were open channels of approach, and the eye ran down them as
along the tube of a telescope laid to catch incredible distance out of
space. Through them the Desert reached in with long, thin feelers
towards the village. Its Being flooded into Helouan, and over it. Past
walls and houses, churches and hotels, the sea of Desert pressed in
silently with its myriad soft feet of sand. It poured in everywhere,
through crack and slit and crannie. These were reminders of possession
and ownership. And every passing wind that lifted eddies of dust at the
street corners were messages from the quiet, powerful Thing that
permitted Helouan to lie and dream so peacefully in the sunshine. Mere
artificial oasis, its existence was temporary, held on lease, just for
ninety-nine centuries or so.

This sea idea became insistent. For, in certain lights, and especially
in the brief, bewildering dusk, the Desert rose--swaying towards the
small white houses. The waves of it ran for fifty miles without a break.
It was too deep for foam or surface agitation, yet it knew the swell of
tides. And underneath flowed resolute currents, linking distance to the
centre. These many deserts were really one. A storm, just retreated, had
tossed Helouan upon the shore and left it there to dry; but any morning
he would wake to find it had been carried off again into the depths.
Some fragment, at least, would disappear. The grim Mokattam Hills were
rollers that ever threatened to topple down and submerge the sandy bar
that men called Helouan.

Being soundless, and devoid of perfume, the Desert's message reached him
through two senses only--sight and touch; chiefly, of course, the
former. Its invasion was concentrated through the eyes. And vision, thus
uncorrected, went what pace it pleased. The Desert played with him. Sand
stole into his being--through the eyes.

And so obsessing was this majesty of its close presence, that Henriot
sometimes wondered how people dared their little social activities
within its very sight and hearing; how they played golf and tennis upon
reclaimed edges of its face, picnicked so blithely hard upon its
frontiers, and danced at night while this stern, unfathomable Thing lay
breathing just beyond the trumpery walls that kept it out. The challenge
of their shallow admiration seemed presumptuous, almost provocative.
Their pursuit of pleasure suggested insolent indifference. They ran
fool-hardy hazards, he felt; for there was no worship in their vulgar
hearts. With a mental shudder, sometimes he watched the cheap tourist
horde go laughing, chattering past within view of its ancient,
half-closed eyes. It was like defying deity.

For, to his stirred imagination the sublimity of the Desert dwarfed
humanity. These people had been wiser to choose another place for the
flaunting of their tawdry insignificance. Any minute this Wilderness,
"huddled in grey annihilation," might awake and notice them ...!

In his own hotel were several "smart," so-called "Society" people who
emphasised the protest in him to the point of definite contempt.
Overdressed, the latest worldly novel under their arms, they strutted
the narrow pavements of their tiny world, immensely pleased with
themselves. Their vacuous minds expressed themselves in the slang of
their exclusive circle--value being the element excluded. The pettiness
of their outlook hardly distressed him--he was too familiar with it at
home--but their essential vulgarity, their innate ugliness, seemed more
than usually offensive in the grandeur of its present setting. Into the
mighty sands they took the latest London scandal, gabbling it over even
among the Tombs and Temples. And "it was to laugh," the pains they spent
wondering whom they might condescend to know, never dreaming that they
themselves were not worth knowing. Against the background of the noble
Desert their titles seemed the cap and bells of clowns.

And Henriot, knowing some of them personally, could not always escape
their insipid company. Yet he was the gainer. They little guessed how
their commonness heightened contrast, set mercilessly thus beside the
strange, eternal beauty of the sand.

Occasionally the protest in his soul betrayed itself in words, which
of course they did not understand. "He is so clever, isn't he?"
And then, having relieved his feelings, he would comfort himself
characteristically:

"The Desert has not noticed them. The Sand is not aware of their
existence. How should the sea take note of rubbish that lies above its
tide-line?"

For Henriot drew near to its great shifting altars in an attitude of
worship. The wilderness made him kneel in heart. Its shining reaches led
to the oldest Temple in the world, and every journey that he made was
like a sacrament. For him the Desert was a consecrated place. It was
sacred.

And his tactful hosts, knowing his peculiarities, left their house open
to him when he cared to come--they lived upon the northern edge of the
oasis--and he was as free as though he were absolutely alone. He blessed
them; he rejoiced that he had come. Little Helouan accepted him. The
Desert knew that he was there.

       *       *       *       *       *

From his corner of the big dining-room he could see the other guests,
but his roving eye always returned to the figure of a solitary man who
sat at an adjoining table, and whose personality stirred his interest.
While affecting to look elsewhere, he studied him as closely as might
be. There was something about the stranger that touched his
curiosity--a certain air of expectation that he wore. But it was more
than that: it was anticipation, apprehension in it somewhere. The man
was nervous, uneasy. His restless way of suddenly looking about him
proved it. Henriot tried every one else in the room as well; but, though
his thought settled on others too, he always came back to the figure of
this solitary being opposite, who ate his dinner as if afraid of being
seen, and glanced up sometimes as if fearful of being watched. Henriot's
curiosity, before he knew it, became suspicion. There was mystery here.
The table, he noticed, was laid for two.

"Is he an actor, a priest of some strange religion, an enquiry agent, or
just--a crank?" was the thought that first occurred to him. And the
question suggested itself without amusement. The impression of
subterfuge and caution he conveyed left his observer unsatisfied.

The face was clean shaven, dark, and strong; thick hair, straight yet
bushy, was slightly unkempt; it was streaked with grey; and an
unexpected mobility when he smiled ran over the features that he seemed
to hold rigid by deliberate effort. The man was cut to no quite common
measure. Henriot jumped to an intuitive conclusion: "He's not here for
pleasure or merely sight-seeing. Something serious has brought him out
to Egypt." For the face combined too ill-assorted qualities: an
obstinate tenacity that might even mean brutality, and was certainly
repulsive, yet, with it, an undecipherable dreaminess betrayed by lines
of the mouth, but above all in the very light blue eyes, so rarely
raised. Those eyes, he felt, had looked upon unusual things;
"dreaminess" was not an adequate description; "searching" conveyed it
better. The true source of the queer impression remained elusive. And
hence, perhaps, the incongruous marriage in the face--mobility laid upon
a matter-of-fact foundation underneath. The face showed conflict.

And Henriot, watching him, felt decidedly intrigued. "I'd like to know
that man, and all about him." His name, he learned later, was Richard
Vance; from Birmingham; a business man. But it was not the Birmingham he
wished to know; it was the--other: cause of the elusive, dreamy
searching. Though facing one another at so short a distance, their eyes,
however, did not meet. And this, Henriot well knew, was a sure sign that
he himself was also under observation. Richard Vance, from Birmingham,
was equally taking careful note of Felix Henriot, from London.

Thus, he could wait his time. They would come together later. An
opportunity would certainly present itself. The first links in a curious
chain had already caught; soon the chain would tighten, pull as though
by chance, and bring their lives into one and the same circle. Wondering
in particular for what kind of a companion the second cover was laid,
Henriot felt certain that their eventual coming together was inevitable.
He possessed this kind of divination from first impressions, and not
uncommonly it proved correct.

Following instinct, therefore, he took no steps towards acquaintance,
and for several days, owing to the fact that he dined frequently with
his hosts, he saw nothing more of Richard Vance, the business man from
Birmingham. Then, one night, coming home late from his friend's house,
he had passed along the great corridor, and was actually a step or so
into his bedroom, when a drawling voice sounded close behind him. It was
an unpleasant sound. It was very near him too--

"I beg your pardon, but have you, by any chance, such a thing as a
compass you could lend me?"

The voice was so close that he started. Vance stood within touching
distance of his body. He had stolen up like a ghostly Arab, must have
followed him, too, some little distance, for further down the passage
the light of an open door--he had passed it on his way--showed where he
came from.

"Eh? I beg your pardon? A--compass, did you say?" He felt disconcerted
for a moment. How short the man was, now that he saw him standing. Broad
and powerful too. Henriot looked down upon his thick head of hair. The
personality and voice repelled him. Possibly his face, caught unawares,
betrayed this.

"Forgive my startling you," said the other apologetically, while the
softer expression danced in for a moment and disorganised the rigid set
of the face. "The soft carpet, you know. I'm afraid you didn't hear my
tread. I wondered"--he smiled again slightly at the nature of the
request--"if--by any chance--you had a pocket compass you could lend
me?"

"Ah, a compass, yes! Please don't apologise. I believe I have one--if
you'll wait a moment. Come in, won't you? I'll have a look."

The other thanked him but waited in the passage. Henriot, it so
happened, had a compass, and produced it after a moment's search.

"I am greatly indebted to you--if I may return it in the morning. You
will forgive my disturbing you at such an hour. My own is broken, and I
wanted--er--to find the true north."

Henriot stammered some reply, and the man was gone. It was all over in a
minute. He locked his door and sat down in his chair to think. The
little incident had upset him, though for the life of him he could not
imagine why. It ought by rights to have been almost ludicrous, yet
instead it was the exact reverse--half threatening. Why should not a man
want a compass? But, again, why should he? And at midnight? The voice,
the eyes, the near presence--what did they bring that set his nerves
thus asking unusual questions? This strange impression that something
grave was happening, something unearthly--how was it born exactly? The
man's proximity came like a shock. It had made him start. He
brought--thus the idea came unbidden to his mind--something with him
that galvanised him quite absurdly, as fear does, or delight, or great
wonder. There was a music in his voice too--a certain--well, he could
only call it lilt, that reminded him of plainsong, intoning, chanting.
Drawling was _not_ the word at all.

He tried to dismiss it as imagination, but it would not be dismissed.
The disturbance in himself was caused by something not imaginary, but
real. And then, for the first time, he discovered that the man had
brought a faint, elusive suggestion of perfume with him, an aromatic
odour, that made him think of priests and churches. The ghost of it
still lingered in the air. Ah, here then was the origin of the notion
that his voice had chanted: it was surely the suggestion of incense. But
incense, intoning, a compass to find the true north--at midnight in a
Desert hotel!

A touch of uneasiness ran through the curiosity and excitement that he
felt.

And he undressed for bed. "Confound my old imagination," he thought,
"what tricks it plays me! It'll keep me awake!"

But the questions, once started in his mind, continued. He must find
explanation of one kind or another before he could lie down and sleep,
and he found it at length in--the stars. The man was an astronomer of
sorts; possibly an astrologer into the bargain! Why not? The stars were
wonderful above Helouan. Was there not an observatory on the Mokattam
Hills, too, where tourists could use the telescopes on privileged days?
He had it at last. He even stole out on to his balcony to see if the
stranger perhaps was looking through some wonderful apparatus at the
heavens. Their rooms were on the same side. But the shuttered windows
revealed no stooping figure with eyes glued to a telescope. The stars
blinked in their many thousands down upon the silent desert. The night
held neither sound nor movement. There was a cool breeze blowing across
the Nile from the Lybian Sands. It nipped; and he stepped back quickly
into the room again. Drawing the mosquito curtains carefully about the
bed, he put the light out and turned over to sleep.

And sleep came quickly, contrary to his expectations, though it was a
light and surface sleep. That last glimpse of the darkened Desert lying
beneath the Egyptian stars had touched him with some hand of awful power
that ousted the first, lesser excitement. It calmed and soothed him in
one sense, yet in another, a sense he could not understand, it caught
him in a net of deep, deep feelings whose mesh, while infinitely
delicate, was utterly stupendous. His nerves this deeper emotion left
alone: it reached instead to something infinite in him that mere nerves
could neither deal with nor interpret. The soul awoke and whispered in
him while his body slept.

And the little, foolish dreams that ran to and fro across this veil of
surface sleep brought oddly tangled pictures of things quite tiny and at
the same time of others that were mighty beyond words. With these two
counters Nightmare played. They interwove. There was the figure of this
dark-faced man with the compass, measuring the sky to find the true
north, and there were hints of giant Presences that hovered just outside
some curious outline that he traced upon the ground, copied in some
nightmare fashion from the heavens. The excitement caused by his
visitor's singular request mingled with the profounder sensations his
final look at the stars and Desert stirred. The two were somehow
inter-related.

Some hours later, before this surface sleep passed into genuine slumber,
Henriot woke--with an appalling feeling that the Desert had come
creeping into his room and now stared down upon him where he lay in bed.
The wind was crying audibly about the walls outside. A faint, sharp
tapping came against the window panes.

He sprang instantly out of bed, not yet awake enough to feel actual
alarm, yet with the nightmare touch still close enough to cause a sort
of feverish, loose bewilderment. He switched the lights on. A moment
later he knew the meaning of that curious tapping, for the rising wind
was flinging tiny specks of sand against the glass. The idea that they
had summoned him belonged, of course, to dream.

He opened the window, and stepped out on to the balcony. The stone was
very cold under his bare feet. There was a wash of wind all over him. He
saw the sheet of glimmering, pale desert near and far; and something
stung his skin below the eyes.

"The sand," he whispered, "again the sand; always the sand. Waking or
sleeping, the sand is everywhere--nothing but sand, sand, Sand...."

He rubbed his eyes. It was like talking in his sleep, talking to Someone
who had questioned him just before he woke. But was he really properly
awake? It seemed next day that he had dreamed it. Something enormous,
with rustling skirts of sand, had just retreated far into the Desert.
Sand went with it--flowing, trailing, smothering the world. The wind
died down.

And Henriot went back to sleep, caught instantly away into
unconsciousness; covered, blinded, swept over by this spreading thing of
reddish brown with the great, grey face, whose Being was colossal yet
quite tiny, and whose fingers, wings and eyes were countless as the
stars.

But all night long it watched and waited, rising to peer above the
little balcony, and sometimes entering the room and piling up beside his
very pillow. He dreamed of Sand.



III


For some days Henriot saw little of the man who came from Birmingham and
pushed curiosity to a climax by asking for a compass in the middle of
the night. For one thing, he was a good deal with his friends upon the
other side of Helouan, and for another, he slept several nights in the
Desert.

He loved the gigantic peace the Desert gave him. The world was forgotten
there; and not the world merely, but all memory of it. Everything faded
out. The soul turned inwards upon itself.

An Arab boy and donkey took out sleeping-bag, food and water to the Wadi
Hof, a desolate gorge about an hour eastwards. It winds between cliffs
whose summits rise some thousand feet above the sea. It opens suddenly,
cut deep into the swaying world of level plateaux and undulating hills.
It moves about too; he never found it in the same place twice--like an
arm of the Desert that shifted with the changing lights. Here he watched
dawns and sunsets, slept through the mid-day heat, and enjoyed the
unearthly colouring that swept Day and Night across the huge horizons.
In solitude the Desert soaked down into him. At night the jackals cried
in the darkness round his cautiously-fed camp fire--small, because wood
had to be carried--and in the day-time kites circled overhead to inspect
him, and an occasional white vulture flapped across the blue. The weird
desolation of this rocky valley, he thought, was like the scenery of the
moon. He took no watch with him, and the arrival of the donkey boy an
hour after sunrise came almost from another planet, bringing things of
time and common life out of some distant gulf where they had lain
forgotten among lost ages.

The short hour of twilight brought, too, a bewitchment into the silence
that was a little less than comfortable. Full light or darkness he could
manage, but this time of half things made him want to shut his eyes and
hide. Its effect stepped over imagination. The mind got lost. He could
not understand it. For the cliffs and boulders of discoloured limestone
shone then with an inward glow that signalled to the Desert with veiled
lanterns. The misshappen hills, carved by wind and rain into ominous
outlines, stirred and nodded. In the morning light they retired into
themselves, asleep. But at dusk the tide retreated. They rose from the
sea, emerging naked, threatening. They ran together and joined
shoulders, the entire army of them. And the glow of their sandy bodies,
self-luminous, continued even beneath the stars. Only the moonlight
drowned it. For the moonrise over the Mokattam Hills brought a white,
grand loveliness that drenched the entire Desert. It drew a marvellous
sweetness from the sand. It shone across a world as yet unfinished,
whereon no life might show itself for ages yet to come. He was alone
then upon an empty star, before the creation of things that breathed and
moved.

What impressed him, however, more than everything else was the enormous
vitality that rose out of all this apparent death. There was no hint of
the melancholy that belongs commonly to flatness; the sadness of wide,
monotonous landscape was not here. The endless repetition of sweeping
vale and plateau brought infinity within measurable comprehension. He
grasped a definite meaning in the phrase "world without end": the
Desert had no end and no beginning. It gave him a sense of eternal
peace, the silent peace that star-fields know. Instead of subduing the
soul with bewilderment, it inspired with courage, confidence, hope.
Through this sand which was the wreck of countless geological ages,
rushed life that was terrific and uplifting, too huge to include
melancholy, too deep to betray itself in movement. Here was the
stillness of eternity. Behind the spread grey masque of apparent death
lay stores of accumulated life, ready to break forth at any point. In
the Desert he felt himself absolutely royal.

And this contrast of Life, veiling itself in Death, was a contradiction
that somehow intoxicated. The Desert exhilaration never left him. He was
never alone. A companionship of millions went with him, and he _felt_
the Desert close, as stars are close to one another, or grains of sand.

It was the Khamasin, the hot wind bringing sand, that drove him in--with
the feeling that these few days and nights had been immeasurable, and
that he had been away a thousand years. He came back with the magic of
the Desert in his blood, hotel-life tasteless and insipid by comparison.
To human impressions thus he was fresh and vividly sensitive. His being,
cleaned and sensitized by pure grandeur, "felt" people--for a time at
any rate--with an uncommon sharpness of receptive judgment. He returned
to a life somehow mean and meagre, resuming insignificance with his
dinner jacket. Out with the sand he had been regal; now, like a slave,
he strutted self-conscious and reduced.

But this imperial standard of the Desert stayed a little time beside
him, its purity focussing judgment like a lens. The specks of smaller
emotions left it clear at first, and as his eye wandered vaguely over
the people assembled in the dining-room, it was arrested with a vivid
shock upon two figures at the little table facing him.

He had forgotten Vance, the Birmingham man who sought the North at
midnight with a pocket compass. He now saw him again, with an intuitive
discernment entirely fresh. Before memory brought up her clouding
associations, some brilliance flashed a light upon him. "That man,"
Henriot thought, "might have come with me. He would have understood and
loved it!" But the thought was really this--a moment's reflection spread
it, rather: "He belongs somewhere to the Desert; the Desert brought him
out here." And, again, hidden swiftly behind it like a movement running
below water--"What does he want with it? What is the deeper motive he
conceals? For there is a deeper motive; and it _is_ concealed."

But it was the woman seated next him who absorbed his attention really,
even while this thought flashed and went its way. The empty chair was
occupied at last. Unlike his first encounter with the man, she looked
straight at him. Their eyes met fully. For several seconds there was
steady mutual inspection, while her penetrating stare, intent without
being rude, passed searchingly all over his face. It was disconcerting.
Crumbling his bread, he looked equally hard at her, unable to turn away,
determined not to be the first to shift his gaze. And when at length she
lowered her eyes he felt that many things had happened, as in a long
period of intimate conversation. Her mind had judged him through and
through. Questions and answer flashed. They were no longer strangers.
For the rest of dinner, though he was careful to avoid direct
inspection, he was aware that she felt his presence and was secretly
speaking with him. She asked questions beneath her breath. The answers
rose with the quickened pulses in his blood. Moreover, she explained
Richard Vance. It was this woman's power that shone reflected in the
man. She was the one who knew the big, unusual things. Vance merely
echoed the rush of her vital personality.

This was the first impression that he got--from the most striking,
curious face he had ever seen in a woman. It remained very near him all
through the meal: she had moved to his table, it seemed she sat beside
him. Their minds certainly knew contact from that moment.

It is never difficult to credit strangers with the qualities and
knowledge that oneself craves for, and no doubt Henriot's active fancy
went busily to work. But, none the less, this thing remained and grew:
that this woman was aware of the hidden things of Egypt he had always
longed to know. There was knowledge and guidance she could impart. Her
soul was searching among ancient things. Her face brought the Desert
back into his thoughts. And with it came--the sand.

Here was the flash. The sight of her restored the peace and splendour he
had left behind him in his Desert camps. The rest, of course, was what
his imagination constructed upon this slender basis. Only,--not all of
it was imagination.

Now, Henriot knew little enough of women, and had no pose of
"understanding" them. His experience was of the slightest; the love and
veneration felt for his own mother had set the entire sex upon the
heights. His affairs with women, if so they may be called, had been
transient--all but those of early youth, which having never known the
devastating test of fulfilment, still remained ideal and superb. There
was unconscious humour in his attitude--from a distance; for he regarded
women with wonder and respect, as puzzles that sweetened but complicated
life, might even endanger it. He certainly was not a marrying man! But
now, as he felt the presence of this woman so deliberately possess him,
there came over him two clear, strong messages, each vivid with
certainty. One was that banal suggestion of familiarity claimed by
lovers and the like--he had often heard of it--"I have known that woman
before; I have met her ages ago somewhere; she is strangely familiar to
me"; and the other, growing out of it almost: "Have nothing to do with
her; she will bring you trouble and confusion; avoid her, and be
warned";--in fact, a distinct presentiment.

Yet, although Henriot dismissed both impressions as having no shred of
evidence to justify them, the original clear judgment, as he studied her
extraordinary countenance, persisted through all denials The
familiarity, and the presentiment, remained. There also remained this
other--an enormous imaginative leap!--that she could teach him "Egypt."

He watched her carefully, in a sense fascinated. He could only describe
the face as black, so dark it was with the darkness of great age.
Elderly was the obvious, natural word; but elderly described the
features only. The expression of the face wore centuries. Nor was it
merely the coal-black eyes that betrayed an ancient, age-travelled soul
behind them. The entire presentment mysteriously conveyed it. This
woman's heart knew long-forgotten things--the thought kept beating up
against him. There were cheek-bones, oddly high, that made him think
involuntarily of the well-advertised Pharaoh, Ramases; a square, deep
jaw; and an aquiline nose that gave the final touch of power. For the
power undeniably was there, and while the general effect had grimness in
it, there was neither harshness nor any forbidding touch about it. There
was an implacable sternness in the set of lips and jaw, and, most
curious of all, the eyelids over the steady eyes of black were level as
a ruler. This level framing made the woman's stare remarkable beyond
description. Henriot thought of an idol carved in stone, stone hard and
black, with eyes that stared across the sand into a world of things
non-human, very far away, forgotten of men. The face was finely ugly.
This strange dark beauty flashed flame about it.

And, as the way ever was with him, Henriot next fell to constructing the
possible lives of herself and her companion, though without much
success. Imagination soon stopped dead. She was not old enough to be
Vance's mother, and assuredly she was not his wife. His interest was
more than merely piqued--it was puzzled uncommonly. What was the
contrast that made the man seem beside her--vile? Whence came, too, the
impression that she exercised some strong authority, though never
directly exercised, that held him at her mercy? How did he guess that
the man resented it, yet did not dare oppose, and that, apparently
acquiescing good-humouredly, his will was deliberately held in abeyance,
and that he waited sulkily, biding his time? There was furtiveness in
every gesture and expression. A hidden motive lurked in him;
unworthiness somewhere; he was determined yet ashamed. He watched her
ceaselessly and with such uncanny closeness.

Henriot imagined he divined all this. He leaped to the guess that his
expenses were being paid. A good deal more was being paid besides. She
was a rich relation, from whom he had expectations; he was serving his
seven years, ashamed of his servitude, ever calculating escape--but,
perhaps, no ordinary escape. A faint shudder ran over him. He drew in
the reins of imagination.

Of course, the probabilities were that he was hopelessly astray--one
usually is on such occasions--but this time, it so happened, he was
singularly right. Before one thing only his ready invention stopped
every time. This vileness, this notion of unworthiness in Vance, could
not be negative merely. A man with that face was no inactive weakling.
The motive he was at such pains to conceal, betraying its existence by
that very fact, moved, surely, towards aggressive action. Disguised, it
never slept. Vance was sharply on the alert. He had a plan deep out of
sight. And Henriot remembered how the man's soft approach along the
carpeted corridor had made him start. He recalled the quasi shock it
gave him. He thought again of the feeling of discomfort he had
experienced.

Next, his eager fancy sought to plumb the business these two had
together in Egypt--in the Desert. For the Desert, he felt convinced, had
brought them out. But here, though he constructed numerous explanations,
another barrier stopped him. Because he _knew_. This woman was in touch
with that aspect of ancient Egypt he himself had ever sought in vain;
and not merely with stones the sand had buried so deep, but with the
meanings they once represented, buried so utterly by the sands of later
thought.

And here, being ignorant, he found no clue that could lead to any
satisfactory result, for he possessed no knowledge that might guide him.
He floundered--until Fate helped him. And the instant Fate helped him,
the warning and presentiment he had dismissed as fanciful, became real
again. He hesitated. Caution acted. He would think twice before taking
steps to form acquaintance. "Better not," thought whispered. "Better
leave them alone, this queer couple. They're after things that won't do
you any good." This idea of mischief, almost of danger, in their
purposes was oddly insistent; for what could possibly convey it? But,
while he hesitated, Fate, who sent the warning, pushed him at the same
time into the circle of their lives: at first tentatively--he might
still have escaped; but soon urgently--curiosity led him inexorably
towards the end.



IV


It was so simple a manoeuvre by which Fate began the innocent game. The
woman left a couple of books behind her on the table one night, and
Henriot, after a moment's hesitation, took them out after her. He knew
the titles--_The House of the Master_, and _The House of the Hidden
Places_, both singular interpretations of the Pyramids that once had
held his own mind spellbound. Their ideas had been since disproved, if
he remembered rightly, yet the titles were a clue--a clue to that
imaginative part of his mind that was so busy constructing theories and
had found its stride. Loose sheets of paper, covered with notes in a
minute handwriting, lay between the pages; but these, of course, he did
not read, noticing only that they were written round designs of various
kinds--intricate designs.

He discovered Vance in a corner of the smoking-lounge. The woman had
disappeared.

Vance thanked him politely. "My aunt is so forgetful sometimes," he
said, and took them with a covert eagerness that did not escape the
other's observation. He folded up the sheets and put them carefully in
his pocket. On one there was an ink-sketched map, crammed with detail,
that might well have referred to some portion of the Desert. The points
of the compass stood out boldly at the bottom. There were involved
geometrical designs again. Henriot saw them. They exchanged, then, the
commonplaces of conversation, but these led to nothing further. Vance
was nervous and betrayed impatience. He presently excused himself and
left the lounge. Ten minutes later he passed through the outer hall, the
woman beside him, and the pair of them, wrapped up in cloak and ulster,
went out into the night. At the door, Vance turned and threw a quick,
investigating glance in his direction. There seemed a hint of
questioning in that glance; it might almost have been a tentative
invitation. But, also, he wanted to see if their exit had been
particularly noticed--and by whom.

This, briefly told, was the first manoeuvre by which Fate introduced
them. There was nothing in it. The details were so insignificant, so
slight the conversation, so meagre the pieces thus added to Henriot's
imaginative structure. Yet they somehow built it up and made it solid;
the outline in his mind began to stand foursquare. That writing, those
designs, the manner of the man, their going out together, the final
curious look--each and all betrayed points of a hidden thing.
Subconsciously he was excavating their buried purposes. The sand was
shifting. The concentration of his mind incessantly upon them removed it
grain by grain and speck by speck. Tips of the smothered thing emerged.
Presently a subsidence would follow with a rush and light would blaze
upon its skeleton. He felt it stirring underneath his feet--this flowing
movement of light, dry, heaped-up sand. It was always--sand.

Then other incidents of a similar kind came about, clearing the way to a
natural acquaintanceship. Henriot watched the process with amusement,
yet with another feeling too that was only a little less than anxiety. A
keen observer, no detail escaped him; he saw the forces of their lives
draw closer. It made him think of the devices of young people who desire
to know one another, yet cannot get a proper introduction. Fate
condescended to such little tricks. They wanted a third person, he began
to feel. A third was necessary to some plan they had on hand, and--they
waited to see if he could fill the place. This woman, with whom he had
yet exchanged no single word, seemed so familiar to him, well known for
years. They weighed and watched him, wondering if he would do.

None of the devices were too obviously used, but at length Henriot
picked up so many forgotten articles, and heard so many significant
phrases, casually let fall, that he began to feel like the villain in a
machine-made play, where the hero for ever drops clues his enemy is
intended to discover.

Introduction followed inevitably. "My aunt can tell you; she knows
Arabic perfectly." He had been discussing the meaning of some local name
or other with a neighbour after dinner, and Vance had joined them. The
neighbour moved away; these two were left standing alone, and he
accepted a cigarette from the other's case. There was a rustle of skirts
behind them. "Here she comes," said Vance; "you will let me introduce
you." He did not ask for Henriot's name; he had already taken the
trouble to find it out--another little betrayal, and another clue.

It was in a secluded corner of the great hall, and Henriot turned to see
the woman's stately figure coming towards them across the thick carpet
that deadened her footsteps. She came sailing up, her black eyes fixed
upon his face. Very erect, head upright, shoulders almost squared, she
moved wonderfully well; there was dignity and power in her walk. She was
dressed in black, and her face was like the night. He found it
impossible to say what lent her this air of impressiveness and solemnity
that was almost majestic. But there _was_ this touch of darkness and of
power in the way she came that made him think of some sphinx-like figure
of stone, some idol motionless in all its parts but moving as a whole,
and gliding across--sand. Beneath those level lids her eyes stared hard
at him. And a faint sensation of distress stirred in him deep, deep
down. Where had he seen those eyes before?

He bowed, as she joined them, and Vance led the way to the armchairs in
a corner of the lounge. The meeting, as the talk that followed, he felt,
were all part of a preconceived plan. It had happened before. The woman,
that is, was familiar to him--to some part of his being that had dropped
stitches of old, old memory.

Lady Statham! At first the name had disappointed him. So many folk wear
titles, as syllables in certain tongues wear accents--without them being
mute, unnoticed, unpronounced. Nonentities, born to names, so often
claim attention for their insignificance in this way. But this woman,
had she been Jemima Jones, would have made the name distinguished and
select. She was a big and sombre personality. Why was it, he wondered
afterwards, that for a moment something in him shrank, and that his
mind, metaphorically speaking, flung up an arm in self-protection? The
instinct flashed and passed. But it seemed to him born of an automatic
feeling that he must protect--not himself, but the woman from the man.
There was confusion in it all; links were missing. He studied her
intently. She was a woman who had none of the external feminine signals
in either dress or manner, no graces, no little womanly hesitations and
alarms, no daintiness, yet neither anything distinctly masculine. Her
charm was strong, possessing; only he kept forgetting that he was
talking to a--woman; and the thing she inspired in him included, with
respect and wonder, somewhere also this curious hint of dread. This
instinct to protect her fled as soon as it was born, for the interest of
the conversation in which she so quickly plunged him obliterated all
minor emotions whatsoever. Here, for the first time, he drew close to
Egypt, the Egypt he had sought so long. It was not to be explained. He
_felt_ it.

Beginning with commonplaces, such as "You like Egypt? You find here what
you expected?" she led him into better regions with "One finds here what
one brings." He knew the delightful experience of talking fluently on
subjects he was at home in, and to some one who understood. The feeling
at first that to this woman he could not say mere anythings, slipped
into its opposite--that he could say everything. Strangers ten minutes
ago, they were at once in deep and intimate talk together. He found his
ideas readily followed, agreed with up to a point--the point which
permits discussion to start from a basis of general accord towards
speculation. In the excitement of ideas he neglected the uncomfortable
note that had stirred his caution, forgot the warning too. Her mind,
moreover, seemed known to him; he was often aware of what she was going
to say before he actually heard it; the current of her thoughts struck a
familiar gait, and more than once he experienced vividly again the odd
sensation that it all had happened before. The very sentences and
phrases with which she pointed the turns of her unusual ideas were never
wholly unexpected.

For her ideas were decidedly unusual, in the sense that she accepted
without question speculations not commonly deemed worth consideration at
all, indeed not ordinarily even known. Henriot knew them, because he had
read in many fields. It was the strength of her belief that fascinated
him. She offered no apologies. She knew. And while he talked, she
listening with folded arms and her black eyes fixed upon his own,
Richard Vance watched with vigilant eyes and listened too, ceaselessly
alert. Vance joined in little enough, however, gave no opinions, his
attitude one of general acquiescence. Twice, when pauses of slackening
interest made it possible, Henriot fancied he surprised another quality
in this negative attitude. Interpreting it each time differently, he yet
dismissed both interpretations with a smile. His imagination leaped so
absurdly to violent conclusions. They were not tenable: Vance was
neither her keeper, nor was he in some fashion a detective. Yet in his
manner was sometimes this suggestion of the detective order. He watched
with such deep attention, and he concealed it so clumsily with an
affectation of careless indifference.

There is nothing more dangerous than that impulsive intimacy strangers
sometimes adopt when an atmosphere of mutual sympathy takes them by
surprise, for it is akin to the false frankness friends affect when
telling "candidly" one another's faults. The mood is invariably
regretted later. Henriot, however, yielded to it now with something like
abandon. The pleasure of talking with this woman was so unexpected, and
so keen.

For Lady Statham believed apparently in some Egypt of her dreams. Her
interest was neither historical, archaeological, nor political. It was
religious--yet hardly of this earth at all. The conversation turned upon
the knowledge of the ancient Egyptians from an unearthly point of view,
and even while he talked he was vaguely aware that it was _her_ mind
talking through his own. She drew out his ideas and made him say them.
But this he was properly aware of only afterwards--that she had
cleverly, mercilessly pumped him of all he had ever known or read upon
the subject. Moreover, what Vance watched so intently was himself, and
the reactions in himself this remarkable woman produced. That also he
realised later.

His first impression that these two belonged to what may be called the
"crank" order was justified by the conversation. But, at least, it was
interesting crankiness, and the belief behind it made it even
fascinating. Long before the end he surprised in her a more vital form
of his own attitude that anything _may_ be true, since knowledge has
never yet found final answers to any of the biggest questions.

He understood, from sentences dropped early in the talk, that she was
among those few "superstitious" folk who think that the old Egyptians
came closer to reading the eternal riddles of the world than any
others, and that their knowledge was a remnant of that ancient Wisdom
Religion which existed in the superb, dark civilization of the sunken
Atlantis, lost continent that once joined Africa to Mexico. Eighty
thousand years ago the dim sands of Poseidonis, great island adjoining
the main continent which itself had vanished a vast period before, sank
down beneath the waves, and the entire known world to-day was descended
from its survivors.

Hence the significant fact that all religions and "mythological" systems
begin with a story of a flood--some cataclysmic upheaval that destroyed
the world. Egypt itself was colonised by a group of Atlantean priests
who brought their curious, deep knowledge with them. They had foreseen
the cataclysm.

Lady Statham talked well, bringing into her great dream this strong,
insistent quality of belief and fact. She knew, from Plato to Donelly,
all that the minds of men have ever speculated upon the gorgeous legend.
The evidence for such a sunken continent--Henriot had skimmed it too in
years gone by--she made bewilderingly complete. He had heard Baconians
demolish Shakespeare with an array of evidence equally overwhelming. It
catches the imagination though not the mind. Yet out of her facts, as
she presented them, grew a strange likelihood. The force of this woman's
personality, and her calm and quiet way of believing all she talked
about, took her listener to some extent--further than ever before,
certainly--into the great dream after her. And the dream, to say the
least, was a picturesque one, laden with wonderful possibilities. For as
she talked the spirit of old Egypt moved up, staring down upon him out
of eyes lidded so curiously level. Hitherto all had prated to him of the
Arabs, their ancient faith and customs, and the splendour of the
Bedouins, those Princes of the Desert. But what he sought, barely
confessed in words even to himself, was something older far than this.
And this strange, dark woman brought it close. Deeps in his soul, long
slumbering, awoke. He heard forgotten questions.

Only in this brief way could he attempt to sum up the storm she roused
in him.

She carried him far beyond mere outline, however, though afterwards he
recalled the details with difficulty. So much more was suggested than
actually expressed. She contrived to make the general modern scepticism
an evidence of cheap mentality. It was so easy; the depth it affects to
conceal, mere emptiness. "We have tried all things, and found all
wanting"--the mind, as measuring instrument, merely confessed
inadequate. Various shrewd judgments of this kind increased his respect,
although her acceptance went so far beyond his own. And, while the label
of credulity refused to stick to her, her sense of imaginative wonder
enabled her to escape that dreadful compromise, a man's mind in a
woman's temperament. She fascinated him.

The spiritual worship of the ancient Egyptians, she held, was a
symbolical explanation of things generally alluded to as the secrets of
life and death; their knowledge was a remnant of the wisdom of Atlantis.
Material relics, equally misunderstood, still stood to-day at Karnac,
Stonehenge, and in the mysterious writings on buried Mexican temples and
cities, so significantly akin to the hieroglyphics upon the Egyptian
tombs.

"The one misinterpreted as literally as the other," she suggested, "yet
both fragments of an advanced knowledge that found its grave in the sea.
The Wisdom of that old spiritual system has vanished from the world,
only a degraded literalism left of its undecipherable language. The
jewel has been lost, and the casket is filled with sand, sand, sand."

How keenly her black eyes searched his own as she said it, and how oddly
she made the little word resound. The syllable drew out almost into
chanting. Echoes answered from the depths within him, carrying it on and
on across some desert of forgotten belief. Veils of sand flew everywhere
about his mind. Curtains lifted. Whole hills of sand went shifting into
level surfaces whence gardens of dim outline emerged to meet the
sunlight.

"But the sand may be removed." It was her nephew, speaking almost for
the first time, and the interruption had an odd effect, introducing a
sharply practical element. For the tone expressed, so far as he dared
express it, disapproval. It was a baited observation, an invitation to
opinion.

"We are not sand-diggers, Mr. Henriot," put in Lady Statham, before he
decided to respond. "Our object is quite another one; and I believe--I
have a feeling," she added almost questioningly, "that you might be
interested enough to help us perhaps."

He only wondered the direct attack had not come sooner. Its bluntness
hardly surprised him. He felt himself leap forward to accept it. A
sudden subsidence had freed his feet.

Then the warning operated suddenly--for an instant. Henriot _was_
interested; more, he was half seduced; but, as yet, he did not mean to
be included in their purposes, whatever these might be. That shrinking
dread came back a moment, and was gone again before he could question
it. His eyes looked full at Lady Statham. "What is it that you know?"
they asked her. "Tell me the things we once knew together, you and I.
These words are merely trifling. And why does another man now stand in
my place? For the sands heaped upon my memory are shifting, and it is
_you_ who are moving them away."

His soul whispered it; his voice said quite another thing, although the
words he used seemed oddly chosen:

"There is much in the ideas of ancient Egypt that has attracted me ever
since I can remember, though I have never caught up with anything
definite enough to follow. There was majesty somewhere in their
conceptions--a large, calm majesty of spiritual dominion, one might call
it perhaps. I _am_ interested."

Her face remained expressionless as she listened, but there was grave
conviction in the eyes that held him like a spell. He saw through them
into dim, faint pictures whose background was always sand. He forgot
that he was speaking with a woman, a woman who half an hour ago had been
a stranger to him. He followed these faded mental pictures, though he
never caught them up.... It was like his dream in London.

Lady Statham was talking--he had not noticed the means by which she
effected the abrupt transition--of familiar beliefs of old Egypt; of the
Ka, or Double, by whose existence the survival of the soul was possible,
even its return into manifested, physical life; of the astrology, or
influence of the heavenly bodies upon all sublunar activities; of
terrific forms of other life, known to the ancient worship of Atlantis,
great Potencies that might be invoked by ritual and ceremonial, and of
their lesser influence as recognised in certain lower forms, hence
treated with veneration as the "Sacred Animal" branch of this dim
religion. And she spoke lightly of the modern learning which so glibly
imagined it was the animals themselves that were looked upon as
"gods"--the bull, the bird, the crocodile, the cat. "It's there they all
go so absurdly wrong," she said, "taking the symbol for the power
symbolised. Yet natural enough. The mind to-day wears blinkers, studies
only the details seen directly before it. Had none of us experienced
love, we should think the first lover mad. Few to-day know the Powers
_they_ knew, hence deny them. If the world were deaf it would stand with
mockery before a hearing group swayed by an orchestra, pitying both
listeners and performers. It would deem our admiration of a great
swinging bell mere foolish worship of form and movement. Similarly, with
high Powers that once expressed themselves in common forms--where best
they could--being themselves bodiless. The learned men classify the
forms with painstaking detail. But deity has gone out of life. The
Powers symbolised are no longer experienced."

"These Powers, you suggest, then--their Kas, as it were--may still--"

But she waved aside the interruption. "They are satisfied, as the common
people were, with a degraded literalism," she went on. "Nut was the
Heavens, who spread herself across the earth in the form of a woman;
Shu, the vastness of space; the ibis typified Thoth, and Hathor was the
Patron of the Western Hills; Khonsu, the moon, was personified, as was
the deity of the Nile. But the high priest of Ra, the sun, you notice,
remained ever the Great One of Visions."

The High Priest, the Great One of Visions!--How wonderfully again she
made the sentence sing. She put splendour into it. The pictures shifted
suddenly closer in his mind. He saw the grandeur of Memphis and
Heliopolis rise against the stars and shake the sand of ages from their
stern old temples.

"You think it possible, then, to get into touch with these High Powers
you speak of, Powers once manifested in common forms?"

Henriot asked the question with a degree of conviction and solemnity
that surprised himself. The scenery changed about him as he listened.
The spacious halls of this former khedivial Palace melted into Desert
spaces. He smelt the open wilderness, the sand that haunted Helouan. The
soft-footed Arab servants moved across the hall in their white sheets
like eddies of dust the wind stirred from the Libyan dunes. And over
these two strangers close beside him stole a queer, indefinite
alteration. Moods and emotions, nameless as unknown stars, rose through
his soul, trailing dark mists of memory from unfathomable distances.

Lady Statham answered him indirectly. He found himself wishing that
those steady eyes would sometimes close.

"Love is known only by feeling it," she said, her voice deepening a
little. "Behind the form you feel the person loved. The process is an
evocation, pure and simple. An arduous ceremonial, involving worship and
devotional preparation, is the means. It is a difficult ritual--the
only one acknowledged by the world as still effectual. Ritual is the
passage way of the soul into the Infinite."

He might have said the words himself. The thought lay in him while she
uttered it. Evocation everywhere in life was as true as assimilation.
Nevertheless, he stared his companion full in the eyes with a touch of
almost rude amazement. But no further questions prompted themselves; or,
rather, he declined to ask them. He recalled, somehow uneasily, that in
ceremonial the points of the compass have significance, standing for
forces and activities that sleep there until invoked, and a passing
light fell upon that curious midnight request in the corridor upstairs.
These two were on the track of undesirable experiments, he thought....
They wished to include him too.

"You go at night sometimes into the Desert?" he heard himself saying. It
was impulsive and miscalculated. His feeling that it would be wise to
change the conversation resulted in giving it fresh impetus instead.

"We saw you there--in the Wadi Hof," put in Vance, suddenly breaking his
long silence; "you too sleep out, then? It means, you know, the Valley
of Fear."

"We wondered--" It was Lady Statham's voice, and she leaned forward
eagerly as she said it, then abruptly left the sentence incomplete.
Henriot started; a sense of momentary acute discomfort again ran over
him. The same second she continued, though obviously changing the
phrase--"we wondered how you spent your day there, during the heat. But
you paint, don't you? You draw, I mean?"

The commonplace question, he realised in every fibre of his being, meant
something _they_ deemed significant. Was it his talent for drawing that
they sought to use him for? Even as he answered with a simple
affirmative, he had a flash of intuition that might be fanciful, yet
that might be true: that this extraordinary pair were intent upon some
ceremony of evocation that should summon into actual physical expression
some Power--some type of life--known long ago to ancient worship, and
that they even sought to fix its bodily outline with the pencil--his
pencil.

A gateway of incredible adventure opened at his feet. He balanced on the
edge of knowing unutterable things. Here was a clue that might lead him
towards the hidden Egypt he had ever craved to know. An awful hand was
beckoning. The sands were shifting. He saw the million eyes of the
Desert watching him from beneath the level lids of centuries. Speck by
speck, and grain by grain, the sand that smothered memory lifted the
countless wrappings that embalmed it.

And he was willing, yet afraid. Why in the world did he hesitate and
shrink? Why was it that the presence of this silent, watching
personality in the chair beside him kept caution still alive, with
warning close behind? The pictures in his mind were gorgeously coloured.
It was Richard Vance who somehow streaked them through with black. A
thing of darkness, born of this man's unassertive presence, flitted ever
across the scenery, marring its grandeur with something evil, petty,
dreadful. He held a horrible thought alive. His mind was thinking venal
purposes.

In Henriot himself imagination had grown curiously heated, fed by what
had been suggested rather than actually said. Ideas of immensity crowded
his brain, yet never assumed definite shape. They were familiar, even as
this strange woman was familiar. Once, long ago, he had known them well;
had even practised them beneath these bright Egyptian stars. Whence came
this prodigious glad excitement in his heart, this sense of mighty
Powers coaxed down to influence the very details of daily life? Behind
them, for all their vagueness, lay an archetypal splendour, fraught with
forgotten meanings. He had always been aware of it in this mysterious
land, but it had ever hitherto eluded him. It hovered everywhere. He had
felt it brooding behind the towering Colossi at Thebes, in the skeletons
of wasted temples, in the uncouth comeliness of the Sphinx, and in the
crude terror of the Pyramids even. Over the whole of Egypt hung its
invisible wings. These were but isolated fragments of the Body that
might express it. And the Desert remained its cleanest, truest symbol.
Sand knew it closest. Sand might even give it bodily form and outline.

But, while it escaped description in his mind, as equally it eluded
visualisation in his soul, he felt that it combined with its vastness
something infinitely small as well. Of such wee particles is the giant
Desert born....

Henriot started nervously in his chair, convicted once more of
unconscionable staring; and at the same moment a group of hotel people,
returning from a dance, passed through the hall and nodded him
good-night. The scent of the women reached him; and with it the sound of
their voices discussing personalities just left behind. A London
atmosphere came with them. He caught trivial phrases, uttered in a
drawling tone, and followed by the shrill laughter of a girl. They
passed upstairs, discussing their little things, like marionettes upon a
tiny stage.

But their passage brought him back to things of modern life, and to some
standard of familiar measurement. The pictures that his soul had gazed
at so deep within, he realised, were a pictorial transfer caught
incompletely from this woman's vivid mind. He had seen the Desert as the
grey, enormous Tomb where hovered still the Ka of ancient Egypt. Sand
screened her visage with the veil of centuries. But She was there, and
She was living. Egypt herself had pitched a temporary camp in him, and
then moved on.

There was a momentary break, a sense of abruptness and dislocation. And
then he became aware that Lady Statham had been speaking for some time
before he caught her actual words, and that a certain change had come
into her voice as also into her manner.



V


She was leaning closer to him, her face suddenly glowing and alive.
Through the stone figure coursed the fires of a passion that deepened
the coal-black eyes and communicated a hint of light--of exaltation--to
her whole person. It was incredibly moving. To this deep passion was due
the power he had felt. It was her entire life; she lived for it, she
would die for it. Her calmness of manner enhanced its effect. Hence the
strength of those first impressions that had stormed him. The woman had
belief; however wild and strange, it was sacred to her. The secret of
her influence was--conviction.

His attitude shifted several points then. The wonder in him passed over
into awe. The things she knew were real. They were not merely
imaginative speculations.

"I knew I was not wrong in thinking you in sympathy with this line of
thought," she was saying in lower voice, steady with earnestness, and as
though she had read his mind. "You, too, know, though perhaps you hardly
realise that you know. It lies so deep in you that you only get vague
feelings of it--intimations of memory. Isn't that the case?"

Henriot gave assent with his eyes; it was the truth.

"What we know instinctively," she continued, "is simply what we are
trying to remember. Knowledge is memory." She paused a moment watching
his face closely. "At least, you are free from that cheap scepticism
which labels these old beliefs as superstition." It was not even a
question.

"I--worship real belief--of any kind," he stammered, for her words and
the close proximity of her atmosphere caused a strange upheaval in his
heart that he could not account for. He faltered in his speech. "It is
the most vital quality in life--rarer than deity." He was using her own
phrases even. "It is creative. It constructs the world anew--"

"And may reconstruct the old."

She said it, lifting her face above him a little, so that her eyes
looked down into his own. It grew big and somehow masculine. It was the
face of a priest, spiritual power in it. Where, oh where in the echoing
Past had he known this woman's soul? He saw her in another setting, a
forest of columns dim about her, towering above giant aisles. Again he
felt the Desert had come close. Into this tent-like hall of the hotel
came the sifting of tiny sand. It heaped softly about the very furniture
against his feet, blocking the exits of door and window. It shrouded the
little present. The wind that brought it stirred a veil that had hung
for ages motionless....

She had been saying many things that he had missed while his mind went
searching. "There were types of life the Atlantean system knew it might
revive--life unmanifested to-day in any bodily form," was the sentence
he caught with his return to the actual present.

"A type of life?" he whispered, looking about him, as though to see who
it was had joined them; "you mean a--soul? Some kind of soul, alien to
humanity, or to--to any forms of living thing in the world to-day?" What
she had been saying reached him somehow, it seemed, though he had not
heard the words themselves. Still hesitating, he was yet so eager to
hear. Already he felt she meant to include him in her purposes, and that
in the end he must go willingly. So strong was her persuasion on his
mind.

And he felt as if he knew vaguely what was coming. Before she answered
his curious question--prompting it indeed--rose in his mind that strange
idea of the Group-Soul: the theory that big souls cannot express
themselves in a single individual, but need an entire group for their
full manifestation.

He listened intently. The reflection that this sudden intimacy was
unnatural, he rejected, for many conversations were really gathered
into one. Long watching and preparation on both sides had cleared the
way for the ripening of acquaintance into confidence--how long he dimly
wondered? But if this conception of the Group-Soul was not new, the
suggestion Lady Statham developed out of it was both new and
startling--and yet always so curiously familiar. Its value for him lay,
not in far-fetched evidence that supported it, but in the deep belief
which made it a vital asset in an honest inner life.

"An individual," she said quietly, "one soul expressed completely in a
single person, I mean, is exceedingly rare. Not often is a physical
instrument found perfect enough to provide it with adequate expression.
In the lower ranges of humanity--certainly in animal and insect
life--one soul is shared by many. Behind a tribe of savages stands one
Savage. A flock of birds is a single Bird, scattered through the
consciousness of all. They wheel in mid-air, they migrate, they obey the
deep intelligence called instinct--all as one. The life of any one lion
is the life of all--the lion group-soul that manifests itself in the
entire genus. An ant-heap is a single Ant; through the bees spreads the
consciousness of a single Bee."

Henriot knew what she was working up to. In his eagerness to hasten
disclosure he interrupted--

"And there may be types of life that have no corresponding bodily
expression at all, then?" he asked as though the question were forced
out of him. "They exist as Powers--unmanifested on the earth to-day?"

"Powers," she answered, watching him closely with unswerving stare,
"that need a group to provide their body--their physical expression--if
they came back."

"Came back!" he repeated below his breath.

But she heard him. "They once had expression. Egypt, Atlantis knew
them--spiritual Powers that never visit the world to-day."

"Bodies," he whispered softly, "actual bodies?"

"Their sphere of action, you see, would be their body. And it might be
physical outline. So potent a descent of spiritual life would select
materials for its body where it could find them. Our conventional notion
of a body--what is it? A single outline moving altogether in one
direction. For little human souls, or fragments, this is sufficient. But
for vaster types of soul an entire host would be required."

"A church?" he ventured. "Some Body of belief, you surely mean?"

She bowed her head a moment in assent. She was determined he should
seize her meaning fully.

"A wave of spiritual awakening--a descent of spiritual life upon a
nation," she answered slowly, "forms itself a church, and the body of
true believers are its sphere of action. They are literally its bodily
expression. Each individual believer is a corpuscle in that Body. The
Power has provided itself with a vehicle of manifestation. Otherwise we
could not know it. And the more real the belief of each individual, the
more perfect the expression of the spiritual life behind them all. A
Group-soul walks the earth. Moreover, a nation naturally devout could
attract a type of soul unknown to a nation that denies all faith. Faith
brings back the gods.... But to-day belief is dead, and Deity has left
the world."

She talked on and on, developing this main idea that in days of older
faiths there were deific types of life upon the earth, evoked by worship
and beneficial to humanity. They had long ago withdrawn because the
worship which brought them down had died the death. The world had grown
pettier. These vast centres of Spiritual Power found no "Body" in which
they now could express themselves or manifest.... Her thoughts and
phrases poured over him like sand. It was always sand he felt--burying
the Present and uncovering the Past....

He tried to steady his mind upon familiar objects, but wherever he
looked Sand stared him in the face. Outside these trivial walls the
Desert lay listening. It lay waiting too. Vance himself had dropped out
of recognition. He belonged to the world of things to-day. But this
woman and himself stood thousands of years away, beneath the columns of
a Temple in the sands. And the sands were moving. His feet went shifting
with them ... running down vistas of ageless memory that woke terror by
their sheer immensity of distance....

Like a muffled voice that called to him through many veils and
wrappings, he heard her describe the stupendous Powers that evocation
might coax down again among the world of men.

"To what useful end?" he asked at length, amazed at his own temerity,
and because he knew instinctively the answer in advance. It rose through
these layers of coiling memory in his soul.

"The extension of spiritual knowledge and the widening of life," she
answered. "The link with the 'unearthly kingdom' wherein this ancient
system went forever searching, would be re-established. Complete
rehabilitation might follow. Portions--little portions of these
Powers--expressed themselves naturally once in certain animal types,
instinctive life that did not deny or reject them. The worship of sacred
animals was the relic of a once gigantic system of evocation--not of
monsters," and she smiled sadly, "but of Powers that were willing and
ready to descend when worship summoned them."

Again, beneath his breath, Henriot heard himself murmur--his own voice
startled him as he whispered it: "Actual bodily shape and outline?"

"Material for bodies is everywhere," she answered, equally low; "dust to
which we all return; sand, if you prefer it, fine, fine sand. Life
moulds it easily enough, when that life is potent."

A certain confusion spread slowly through his mind as he heard her. He
lit a cigarette and smoked some minutes in silence. Lady Statham and her
nephew waited for him to speak. At length, after some inner battling and
hesitation, he put the question that he knew they waited for. It was
impossible to resist any longer.

"It would be interesting to know the method," he said, "and to revive,
perhaps, by experiment--"

Before he could complete his thought, she took him up:

"There are some who claim to know it," she said gravely--her eyes a
moment masterful. "A clue, thus followed, might lead to the entire
reconstruction I spoke of."

"And the method?" he repeated faintly.

"Evoke the Power by ceremonial evocation--the ritual is obtainable--and
note the form it assumes. Then establish it. This shape or outline once
secured, could then be made permanent--a mould for its return at
will--its natural physical expression here on earth."

"Idol!" he exclaimed.

"Image," she replied at once. "Life, before we can know it, must have a
body. Our souls, in order to manifest here, need a material vehicle."

"And--to obtain this form or outline?" he began; "to fix it, rather?"

"Would be required the clever pencil of a fearless looker-on--some one
not engaged in the actual evocation. This form, accurately made
permanent in solid matter, say in stone, would provide a channel always
open. Experiment, properly speaking, might then begin. The cisterns of
Power behind would be accessible."

"An amazing proposition!" Henriot exclaimed. What surprised him was that
he felt no desire to laugh, and little even to doubt.

"Yet known to every religion that ever deserved the name," put in Vance
like a voice from a distance. Blackness came somehow with his
interruption--a touch of darkness. He spoke eagerly.

To all the talk that followed, and there was much of it, Henriot
listened with but half an ear. This one idea stormed through him with an
uproar that killed attention. Judgment was held utterly in abeyance. He
carried away from it some vague suggestion that this woman had hinted at
previous lives she half remembered, and that every year she came to
Egypt, haunting the sands and temples in the effort to recover lost
clues. And he recalled afterwards that she said, "This all came to me as
a child, just as though it was something half remembered." There was the
further suggestion that he himself was not unknown to her; that they,
too, had met before. But this, compared to the grave certainty of the
rest, was merest fantasy that did not hold his attention. He answered,
hardly knowing what he said. His preoccupation with other thoughts deep
down was so intense, that he was probably barely polite, uttering empty
phrases, with his mind elsewhere. His one desire was to escape and be
alone, and it was with genuine relief that he presently excused himself
and went upstairs to bed. The halls, he noticed, were empty; an Arab
servant waited to put the lights out. He walked up, for the lift had
long ceased running.

And the magic of old Egypt stalked beside him. The studies that had
fascinated his mind in earlier youth returned with the power that had
subdued his mind in boyhood. The cult of Osiris woke in his blood again;
Horus and Nephthys stirred in their long-forgotten centres. There
revived in him, too long buried, the awful glamour of those liturgal
rites and vast body of observances, those spells and formulae of
incantation of the oldest known recension that years ago had captured
his imagination and belief--the Book of the Dead. Trumpet voices called
to his heart again across the desert of some dim past. There were forms
of life--impulses from the Creative Power which is the Universe--other
than the soul of man. They could be known. A spiritual exaltation,
roused by the words and presence of this singular woman, shouted to him
as he went.

Then, as he closed his bedroom door, carefully locking it, there stood
beside him--Vance. The forgotten figure of Vance came up close--the
watching eyes, the simulated interest, the feigned belief, the detective
mental attitude, these broke through the grandiose panorama, bringing
darkness. Vance, strong personality that hid behind assumed nonentity
for some purpose of his own, intruded with sudden violence, demanding an
explanation of his presence.

And, with an equal suddenness, explanation offered itself then and
there. It came unsought, its horror of certainty utterly unjustified;
and it came in this unexpected fashion:

Behind the interest and acquiescence of the man ran--fear: but behind
the vivid fear ran another thing that Henriot now perceived was vile.
For the first time in his life, Henriot knew it at close quarters,
actual, ready to operate. Though familiar enough in daily life to be of
common occurrence, Henriot had never realised it as he did now, so close
and terrible. In the same way he had never _realised_ that he would
die--vanish from the busy world of men and women, forgotten as though he
had never existed, an eddy of wind-blown dust. And in the man named
Richard Vance this thing was close upon blossom. Henriot could not name
it to himself. Even in thought it appalled him.

       *       *       *       *       *

He undressed hurriedly, almost with the child's idea of finding safety
between the sheets. His mind undressed itself as well. The business of
the day laid itself automatically aside; the will sank down; desire grew
inactive. Henriot was exhausted. But, in that stage towards slumber when
thinking stops, and only fugitive pictures pass across the mind in
shadowy dance, his brain ceased shouting its mechanical explanations,
and his soul unveiled a peering eye. Great limbs of memory, smothered by
the activities of the Present, stirred their stiffened lengths through
the sands of long ago--sands this woman had begun to excavate from some
far-off pre-existence they had surely known together. Vagueness and
certainty ran hand in hand. Details were unrecoverable, but the emotions
in which they were embedded moved.

He turned restlessly in his bed, striving to seize the amazing clues and
follow them. But deliberate effort hid them instantly again; they
retired instantly into the subconsciousness. With the brain of this body
he now occupied they had nothing to do. The brain stored memories of
each life only. This ancient script was graven in his soul.
Subconsciousness alone could interpret and reveal. And it was his
subconscious memory that Lady Statham had been so busily excavating.

Dimly it stirred and moved about the depths within him, never clearly
seen, indefinite, felt as a yearning after unrecoverable knowledge.
Against the darker background of Vance's fear and sinister purpose--both
of this present life, and recent--he saw the grandeur of this woman's
impossible dream, and _knew_, beyond argument or reason, that it was
true. Judgment and will asleep, he left the impossibility aside, and
took the grandeur. The Belief of Lady Statham was not credulity and
superstition; it was Memory. Still to this day, over the sands of Egypt,
hovered immense spiritual potencies, so vast that they could only know
physical expression in a group--in many. Their sphere of bodily
manifestation must be a host, each individual unit in that host a
corpuscle in the whole.

The wind, rising from the Lybian wastes across the Nile, swept up
against the exposed side of the hotel, and made his windows rattle--the
old, sad winds of Egypt. Henriot got out of bed to fasten the outside
shutters. He stood a moment and watched the moon floating down behind
the Sakkara Pyramids. The Pleiades and Orion's Belt hung brilliantly;
the Great Bear was close to the horizon. In the sky above the Desert
swung ten thousand stars. No sounds rose from the streets of Helouan.
The tide of sand was coming slowly in.

And a flock of enormous thoughts swooped past him from fields of this
unbelievable, lost memory. The Desert, pale in the moon, was coextensive
with the night, too huge for comfort or understanding, yet charged to
the brim with infinite peace. Behind its majesty of silence lay whispers
of a vanished language that once could call with power upon mighty
spiritual Agencies. Its skirts were folded now, but, slowly across the
leagues of sand, they began to stir and rearrange themselves. He grew
suddenly aware of this enveloping shroud of sand--as the raw material of
bodily expression: Form.

The sand was in his imagination and his mind. Shaking loosely the folds
of its gigantic skirts, it rose; it moved a little towards him. He saw
the eternal countenance of the Desert watching him--immobile and
unchanging behind these shifting veils the winds laid so carefully over
it. Egypt, the ancient Egypt, turned in her vast sarcophagus of Desert,
wakening from her sleep of ages at the Belief of approaching
worshippers.

Only in this insignificant manner could he express a letter of the
terrific language that crowded to seek expression through his soul....
He closed the shutters and carefully fastened them. He turned to go back
to bed, curiously trembling. Then, as he did so, the whole singular
delusion caught him with a shock that held him motionless. Up rose the
stupendous apparition of the entire Desert and stood behind him on that
balcony. Swift as thought, in silence, the Desert stood on end against
his very face. It towered across the sky, hiding Orion and the moon; it
dipped below the horizons. The whole grey sheet of it rose up before his
eyes and stood. Through its unfolding skirts ran ten thousand eddies of
swirling sand as the creases of its grave-clothes smoothed themselves
out in moonlight. And a bleak, scarred countenance, huge as a planet,
gazed down into his own....

Through his dreamless sleep that night two things lay active and awake
... in the subconscious part that knows no slumber. They were
incongruous. One was evil, small and human; the other unearthly and
sublime. For the memory of the fear that haunted Vance, and the sinister
cause of it, pricked at him all night long. But behind, beyond this
common, intelligible emotion, lay the crowding wonder that caught his
soul with glory:

The Sand was stirring, the Desert was awake. Ready to mate with them in
material form, brooded close the Ka of that colossal Entity that once
expressed itself through the myriad life of ancient Egypt.



VI


Next day, and for several days following, Henriot kept out of the path
of Lady Statham and her nephew. The acquaintanceship had grown too
rapidly to be quite comfortable. It was easy to pretend that he took
people at their face value, but it was a pose; one liked to know
something of antecedents. It was otherwise difficult to "place" them.
And Henriot, for the life of him, could not "place" these two. His
Subconsciousness brought explanation when it came--but the
Subconsciousness is only temporarily active. When it retired he
floundered without a rudder, in confusion.

With the flood of morning sunshine the value of much she had said
evaporated. Her presence alone had supplied the key to the cipher. But
while the indigestible portions he rejected, there remained a good deal
he had already assimilated. The discomfort remained; and with it the
grave, unholy reality of it all. It was something more than theory.
Results would follow--if he joined them. He would witness curious
things.

The force with which it drew him brought hesitation. It operated in him
like a shock that numbs at first by its abrupt arrival, and needs time
to realise in the right proportions to the rest of life. These right
proportions, however, did not come readily, and his emotions ranged
between sceptical laughter and complete acceptance. The one detail he
felt certain of was this dreadful thing he had divined in Vance. Trying
hard to disbelieve it, he found he could not. It was true. Though
without a shred of real evidence to support it, the horror of it
remained. He knew it in his very bones.

And this, perhaps, was what drove him to seek the comforting
companionship of folk he understood and felt at home with. He told his
host and hostess about the strangers, though omitting the actual
conversation because they would merely smile in blank miscomprehension.
But the moment he described the strong black eyes beneath the level
eyelids, his hostess turned with a start, her interest deeply roused:
"Why, it's that awful Statham woman," she exclaimed, "that must be Lady
Statham, and the man she calls her nephew."

"Sounds like it, certainly," her husband added. "Felix, you'd better
clear out. They'll bewitch you too."

And Henriot bridled, yet wondering why he did so. He drew into his shell
a little, giving the merest sketch of what had happened. But he listened
closely while these two practical old friends supplied him with
information in the gossiping way that human nature loves. No doubt there
was much embroidery, and more perversion, exaggeration too, but the
account evidently rested upon some basis of solid foundation for all
that. Smoke and fire go together always.

"He _is_ her nephew right enough," Mansfield corrected his wife, before
proceeding to his own man's form of elaboration; "no question about
that, I believe. He's her favourite nephew, and she's as rich as a pig.
He follows her out here every year, waiting for her empty shoes. But
they _are_ an unsavoury couple. I've met 'em in various parts, all over
Egypt, but they always come back to Helouan in the end. And the stories
about them are simply legion. You remember--" he turned hesitatingly to
his wife--"some people, I heard," he changed his sentence, "were made
quite ill by her."

"I'm sure Felix ought to know, yes," his wife boldly took him up, "my
niece, Fanny, had the most extraordinary experience." She turned to
Henriot. "Her room was next to Lady Statham in some hotel or other at
Assouan or Edfu, and one night she woke and heard a kind of mysterious
chanting or intoning next her. Hotel doors are so dreadfully thin. There
was a funny smell too, like incense of something sickly, and a man's
voice kept chiming in. It went on for hours, while she lay terrified in
bed--"

"Frightened, you say?" asked Henriot.

"Out of her skin, yes; she said it was so uncanny--made her feel icy.
She wanted to ring the bell, but was afraid to leave her bed. The room
was full of--of things, yet she could see nothing. She _felt_ them, you
see. And after a bit the sound of this sing-song voice so got on her
nerves, it half dazed her--a kind of enchantment--she felt choked and
suffocated. And then--" It was her turn to hesitate.

"Tell it all," her husband said, quite gravely too.

"Well--something came in. At least, she describes it oddly, rather; she
said it made the door bulge inwards from the next room, but not the door
alone; the walls bulged or swayed as if a huge thing pressed against
them from the other side. And at the same moment her windows--she had
two big balconies, and the venetian shutters were fastened--both her
windows _darkened_--though it was two in the morning and pitch dark
outside. She said it was all _one_ thing--trying to get in; just as
water, you see, would rush in through every hole and opening it could
find, and all at once. And in spite of her terror--that's the odd part
of it--she says she felt a kind of splendour in her--a sort of elation."

"She saw nothing?"

"She says she doesn't remember. Her senses left her, I believe--though
she won't admit it."

"Fainted for a minute, probably," said Mansfield.

"So there it is," his wife concluded, after a silence. "And that's true.
It happened to my niece, didn't it, John?"

Stories and legendary accounts of strange things that the presence of
these two brought poured out then. They were obviously somewhat mixed,
one account borrowing picturesque details from another, and all in
disproportion, as when people tell stories in a language they are
little familiar with. But, listening with avidity, yet also with
uneasiness, somehow, Henriot put two and two together. Truth stood
behind them somewhere. These two held traffic with the powers that
ancient Egypt knew.

"Tell Felix, dear, about the time you met the nephew--horrid
creature--in the Valley of the Kings," he heard his wife say presently.
And Mansfield told it plainly enough, evidently glad to get it done,
though.

"It was some years ago now, and I didn't know who he was then, or
anything about him. I don't know much more now--except that he's a
dangerous sort of charlatan-devil, _I_ think. But I came across him one
night up there by Thebes in the Valley of the Kings--you know, where
they buried all their Johnnies with so much magnificence and processions
and masses, and all the rest. It's the most astounding, the most haunted
place you ever saw, gloomy, silent, full of gorgeous lights and shadows
that seem alive--terribly impressive; it makes you creep and shudder.
You feel old Egypt watching you."

"Get on, dear," said his wife.

"Well, I was coming home late on a blasted lazy donkey, dog-tired into
the bargain, when my donkey boy suddenly ran for his life and left me
alone. It was after sunset. The sand was red and shining, and the big
cliffs sort of fiery. And my donkey stuck its four feet in the ground
and wouldn't budge. Then, about fifty yards away, I saw a
fellow--European apparently--doing something--Heaven knows what, for I
can't describe it--among the boulders that lie all over the ground
there. Ceremony, I suppose you'd call it. I was so interested that at
first I watched. Then I saw he wasn't alone. There were a lot of moving
things round him, towering big things, that came and went like shadows.
That twilight is fearfully bewildering; perspective changes, and
distance gets all confused. It's fearfully hard to see properly. I only
remember that I got off my donkey and went up closer, and when I was
within a dozen yards of him--well, it sounds such rot, you know, but I
swear the things suddenly rushed off and left him there alone. They went
with a roaring noise like wind; shadowy but tremendously big, they were,
and they vanished up against the fiery precipices as though they slipped
bang into the stone itself. The only thing I can think of to describe
'em is--well, those sand-storms the Khamasin raises--the hot winds, you
know."

"They probably _were_ sand," his wife suggested, burning to tell
another story of her own.

"Possibly, only there wasn't a breath of wind, and it was hot as
blazes--and--I had such extraordinary sensations--never felt anything
like it before--wild and exhilarated--drunk, I tell you, drunk."

"You saw them?" asked Henriot. "You made out their shape at all, or
outline?"

"Sphinx," he replied at once, "for all the world like sphinxes. You know
the kind of face and head these limestone strata in the Desert
take--great visages with square Egyptian head-dresses where the driven
sand has eaten away the softer stuff beneath? You see it
everywhere--enormous idols they seem, with faces and eyes and lips
awfully like the sphinx--well, that's the nearest I can get to it." He
puffed his pipe hard. But there was no sign of levity in him. He told
the actual truth as far as in him lay, yet half ashamed of what he told.
And a good deal he left out, too.

"She's got a face of the same sort, that Statham horror," his wife said
with a shiver. "Reduce the size, and paint in awful black eyes, and
you've got her exactly--a living idol." And all three laughed, yet a
laughter without merriment in it.

"And you spoke to the man?"

"I did," the Englishman answered, "though I confess I'm a bit ashamed of
the way I spoke. Fact is, I was excited, thunderingly excited, and felt
a kind of anger. I wanted to kick the beggar for practising such bally
rubbish, and in such a place too. Yet all the time--well, well, I
believe it was sheer funk now," he laughed; "for I felt uncommonly queer
out there in the dusk, alone with--with that kind of business; and I was
angry with myself for feeling it. Anyhow, I went up--I'd lost my donkey
boy as well, remember--and slated him like a dog. I can't remember what
I said exactly--only that he stood and stared at me in silence. That
made it worse--seemed twice as real then. The beggar said no single word
the whole time. He signed to me with one hand to clear out. And then,
suddenly out of nothing--she--that woman--appeared and stood beside him.
I never saw her come. She must have been behind some boulder or other,
for she simply rose out of the ground. She stood there and stared at me
too--bang in the face. She was turned towards the sunset--what was left
of it in the west--and her black eyes shone like--ugh! I can't describe
it--it was shocking."

"She spoke?"

"She said five words--and her voice--it'll make you laugh--it was
metallic like a gong: 'You are in danger here.' That's all she said. I
simply turned and cleared out as fast as ever I could. But I had to go
on foot. My donkey had followed its boy long before. I tell you--smile
as you may--my blood was all curdled for an hour afterwards."

Then he explained that he felt some kind of explanation or apology was
due, since the couple lodged in his own hotel, and how he approached the
man in the smoking-room after dinner. A conversation resulted--the man
was quite intelligent after all--of which only one sentence had remained
in his mind.

"Perhaps you can explain it, Felix. I wrote it down, as well as I could
remember. The rest confused me beyond words or memory; though I must
confess it did not seem--well, not utter rot exactly. It was about
astrology and rituals and the worship of the old Egyptians, and I don't
know what else besides. Only, he made it intelligible and almost
sensible, if only I could have got the hang of the thing enough to
remember it. You know," he added, as though believing in spite of
himself, "there _is_ a lot of that wonderful old Egyptian religious
business still hanging about in the atmosphere of this place, say what
you like."

"But this sentence?" Henriot asked. And the other went off to get a
note-book where he had written it down.

"He was jawing, you see," he continued when he came back, Henriot and
his wife having kept silence meanwhile, "about direction being of
importance in religious ceremonies, West and North symbolising certain
powers, or something of the kind, why people turn to the East and all
that sort of thing, and speaking of the whole Universe as if it had
living forces tucked away in it that expressed themselves somehow when
roused up. That's how I remember it anyhow. And then he said this
thing--in answer to some fool question probably that I put." And he read
out of the note-book:

"'You were in danger because you came through the Gateway of the West,
and the Powers from the Gateway of the East were at that moment rising,
and therefore in direct opposition to you.'"

Then came the following, apparently a simile offered by way of
explanation. Mansfield read it in a shamefaced tone, evidently prepared
for laughter:

"'Whether I strike you on the back or in the face determines what kind
of answering force I rouse in you. Direction is significant.' And he
said it was the period called the Night of Power--time when the Desert
encroaches and spirits are close."

And tossing the book aside, he lit his pipe again and waited a moment to
hear what might be said. "Can you explain such gibberish?" he asked at
length, as neither of his listeners spoke. But Henriot said he couldn't.
And the wife then took up her own tale of stories that had grown about
this singular couple.

These were less detailed, and therefore less impressive, but all
contributed something towards the atmosphere of reality that framed the
entire picture. They belonged to the type one hears at every dinner
party in Egypt--stories of the vengeance mummies seem to take on those
who robbed them, desecrating their peace of centuries; of a woman
wearing a necklace of scarabs taken from a princess's tomb, who felt
hands about her throat to strangle her; of little Ka figures, Pasht
goddesses, amulets and the rest, that brought curious disaster to those
who kept them. They are many and various, astonishingly circumstantial
often, and vouched for by persons the reverse of credulous. The modern
superstition that haunts the desert gullies with Afreets has nothing in
common with them. They rest upon a basis of indubitable experience; and
they remain--inexplicable. And about the personalities of Lady Statham
and her nephew they crowded like flies attracted by a dish of fruit. The
Arabs, too, were afraid of her. She had difficulty in getting guides and
dragomen.

"My dear chap," concluded Mansfield, "take my advice and have nothing to
do with 'em. There _is_ a lot of queer business knocking about in this
old country, and people like that know ways of reviving it somehow. It's
upset you already; you looked scared, I thought, the moment you came
in." They laughed, but the Englishman was in earnest. "I tell you what,"
he added, "we'll go off for a bit of shooting together. The fields along
the Delta are packed with birds now: they're home early this year on
their way to the North. What d'ye say, eh?"

But Henriot did not care about the quail shooting. He felt more inclined
to be alone and think things out by himself. He had come to his friends
for comfort, and instead they had made him uneasy and excited. His
interest had suddenly doubled. Though half afraid, he longed to know
what these two were up to--to follow the adventure to the bitter end. He
disregarded the warning of his host as well as the premonition in his
own heart. The sand had caught his feet.

There were moments when he laughed in utter disbelief, but these were
optimistic moods that did not last. He always returned to the feeling
that truth lurked somewhere in the whole strange business, and that if
he joined forces with them, as they seemed to wish, he would
witness--well, he hardly knew what--but it enticed him as danger does
the reckless man, or death the suicide. The sand had caught his mind.

He decided to offer himself to all they wanted--his pencil too. He would
see--a shiver ran through him at the thought--what they saw, and know
some eddy of that vanished tide of power and splendour the ancient
Egyptian priesthood knew, and that perhaps was even common experience in
the far-off days of dim Atlantis. The sand had caught his imagination
too. He was utterly sand-haunted.



VII


And so he took pains, though without making definite suggestion, to
place himself in the way of this woman and her nephew--only to find that
his hints were disregarded. They left him alone, if they did not
actually avoid him. Moreover, he rarely came across them now. Only at
night, or in the queer dusk hours, he caught glimpses of them moving
hurriedly off from the hotel, and always desertwards. And their
disregard, well calculated, enflamed his desire to the point when he
almost decided to propose himself. Quite suddenly, then, the idea
flashed through him--how do they come, these odd revelations, when the
mind lies receptive like a plate sensitised by anticipation?--that they
were waiting for a certain date, and, with the notion, came Mansfield's
remark about "the Night of Power," believed in by the old Egyptian
Calendar as a time when the supersensuous world moves close against the
minds of men with all its troop of possibilities. And the thought, once
lodged in its corner of imagination, grew strong. He looked it up. Ten
days from now, he found, Leyel-el-Sud would be upon him, with a moon,
too, at the full. And this strange hint of guidance he accepted. In his
present mood, as he admitted, smiling to himself, he could accept
anything. It was part of it, it belonged to the adventure. But, even
while he persuaded himself that it was play, the solemn reality, of
what lay ahead increased amazingly, sketched darkly in his very soul.

These intervening days he spent as best he could--impatiently, a prey to
quite opposite emotions. In the blazing sunshine he thought of it and
laughed; but at night he lay often sleepless, calculating chances of
escape. He never did escape, however. The Desert that watched little
Helouan with great, unwinking eyes watched also every turn and twist he
made. Like this oasis, he basked in the sun of older time, and dreamed
beneath forgotten moons. The sand at last had crept into his inmost
heart. It sifted over him.

Seeking a reaction from normal, everyday things, he made tourist trips;
yet, while recognising the comedy in his attitude, he never could lose
sight of the grandeur that banked it up so hauntingly. These two
contrary emotions grafted themselves on all he did and saw. He crossed
the Nile at Bedrashein, and went again to the Tomb-World of Sakkara; but
through all the chatter of veiled and helmeted tourists, the
_bandar-log_ of our modern Jungle, ran this dark under-stream of awe
their monkey methods could not turn aside. One world lay upon another,
but this modern layer was a shallow crust that, like the phenomenon of
the "desert-film," a mere angle of falling light could instantly
obliterate. Beneath the sand, deep down, he passed along the Street of
Tombs, as he had often passed before, moved then merely by historical
curiosity and admiration, but now by emotions for which he found no
name. He saw the enormous sarcophagi of granite in their gloomy chambers
where the sacred bulls once lay, swathed and embalmed like human beings,
and, in the flickering candle light, the mood of ancient rites surged
round him, menacing his doubts and laughter. The least human whisper in
these subterraneans, dug out first four thousand years ago, revived
ominous Powers that stalked beside him, forbidding and premonitive. He
gazed at the spots where Mariette, unearthing them forty years ago,
found fresh as of yesterday the marks of fingers and naked feet--of
those who set the sixty-five ton slabs in position. And when he came up
again into the sunshine he met the eternal questions of the pyramids,
overtopping all his mental horizons. Sand blocked all the avenues of
younger emotion, leaving the channels of something in him incalculably
older, open and clean swept.

He slipped homewards, uncomfortable and followed, glad to be with a
crowd--because he was otherwise alone with more than he could dare to
think about. Keeping just ahead of his companions, he crossed the desert
edge where the ghost of Memphis walks under rustling palm trees that
screen no stone left upon another of all its mile-long populous
splendours. For here was a vista his imagination could realise; here he
could know the comfort of solid ground his feet could touch. Gigantic
Ramases, lying on his back beneath their shade and staring at the sky,
similarly helped to steady his swaying thoughts. Imagination could deal
with these.

And daily thus he watched the busy world go to and fro to its scale of
tips and bargaining, and gladly mingled with it, trying to laugh and
study guidebooks, and listen to half-fledged explanations, but always
seeing the comedy of his poor attempts. Not all those little donkeys,
bells tinkling, beads shining, trotting beneath their comical burdens to
the tune of shouting and belabouring, could stem this tide of deeper
things the woman had let loose in the subconscious part of him.
Everywhere he saw the mysterious camels go slouching through the sand,
gurgling the water in their skinny, extended throats. Centuries passed
between the enormous knee-stroke of their stride. And, every night, the
sunsets restored the forbidding, graver mood, with their crimson, golden
splendour, their strange green shafts of light, then--sudden twilight
that brought the Past upon him with an awful leap. Upon the stage then
stepped the figures of this pair of human beings, chanting their ancient
plainsong of incantation in the moonlit desert, and working their rites
of unholy evocation as the priests had worked them centuries before in
the sands that now buried Sakkara fathoms deep.

Then one morning he woke with a question in his mind, as though it had
been asked of him in sleep and he had waked just before the answer came.
"Why do I spend my time sight-seeing, instead of going alone into the
Desert as before? What has made me change?"

This latest mood now asked for explanation. And the answer, coming up
automatically, startled him. It was so clear and sure--had been lying in
the background all along. One word contained it:

Vance.

The sinister intentions of this man, forgotten in the rush of other
emotions, asserted themselves again convincingly. The human horror, so
easily comprehensible, had been smothered for the time by the hint of
unearthly revelations. But it had operated all the time. Now it took
the lead. He dreaded to be alone in the Desert with this dark picture in
his mind of what Vance meant to bring there to completion. This
abomination of a selfish human will returned to fix its terror in him.
To be alone in the Desert meant to be alone with the imaginative picture
of what Vance--he knew it with such strange certainty--hoped to bring
about there.

There was absolutely no evidence to justify the grim suspicion. It
seemed indeed far-fetched enough, this connection between the sand and
the purpose of an evil-minded, violent man. But Henriot saw it true. He
could argue it away in a few minutes--easily. Yet the instant thought
ceased, it returned, led up by intuition. It possessed him, filled his
mind with horrible possibilities. He feared the Desert as he might have
feared the scene of some atrocious crime. And, for the time, this dread
of a merely human thing corrected the big seduction of the other--the
suggested "super-natural."

Side by side with it, his desire to join himself to the purposes of the
woman increased steadily. They kept out of his way apparently; the offer
seemed withdrawn; he grew restless, unable to settle to anything for
long, and once he asked the porter casually if they were leaving the
hotel. Lady Statham had been invisible for days, and Vance was somehow
never within speaking distance. He heard with relief that they had not
gone--but with dread as well. Keen excitement worked in him underground.
He slept badly. Like a schoolboy, he waited for the summons to an
important examination that involved portentous issues, and contradictory
emotions disturbed his peace of mind abominably.



VIII


But it was not until the end of the week, when Vance approached him with
purpose in his eyes and manner, that Henriot knew his fears unfounded,
and caught himself trembling with sudden anticipation--because the
invitation, so desired yet so dreaded, was actually at hand. Firmly
determined to keep caution uppermost, yet he went unresistingly to a
secluded corner by the palms where they could talk in privacy. For
prudence is of the mind, but desire is of the soul, and while his brain
of to-day whispered wariness, voices in his heart of long ago shouted
commands that he knew he must obey with joy.

It was evening and the stars were out. Helouan, with her fairy
twinkling lights, lay silent against the Desert edge. The sand was at
the flood. The period of the Encroaching of the Desert was at hand, and
the deeps were all astir with movement. But in the windless air was a
great peace. A calm of infinite stillness breathed everywhere. The flow
of Time, before it rushed away backwards, stopped somewhere between the
dust of stars and Desert. The mystery of sand touched every street with
its unutterable softness.

And Vance began without the smallest circumlocution. His voice was low,
in keeping with the scene, but the words dropped with a sharp
distinctness into the other's heart like grains of sand that pricked the
skin before they smothered him. Caution they smothered instantly;
resistance too.

"I have a message for you from my aunt," he said, as though he brought
an invitation to a picnic. Henriot sat in shadow, but his companion's
face was in a patch of light that followed them from the windows of the
central hall. There was a shining in the light blue eyes that betrayed
the excitement his quiet manner concealed. "We are going--the day after
to-morrow--to spend the night in the Desert; she wondered if, perhaps,
you would care to join us?"

"For your experiment?" asked Henriot bluntly.

Vance smiled with his lips, holding his eyes steady, though unable to
suppress the gleam that flashed in them and was gone so swiftly. There
was a hint of shrugging his shoulders.

"It is the Night of Power--in the old Egyptian Calendar, you know," he
answered with assumed lightness almost, "the final moment of
Leyel-el-Sud, the period of Black Nights when the Desert was held to
encroach with--with various possibilities of a supernatural order. She
wishes to revive a certain practice of the old Egyptians. There _may_ be
curious results. At any rate, the occasion is a picturesque one--better
than this cheap imitation of London life." And he indicated the lights,
the signs of people in the hall dressed for gaieties and dances, the
hotel orchestra that played after dinner.

Henriot at the moment answered nothing, so great was the rush of
conflicting emotions that came he knew not whence. Vance went calmly on.
He spoke with a simple frankness that was meant to be disarming. Henriot
never took his eyes off him. The two men stared steadily at one another.

"She wants to know if you will come and help too--in a certain way
only: not in the experiment itself precisely, but by watching merely
and--" He hesitated an instant, half lowering his eyes.

"Drawing the picture," Henriot helped him deliberately.

"Drawing what you see, yes," Vance replied, the voice turned graver in
spite of himself. "She wants--she hopes to catch the outlines of
anything that happens--"

"Comes."

"Exactly. Determine the shape of anything that comes. You may remember
your conversation of the other night with her. She is very certain of
success."

This was direct enough at any rate. It was as formal as an invitation to
a dinner, and as guileless. The thing he thought he wanted lay within
his reach. He had merely to say yes. He did say yes; but first he looked
about him instinctively, as for guidance. He looked at the stars
twinkling high above the distant Libyan Plateau; at the long arms of the
Desert, gleaming weirdly white in the moonlight, and reaching towards
him down every opening between the houses; at the heavy mass of the
Mokattam Hills, guarding the Arabian Wilderness with strange, peaked
barriers, their sand-carved ridges dark and still above the Wadi Hof.

These questionings attracted no response. The Desert watched him, but it
did not answer. There was only the shrill whistling cry of the lizards,
and the sing-song of a white-robed Arab gliding down the sandy street.
And through these sounds he heard his own voice answer: "I will
come--yes. But how can I help? Tell me what you propose--your plan?"

And the face of Vance, seen plainly in the electric glare, betrayed his
satisfaction. The opposing things in the fellow's mind of darkness
fought visibly in his eyes and skin. The sordid motive, planning a
dreadful act, leaped to his face, and with it a flash of this other
yearning that sought unearthly knowledge, perhaps believed it too. No
wonder there was conflict written on his features.

Then all expression vanished again; he leaned forward, lowering his
voice.

"You remember our conversation about there being types of life too vast
to manifest in a single body, and my aunt's belief that these were known
to certain of the older religious systems of the world?"

"Perfectly."

"Her experiment, then, is to bring one of these great Powers back--we
possess the sympathetic ritual that can rouse some among them to
activity--and win it down into the sphere of our minds, our minds
heightened, you see, by ceremonial to that stage of clairvoyant vision
which can perceive them."

"And then?" They might have been discussing the building of a house, so
naturally followed answer upon question. But the whole body of meaning
in the old Egyptian symbolism rushed over him with a force that shook
his heart. Memory came so marvellously with it.

"If the Power floods down into our minds with sufficient strength for
actual form, to note the outline of such form, and from your drawing
model it later in permanent substance. Then we should have means of
evoking it at will, for we should have its natural Body--the form it
built itself, its signature, image, pattern. A starting-point, you see,
for more--leading, she hopes, to a complete reconstruction."

"It might take actual shape--assume a bodily form visible to the eye?"
repeated Henriot, amazed as before that doubt and laughter did not break
through his mind.

"We are on the earth," was the reply, spoken unnecessarily low since no
living thing was within earshot, "we are in physical conditions, are we
not? Even a human soul we do not recognise unless we see it in a
body--parents provide the outline, the signature, the sigil of the
returning soul. This," and he tapped himself upon the breast, "is the
physical signature of that type of life we call a soul. Unless there is
life of a certain strength behind it, no body forms. And, without a
body, we are helpless to control or manage it--deal with it in any way.
We could not know it, though being possibly _aware_ of it."

"To be aware, you mean, is not sufficient?" For he noticed the italics
Vance made use of.

"Too vague, of no value for future use," was the reply. "But once obtain
the form, and we have the natural symbol of that particular Power. And a
symbol is more than image, it is a direct and concentrated expression of
the life it typifies--possibly terrific."

"It may be a body, then, this symbol you speak of."

"Accurate vehicle of manifestation; but 'body' seems the simplest word."

Vance answered very slowly and deliberately, as though weighing how much
he would tell. His language was admirably evasive. Few perhaps would
have detected the profound significance the curious words he next used
unquestionably concealed. Henriot's mind rejected them, but his heart
accepted. For the ancient soul in him was listening and aware.

"Life, using matter to express itself in bodily shape, first traces a
geometrical pattern. From the lowest form in crystals, upwards to more
complicated patterns in the higher organisations--there is always first
this geometrical pattern as skeleton. For geometry lies at the root of
all possible phenomena; and is the mind's interpretation of a living
movement towards shape that shall express it." He brought his eyes
closer to the other, lowering his voice again. "Hence," he said softly,
"the signs in all the old magical systems--skeleton forms into which the
Powers evoked descended; outlines those Powers automatically built up
when using matter to express themselves. Such signs are material symbols
of their bodiless existence. They attract the life they represent and
interpret. Obtain the correct, true symbol, and the Power corresponding
to it can approach--once roused and made aware. It has, you see, a
ready-made mould into which it can come down."

"Once roused and made aware?" repeated Henriot questioningly, while this
man went stammering the letters of a language that he himself had used
too long ago to recapture fully.

"Because they have left the world. They sleep, unmanifested. Their forms
are no longer known to men. No forms exist on earth to-day that could
contain them. But they may be awakened," he added darkly. "They are
bound to answer to the summons, if such summons be accurately made."

"Evocation?" whispered Henriot, more distressed than he cared to admit.

Vance nodded. Leaning still closer, to his companion's face, he thrust
his lips forward, speaking eagerly, earnestly, yet somehow at the same
time, horribly: "And we want--my aunt would ask--your draughtsman's
skill, or at any rate your memory afterwards, to establish the outline
of anything that comes."

He waited for the answer, still keeping his face uncomfortably close.

Henriot drew back a little. But his mind was fully made up now. He had
known from the beginning that he would consent, for the desire in him
was stronger than all the caution in the world. The Past inexorably drew
him into the circle of these other lives, and the little human dread
Vance woke in him seemed just then insignificant by comparison. It was
merely of To-day.

"You two," he said, trying to bring judgment into it, "engaged in
evocation, will be in a state of clairvoyant vision. Granted. But shall
I, as an outsider, observing with unexcited mind, see anything, know
anything, be aware of anything at all, let alone the drawing of it?"

"Unless," the reply came instantly with decision, "the descent of Power
is strong enough to take actual material shape, the experiment is a
failure. Anybody can induce subjective vision. Such fantasies have no
value though. They are born of an overwrought imagination." And then he
added quickly, as though to clinch the matter before caution and
hesitation could take effect: "You must watch from the heights above. We
shall be in the valley--the Wadi Hof is the place. You must not be too
close--"

"Why not too close?" asked Henriot, springing forward like a flash
before he could prevent the sudden impulse.

With a quickness equal to his own, Vance answered. There was no faintest
sign that he was surprised. His self-control was perfect. Only the glare
passed darkly through his eyes and went back again into the sombre soul
that bore it.

"For your own safety," he answered low. "The Power, the type of life,
she would waken is stupendous. And if roused enough to be attracted by
the patterned symbol into which she would decoy it down, it will take
actual, physical expression. But how? Where is the Body of Worshippers
through whom it can manifest? There is none. It will, therefore, press
inanimate matter into the service. The terrific impulse to form itself a
means of expression will force all loose matter at hand towards
it--sand, stones, all it can compel to yield--everything must rush into
the sphere of action in which it operates. Alone, we at the centre, and
you, upon the outer fringe, will be safe. Only--you must not come too
close."

But Henriot was no longer listening. His soul had turned to ice. For
here, in this unguarded moment, the cloven hoof had plainly shown
itself. In that suggestion of a particular kind of danger Vance had
lifted a corner of the curtain behind which crouched his horrible
intention. Vance desired a witness of the extraordinary experiment, but
he desired this witness, not merely for the purpose of sketching
possible shapes that might present themselves to excited vision. He
desired a witness for another reason too. Why had Vance put that idea
into his mind, this idea of so peculiar danger? It might well have lost
him the very assistance he seemed so anxious to obtain.

Henriot could not fathom it quite. Only one thing was clear to him. He,
Henriot, was not the only one in danger.

They talked for long after that--far into the night. The lights went
out, and the armed patrol, pacing to and fro outside the iron railings
that kept the desert back, eyed them curiously. But the only other thing
he gathered of importance was the ledge upon the cliff-top where he was
to stand and watch; that he was expected to reach there before sunset
and wait till the moon concealed all glimmer in the western sky,
and--that the woman, who had been engaged for days in secret preparation
of soul and body for the awful rite, would not be visible again until he
saw her in the depths of the black valley far below, busy with this man
upon audacious, ancient purposes.



IX


An hour before sunset Henriot put his rugs and food upon a donkey, and
gave the boy directions where to meet him--a considerable distance from
the appointed spot. He went himself on foot. He slipped in the heat
along the sandy street, where strings of camels still go slouching,
shuffling with their loads from the quarries that built the pyramids,
and he felt that little friendly Helouan tried to keep him back. But
desire now was far too strong for caution. The desert tide was rising.
It easily swept him down the long white street towards the enormous
deeps beyond. He felt the pull of a thousand miles before him; and twice
a thousand years drove at his back.

Everything still basked in the sunshine. He passed Al Hayat, the stately
hotel that dominates the village like a palace built against the sky;
and in its pillared colonnades and terraces he saw the throngs of people
having late afternoon tea and listening to the music of a regimental
band. Men in flannels were playing tennis, parties were climbing off
donkeys after long excursions; there was laughter, talking, a babel of
many voices. The gaiety called to him; the everyday spirit whispered to
stay and join the crowd of lively human beings. Soon there would be
merry dinner-parties, dancing, voices of pretty women, sweet white
dresses, singing, and the rest. Soft eyes would question and turn dark.
He picked out several girls he knew among the palms. But it was all
many, oh so many leagues away; centuries lay between him and this modern
world. An indescriable loneliness was in his heart. He went searching
through the sands of forgotten ages, and wandering among the ruins of a
vanished time. He hurried. Already the deeper water caught his breath.

He climbed the steep rise towards the plateau where the Observatory
stands, and saw two of the officials whom he knew taking a siesta after
their long day's work. He felt that his mind, too, had dived and
searched among the heavenly bodies that live in silent, changeless peace
remote from the world of men. They recognised him, these two whose eyes
also knew tremendous distance close. They beckoned, waving the straws
through which they sipped their drinks from tall glasses. Their voices
floated down to him as from the star-fields. He saw the sun gleam upon
the glasses, and heard the clink of the ice against the sides. The
stillness was amazing. He waved an answer, and passed quickly on. He
could not stop this sliding current of the years.

The tide moved faster, the draw of piled-up cycles urging it. He emerged
upon the plateau, and met the cooler Desert air. His feet went crunching
on the "desert-film" that spread its curious dark shiny carpet as far as
the eye could reach; it lay everywhere, unswept and smooth as when the
feet of vanished civilizations trod its burning surface, then dipped
behind the curtains Time pins against the stars. And here the body of
the tide set all one way. There was a greater strength of current,
draught and suction. He felt the powerful undertow. Deeper masses drew
his feet sideways, and he felt the rushing of the central body of the
sand. The sands were moving, from their foundation upwards. He went
unresistingly with them.

Turning a moment, he looked back at shining little Helouan in the blaze
of evening light. The voices reached him very faintly, merged now in a
general murmur. Beyond lay the strip of Delta vivid green, the palms,
the roofs of Bedrashein, the blue laughter of the Nile with its flocks
of curved felucca sails. Further still, rising above the yellow Libyan
horizon, gloomed the vast triangles of a dozen Pyramids, cutting their
wedge-shaped clefts out of a sky fast crimsoning through a sea of gold.
Seen thus, their dignity imposed upon the entire landscape. They towered
darkly, symbolic signatures of the ancient Powers that now watched him
taking these little steps across their damaged territory.

He gazed a minute, then went on. He saw the big pale face of the moon in
the east. Above the ever-silent Thing these giant symbols once
interpreted, she rose, grand, effortless, half-terrible as themselves.
And, with her, she lifted up this tide of the Desert that drew his feet
across the sand to Wadi Hof. A moment later he dipped below the ridge
that buried Helouan and Nile and Pyramids from sight. He entered the
ancient waters. Time then, in an instant, flowed back behind his
footsteps, obliterating every trace. And with it his mind went too. He
stepped across the gulf of centuries, moving into the Past. The Desert
lay before him--an open tomb wherein his soul should read presently of
things long vanished.

The strange half-lights of sunset began to play their witchery then upon
the landscape. A purple glow came down upon the Mokattam Hills.
Perspective danced its tricks of false, incredible deception. The
soaring kites that were a mile away seemed suddenly close, passing in a
moment from the size of gnats to birds with a fabulous stretch of wing.
Ridges and cliffs rushed close without a hint of warning, and level
places sank into declivities and basins that made him trip and stumble.
That indescribable quality of the Desert, which makes timid souls avoid
the hour of dusk, emerged; it spread everywhere, undisguised. And the
bewilderment it brings is no vain, imagined thing, for it distorts
vision utterly, and the effect upon the mind when familiar sight goes
floundering is the simplest way in the world of dragging the anchor that
grips reality. At the hour of sunset this bewilderment comes upon a man
with a disconcerting swiftness. It rose now with all this weird
rapidity. Henriot found himself enveloped at a moment's notice.

But, knowing well its effect, he tried to judge it and pass on. The
other matters, the object of his journey chief of all, he refused to
dwell upon with any imagination. Wisely, his mind, while never losing
sight of it, declined to admit the exaggeration that over-elaborate
thinking brings. "I'm going to witness an incredible experiment in which
two enthusiastic religious dreamers believe firmly," he repeated to
himself. "I have agreed to draw--anything I see. There may be truth in
it, or they may be merely self-suggested vision due to an artificial
exaltation of their minds. I'm interested--perhaps against my better
judgment. Yet I'll see the adventure out--because I _must_."

This was the attitude he told himself to take. Whether it was the real
one, or merely adopted to warm a cooling courage, he could not tell. The
emotions were so complex and warring. His mind, automatically, kept
repeating this comforting formula. Deeper than that he could not see to
judge. For a man who knew the full content of his thought at such a time
would solve some of the oldest psychological problems in the world. Sand
had already buried judgment, and with it all attempt to explain the
adventure by the standards acceptable to his brain of to-day. He steered
subconsciously through a world of dim, huge, half-remembered wonders.

The sun, with that abrupt Egyptian suddenness, was below the horizon
now. The pyramid field had swallowed it. Ra, in his golden boat, sailed
distant seas beyond the Libyan wilderness. Henriot walked on and on,
aware of utter loneliness. He was walking fields of dream, too remote
from modern life to recall companionship he once had surely known. How
dim it was, how deep and distant, how lost in this sea of an
incalculable Past! He walked into the places that are soundless. The
soundlessness of ocean, miles below the surface, was about him. He was
with One only--this unfathomable, silent thing where nothing breathes or
stirs--nothing but sunshine, shadow and the wind-borne sand. Slowly, in
front, the moon climbed up the eastern sky, hanging above the
silence--silence that ran unbroken across the horizons to where Suez
gleamed upon the waters of a sister sea in motion. That moon was
glinting now upon the Arabian Mountains by its desolate shores.
Southwards stretched the wastes of Upper Egypt a thousand miles to meet
the Nubian wilderness. But over all these separate Deserts stirred the
soft whisper of the moving sand--deep murmuring message that Life was on
the way to unwind Death. The Ka of Egypt, swathed in centuries of sand,
hovered beneath the moon towards her ancient tenement.

For the transformation of the Desert now began in earnest. It grew
apace. Before he had gone the first two miles of his hour's journey, the
twilight caught the rocky hills and twisted them into those monstrous
revelations of physiognomies they barely take the trouble to conceal
even in the daytime. And, while he well understood the eroding agencies
that have produced them, there yet rose in his mind a deeper
interpretation lurking just behind their literal meanings. Here, through
the motionless surfaces, that nameless thing the Desert ill conceals
urged outwards into embryonic form and shape, akin, he almost felt, to
those immense deific symbols of Other Life the Egyptians knew and
worshipped. Hence, from the Desert, had first come, he felt, the
unearthly life they typified in their monstrous figures of granite,
evoked in their stately temples, and communed with in the ritual of
their Mystery ceremonials.

This "watching" aspect of the Libyan Desert is really natural enough;
but it is just the natural, Henriot knew, that brings the deepest
revelations. The surface limestones, resisting the erosion, block
themselves ominously against the sky, while the softer sand beneath sets
them on altared pedestals that define their isolation splendidly. Blunt
and unconquerable, these masses now watched him pass between them. The
Desert surface formed them, gave them birth. They rose, they saw, they
sank down again--waves upon a sea that carried forgotten life up from
the depths below. Of forbidding, even menacing type, they somewhere
mated with genuine grandeur. Unformed, according to any standard of
human or of animal faces, they achieved an air of giant physiognomy
which made them terrible. The unwinking stare of eyes--lidless eyes that
yet ever succeed in hiding--looked out under well-marked, level
eyebrows, suggesting a vision that included the motives and purposes of
his very heart. They looked up grandly, understood why he was there, and
then--slowly withdrew their mysterious, penetrating gaze.

The strata built them so marvellously up; the heavy, threatening brows;
thick lips, curved by the ages into a semblance of cold smiles; jowls
drooping into sandy heaps that climbed against the cheeks; protruding
jaws, and the suggestion of shoulders just about to lift the entire
bodies out of the sandy beds--this host of countenances conveyed a
solemnity of expression that seemed everlasting, implacable as Death. Of
human signature they bore no trace, nor was comparison possible between
their kind and any animal life. They peopled the Desert here. And their
smiles, concealed yet just discernible, went broadening with the
darkness into a Desert laughter. The silence bore it underground. But
Henriot was aware of it. The troop of faces slipped into that single,
enormous countenance which is the visage of the Sand. And he saw it
everywhere, yet nowhere.

Thus with the darkness grew his imaginative interpretation of the
Desert. Yet there was construction in it, a construction, moreover, that
was _not_ entirely his own. Powers, he felt, were rising, stirring,
wakening from sleep. Behind the natural faces that he saw, these other
things peered gravely at him as he passed. They used, as it were,
materials that lay ready to their hand. Imagination furnished these
hints of outline, yet the Powers themselves were real. There _was_ this
amazing movement of the sand. By no other manner could his mind have
conceived of such a thing, nor dreamed of this simple, yet dreadful
method of approach.

Approach! that was the word that first stood out and startled him. There
was approach; something was drawing nearer. The Desert rose and walked
beside him. For not alone these ribs of gleaming limestone contributed
towards the elemental visages, but the entire hills, of which they were
an outcrop, ran to assist in the formation, and were a necessary part of
them. He was watched and stared at from behind, in front, on either
side, and even from below. The sand that swept him on, kept even pace
with him. It turned luminous too, with a patchwork of glimmering effect
that was indescribably weird; lanterns glowed within its substance, and
by their light he stumbled on, glad of the Arab boy he would presently
meet at the appointed place.

The last torch of the sunset had flickered out, melting into the
wilderness, when, suddenly opening at his feet, gaped the deep, wide
gully known as Wadi Hof. Its curve swept past him.

This first impression came upon him with a certain violence: that the
desolate valley rushed. He saw but a section of its curve and sweep, but
through its entire length of several miles the Wadi fled away. The moon
whitened it like snow, piling black shadows very close against the
cliffs. In the flood of moonlight it went rushing past. It was emptying
itself.

For a moment the stream of movement seemed to pause and look up into his
face, then instantly went on again upon its swift career. It was like
the procession of a river to the sea. The valley emptied itself to make
way for what was coming. The approach, moreover, had already begun.

Conscious that he was trembling, he stood and gazed into the depths,
seeking to steady his mind by the repetition of the little formula he
had used before. He said it half aloud. But, while he did so, his heart
whispered quite other things. Thoughts the woman and the man had sown
rose up in a flock and fell upon him like a storm of sand. Their impetus
drove off all support of ordinary ideas. They shook him where he stood,
staring down into this river of strange invisible movement that was
hundreds of feet in depth and a quarter of a mile across.

He sought to realise himself as he actually was to-day--mere visitor to
Helouan, tempted into this wild adventure with two strangers. But in
vain. That seemed a dream, unreal, a transient detail picked out from
the enormous Past that now engulfed him, heart and mind and soul. _This_
was the reality.

The shapes and faces that the hills of sand built round him were the
play of excited fancy only. By sheer force he pinned his thought against
this fact: but further he could not get. There _were_ Powers at work;
they were being stirred, wakened somewhere into activity. Evocation had
already begun. That sense of their approach as he had walked along from
Helouan was not imaginary. A descent of some type of life, vanished from
the world too long for recollection, was on the way,--so vast that it
would manifest itself in a group of forms, a troop, a host, an army.
These two were near him somewhere at this very moment, already long at
work, their minds driving beyond this little world. The valley was
emptying itself--for the descent of life their ritual invited.

And the movement in the sand was likewise true. He recalled the
sentences the woman had used. "My body," he reflected, "like the bodies
life makes use of everywhere, is mere upright heap of earth and dust
and--sand. Here in the Desert is the raw material, the greatest store of
it in the world."

And on the heels of it came sharply that other thing: that this
descending Life would press into its service all loose matter within its
reach--to form that sphere of action which would be in a literal sense
its Body.

In the first few seconds, as he stood there, he realised all this, and
realised it with an overwhelming conviction it was futile to deny. The
fast-emptying valley would later brim with an unaccustomed and terrific
life. Yet Death hid there too--a little, ugly, insignificant death. With
the name of Vance it flashed upon his mind and vanished, too tiny to be
thought about in this torrent of grander messages that shook the depths
within his soul. He bowed his head a moment, hardly knowing what he did.
He could have waited thus a thousand years it seemed. He was conscious
of a wild desire to run away, to hide, to efface himself utterly, his
terror, his curiosity, his little wonder, and not be seen of anything.
But it was all vain and foolish. The Desert saw him. The Gigantic knew
that he was there. No escape was possible any longer. Caught by the
sand, he stood amid eternal things. The river of movement swept him too.

These hills, now motionless as statues, would presently glide forward
into the cavalcade, sway like vessels, and go past with the procession.
At present only the contents, not the frame, of the Wadi moved. An
immense soft brush of moonlight swept it empty for what was on the
way.... But presently the entire Desert would stand up and also go.

Then, making a sideways movement, his feet kicked against something soft
and yielding that lay heaped upon the Desert floor, and Henriot
discovered the rugs the Arab boy had carefully set down before he made
full speed for the friendly lights of Helouan. The sound of his
departing footsteps had long since died away. He was alone.

The detail restored to him his consciousness of the immediate present,
and, stooping, he gathered up the rugs and overcoat and began to make
preparations for the night. But the appointed spot, whence he was to
watch, lay upon the summit of the opposite cliffs. He must cross the
Wadi bed and climb. Slowly and with labour he made his way down a steep
cleft into the depth of the Wadi Hof, sliding and stumbling often, till
at length he stood upon the floor of shining moonlight. It was very
smooth; windless utterly; still as space; each particle of sand lay in
its ancient place asleep. The movement, it seemed, had ceased.

He clambered next up the eastern side, through pitch-black shadows, and
within the hour reached the ledge upon the top whence he could see below
him, like a silvered map, the sweep of the valley bed. The wind nipped
keenly here again, coming over the leagues of cooling sand. Loose
boulders of splintered rock, started by his climbing, crashed and boomed
into the depths. He banked the rugs behind him, wrapped himself in his
overcoat, and lay down to wait. Behind him was a two-foot crumbling wall
against which he leaned; in front a drop of several hundred feet through
space. He lay upon a platform, therefore, invisible from the Desert at
his back. Below, the curving Wadi formed a natural amphitheatre in which
each separate boulder fallen from the cliffs, and even the little
_silla_ shrubs the camels eat, were plainly visible. He noted all the
bigger ones among them. He counted them over half aloud.

And the moving stream he had been unaware of when crossing the bed
itself, now began again. The Wadi went rushing past before the broom of
moonlight. Again, the enormous and the tiny combined in one single
strange impression. For, through this conception of great movement,
stirred also a roving, delicate touch that his imagination felt as
bird-like. Behind the solid mass of the Desert's immobility flashed
something swift and light and airy. Bizarre pictures interpreted it to
him, like rapid snap-shots of a huge flying panorama: he thought of
darting dragon-flies seen at Helouan, of children's little dancing feet,
of twinkling butterflies--of birds. Chiefly, yes, of a flock of birds in
flight, whose separate units formed a single entity. The idea of the
Group-Soul possessed his mind once more. But it came with a sense of
more than curiosity or wonder. Veneration lay behind it, a veneration
touched with awe. It rose in his deepest thought that here was the first
hint of a symbolical representation. A symbol, sacred and inviolable,
belonging to some ancient worship that he half remembered in his soul,
stirred towards interpretation through all his being.

He lay there waiting, wondering vaguely where his two companions were,
yet fear all vanished because he felt attuned to a scale of things too
big to mate with definite dread. There was high anticipation in him, but
not anxiety. Of himself, as Felix Henriot, indeed, he hardly seemed
aware. He was some one else. Or, rather, he was himself at a stage he
had known once far, far away in a remote pre-existence. He watched
himself from dim summits of a Past, of which no further details were as
yet recoverable.

Pencil and sketching-block lay ready to his hand. The moon rose higher,
tucking the shadows ever more closely against the precipices. The silver
passed into a sheet of snowy whiteness, that made every boulder clearly
visible. Solemnity deepened everywhere into awe. The Wadi fled silently
down the stream of hours. It was almost empty now. And then, abruptly,
he was aware of change. The motion altered somewhere. It moved more
quietly; pace slackened; the end of the procession that evacuated the
depth and length of it went trailing past and turned the distant bend.

"It's slowing up," he whispered, as sure of it as though he had watched
a regiment of soldiers filing by. The wind took off his voice like a
flying feather of sound.

And there _was_ a change. It had begun. Night and the moon stood still
to watch and listen. The wind dropped utterly away. The sand ceased its
shifting movement. The Desert everywhere stopped still, and turned.

Some curtain, then, that for centuries had veiled the world, drew
softly up, leaving a shaded vista down which the eyes of his soul peered
towards long-forgotten pictures. Still buried by the sands too deep for
full recovery, he yet perceived dim portions of them--things once
honoured and loved passionately. For once they had surely been to him
the whole of life, not merely a fragment for cheap wonder to inspect.
And they were curiously familiar, even as the person of this woman who
now evoked them was familiar. Henriot made no pretence to more definite
remembrance; but the haunting certainty rushed over him, deeper than
doubt or denial, and with such force that he felt no effort to destroy
it. Some lost sweetness of spiritual ambitions, lived for with this
passionate devotion, and passionately worshipped as men to-day worship
fame and money, revived in him with a tempest of high glory. Centres of
memory stirred from an age-long sleep, so that he could have wept at
their so complete obliteration hitherto. That such majesty had departed
from the world as though it never had existed, was a thought for
desolation and for tears. And though the little fragment he was about to
witness might be crude in itself and incomplete, yet it was part of a
vast system that once explored the richest realms of deity. The
reverence in him contained a holiness of the night and of the stars;
great, gentle awe lay in it too; for he stood, aflame with anticipation
and humility, at the gateway of sacred things.

And this was the mood, no thrill of cheap excitement or alarm to weaken
in, in which he first became aware that two spots of darkness he had
taken all along for boulders on the snowy valley bed, were actually
something very different. They were living figures. They moved. It was
not the shadows slowly following the moonlight, but the stir of human
beings who all these hours had been motionless as stone. He must have
passed them unnoticed within a dozen yards when he crossed the Wadi bed,
and a hundred times from this very ledge his eyes had surely rested on
them without recognition. Their minds, he knew full well, had not been
inactive as their bodies. The important part of the ancient ritual lay,
he remembered, in the powers of the evoking mind.

Here, indeed, was no effective nor theatrical approach of the principal
figures. It had nothing in common with the cheap external ceremonial of
modern days. In forgotten powers of the soul its grandeur lay, potent,
splendid, true. Long before he came, perhaps all through the day, these
two had laboured with their arduous preparations. They were there, part
of the Desert, when hours ago he had crossed the plateau in the
twilight. To them--to this woman's potent working of old ceremonial--had
been due that singular rush of imagination he had felt. He had
interpreted the Desert as alive. Here was the explanation. It _was_
alive. Life was on the way. Long latent, her intense desire summoned it
back to physical expression; and the effect upon him had steadily
increased as he drew nearer to the centre where she would focus its
revival and return. Those singular impressions of being watched and
accompanied were explained. A priest of this old-world worship performed
a genuine evocation; a Great One of Vision revived the cosmic Powers.

Henriot watched the small figures far below him with a sense of dramatic
splendour that only this association of far-off Memory could account
for. It was their rising now, and the lifting of their arms to form a
slow revolving outline, that marked the abrupt cessation of the larger
river of movement; for the sweeping of the Wadi sank into sudden
stillness, and these two, with motions not unlike some dance of
deliberate solemnity, passed slowly through the moonlight to and fro.
His attention fixed upon them both. All other movement ceased. They
fastened the flow of Time against the Desert's body.

What happened then? How could his mind interpret an experience so long
denied that the power of expression, as of comprehension, has ceased to
exist? How translate this symbolical representation, small detail though
it was, of a transcendent worship entombed for most so utterly beyond
recovery? Its splendour could never lodge in minds that conceive Deity
perched upon a cloud within telephoning distance of fashionable
churches. How should he phrase it even to himself, whose memory drew up
pictures from so dim a past that the language fit to frame them lay
unreachable and lost?

Henriot did not know. Perhaps he never yet has known. Certainly, at the
time, he did not even try to think. His sensations remain his
own--untranslatable; and even that instinctive description the mind
gropes for automatically, floundered, halted, and stopped dead. Yet
there rose within him somewhere, from depths long drowned in slumber, a
reviving power by which he saw, divined and recollected--remembered
seemed too literal a word--these elements of a worship he once had
personally known. He, too, had worshipped thus. His soul had moved amid
similar evocations in some aeonian past, whence now the sand was being
cleared away. Symbols of stupendous meaning flashed and went their way
across the lifting mists. He hardly caught their meaning, so long it was
since, he had known them; yet they were familiar as the faces seen in
dreams, and some hint of their spiritual significance left faint traces
in his heart by means of which their grandeur reached towards
interpretation. And all were symbols of a cosmic, deific nature; of
Powers that only symbols can express--prayer-books and sacraments used
in the Wisdom Religion of an older time, but to-day known only in the
decrepit, literal shell which is their degradation.

Grandly the figures moved across the valley bed. The powers of the
heavenly bodies once more joined them. They moved to the measure of a
cosmic dance, whose rhythm was creative. The Universe partnered them.

There was this transfiguration of all common, external things. He
realised that appearances were visible letters of a soundless language,
a language he once had known. The powers of night and moon and desert
sand married with points in the fluid stream of his inmost spiritual
being that knew and welcomed them. He understood.

Old Egypt herself stooped down from her uncovered throne. The stars sent
messengers. There was commotion in the secret, sandy places of the
desert. For the Desert had grown Temple. Columns reared against the sky.
There rose, from leagues away, the chanting of the sand.

The temples, where once this came to pass, were gone, their ruin
questioned by alien hearts that knew not their spiritual meaning. But
here the entire Desert swept in to form a shrine, and the Majesty that
once was Egypt stepped grandly back across ages of denial and neglect.
The sand was altar, and the stars were altar lights. The moon lit up the
vast recesses of the ceiling, and the wind from a thousand miles brought
in the perfume of her incense. For with that faith which shifts
mountains from their sandy bed, two passionate, believing souls invoked
the Ka of Egypt.

And the motions that they made, he saw, were definite harmonious
patterns their dark figures traced upon the shining valley floor. Like
the points of compasses, with stems invisible, and directed from the
sky, their movements marked the outlines of great signatures of
power--the sigils of the type of life they would evoke. It would come as
a Procession. No individual outline could contain it. It needed for its
visible expression--many. The descent of a group-soul, known to the
worship of this mighty system, rose from its lair of centuries and moved
hugely down upon them. The Ka, answering to the summons, would mate with
sand. The Desert was its Body.

Yet it was not this that he had come to fix with block and pencil. Not
yet was the moment when his skill might be of use. He waited, watched,
and listened, while this river of half-remembered things went past him.
The patterns grew beneath his eyes like music. Too intricate and
prolonged to remember with accuracy later, he understood that they were
forms of that root-geometry which lies behind all manifested life. The
mould was being traced in outline. Life would presently inform it. And a
singing rose from the maze of lines whose beauty was like the beauty of
the constellations.

This sound was very faint at first, but grew steadily in volume.
Although no echoes, properly speaking, were possible, these precipices
caught stray notes that trooped in from the further sandy reaches. The
figures certainly were chanting, but their chanting was not all he
heard. Other sounds came to his ears from far away, running past him
through the air from every side, and from incredible distances, all
flocking down into the Wadi bed to join the parent note that summoned
them. The Desert was giving voice. And memory, lifting her hood yet
higher, showed more of her grey, mysterious face that searched his soul
with questions. Had he so soon forgotten that strange union of form and
sound which once was known to the evocative rituals of olden days?

Henriot tried patiently to disentangle this desert-music that their
intoning voices woke, from the humming of the blood in his own veins.
But he succeeded only in part. Sand was already in the air. There was
reverberation, rhythm, measure; there was almost the breaking of the
stream into great syllables. But was it due, this strange reverberation,
to the countless particles of sand meeting in mid-air about him, or--to
larger bodies, whose surfaces caught this friction of the sand and threw
it back against his ears? The wind, now rising, brought particles that
stung his face and hands, and filled his eyes with a minute fine dust
that partially veiled the moonlight. But was not something larger,
vaster these particles composed now also on the way?

Movement and sound and flying sand thus merged themselves more and more
in a single, whirling torrent. But Henriot sought no commonplace
explanation of what he witnessed; and here was the proof that all
happened in some vestibule of inner experience where the strain of
question and answer had no business. One sitting beside him need not
have seen anything at all. His host, for instance, from Helouan, need
not have been aware. Night screened it; Helouan, as the whole of modern
experience, stood in front of the screen. This thing took place behind
it. He crouched motionless, watching in some reconstructed ante-chamber
of the soul's pre-existence, while the torrent grew into a veritable
tempest.

Yet Night remained unshaken; the veil of moonlight did not quiver; the
stars dropped their slender golden pillars unobstructed. Calmness
reigned everywhere as before. The stupendous representation passed on
behind it all.

But the dignity of the little human movements that he watched had become
now indescribable. The gestures of the arms and bodies invested
themselves with consummate grandeur, as these two strode into the
caverns behind manifested life and drew forth symbols that represented
vanished Powers. The sound of their chanting voices broke in cadenced
fragments against the shores of language. The words Henriot never
actually caught, if words they were; yet he understood their
purport--these Names of Power to which the type of returning life gave
answer as they approached. He remembered fumbling for his drawing
materials, with such violence, however, that the pencil snapped in two
between his fingers as he touched it. For now, even here, upon the outer
fringe of the ceremonial ground, there was a stir of forces that set the
very muscles working in him before he had become aware of it....

Then came the moment when his heart leaped against his ribs with a
sudden violence that was almost pain, standing a second later still as
death. The lines upon the valley floor ceased their maze-like dance. All
movement stopped. Sound died away. In the midst of this profound and
dreadful silence the sigils lay empty there below him. They waited to be
in-formed. For the moment of entrance had come at last. Life was close.

And he understood why this return of life had all along suggested a
Procession and could be no mere momentary flash of vision. From such
appalling distance did it sweep down towards the present.

Upon this network, then, of splendid lines, at length held rigid, the
entire Desert reared itself with walls of curtained sand, that dwarfed
the cliffs, the shouldering hills, the very sky. The Desert stood on
end. As once before he had dreamed it from his balcony windows, it rose
upright, towering, and close against his face. It built sudden ramparts
to the stars that chambered the thing he witnessed behind walls no
centuries could ever bring down crumbling into dust.

He himself, in some curious fashion, lay just outside, viewing it apart.
As from a pinnacle, he peered within--peered down with straining eyes
into the vast picture-gallery Memory threw abruptly open. And the
picture spaced its noble outline thus against the very stars. He gazed
between columns, that supported the sky itself, like pillars of sand
that swept across the field of vanished years. Sand poured and streamed
aside, laying bare the Past.

For down the enormous vista into which he gazed, as into an avenue
running a million miles towards a tiny point, he saw this moving Thing
that came towards him, shaking loose the countless veils of sand the
ages had swathed about it. The Ka of buried Egypt wakened out of sleep.
She had heard the potent summons of her old, time-honoured ritual. She
came. She stretched forth an arm towards the worshippers who evoked her.
Out of the Desert, out of the leagues of sand, out of the immeasurable
wilderness which was her mummied Form and Body, she rose and came. And
this fragment of her he would actually see--this little portion that was
obedient to the stammered and broken ceremonial. The partial revelation
he would witness--yet so vast, even this little bit of it, that it came
as a Procession and a host.

For a moment there was nothing. And then the voice of the woman rose in
a resounding cry that filled the Wadi to its furthest precipices, before
it died away again to silence. That a human voice could produce such
volume, accent, depth, seemed half incredible. The walls of towering
sand swallowed it instantly. But the Procession of life, needing a
group, a host, an army for its physical expression, reached at that
moment the nearer end of the huge avenue. It touched the Present; it
entered the world of men.



X


The entire range of Henriot's experience, read, imagined, dreamed, then
fainted into unreality before the sheer wonder of what he saw. In the
brief interval it takes to snap the fingers the climax was thus so
hurriedly upon him. And, through it all, he was clearly aware of the
pair of little human figures, man and woman, standing erect and
commanding at the centre--knew, too, that she directed and controlled,
while he in some secondary fashion supported her--and ever watched. But
both were dim, dropped somewhere into a lesser scale. It was the
knowledge of their presence, however, that alone enabled him to keep his
powers in hand at all. But for these two _human_ beings there within
possible reach, he must have closed his eyes and swooned.

For a tempest that seemed to toss loose stars about the sky swept round
about him, pouring up the pillared avenue in front of the procession. A
blast of giant energy, of liberty, came through. Forwards and backwards,
circling spirally about him like a whirlwind, came this revival of Life
that sought to dip itself once more in matter and in form. It came to
the accurate out-line of its form they had traced for it. He held his
mind steady enough to realise that it was akin to what men call a
"descent" of some "spiritual movement" that wakens a body of believers
into faith--a race, an entire nation; only that he experienced it in
this brief, concentrated form before it has scattered down into ten
thousand hearts. Here he knew its source and essence, behind the veil.
Crudely, unmanageable as yet, he felt it, rushing loose behind
appearances. There was this amazing impact of a twisting, swinging force
that stormed down as though it would bend and coil the very ribs of the
old stubborn hills. It sought to warm them with the stress of its own
irresistible life-stream, to beat them into shape, and make pliable
their obstinate resistance. Through all things the impulse poured and
spread, like fire at white heat.

Yet nothing visible came as yet, no alteration in the actual landscape,
no sign of change in things familiar to his eyes, while impetus thus
fought against inertia. He perceived nothing form-al. Calm and untouched
himself, he lay outside the circle of evocation, watching, waiting,
scarcely daring to breathe, yet well aware that any minute the scene
would transfer itself from memory that was subjective to matter that was
objective.

And then, in a flash, the bridge was built, and the transfer was
accomplished. How or where he did not see, he could not tell. It was
there before he knew it--there before his normal, earthly sight. He saw
it, as he saw the hands he was holding stupidly up to shield his face.
For this terrific release of force long held back, long stored up,
latent for centuries, came pouring down the empty Wadi bed prepared for
its reception. Through stones and sand and boulders it came in an
impetuous hurricane of power. The liberation of its life appalled him.
All that was free, untied, responded instantly like chaff; loose objects
fled towards it; there was a yielding in the hills and precipices; and
even in the mass of Desert which provided their foundation. The hinges
of the Sand went creaking in the night. It shaped for itself a bodily
outline.

Yet, most strangely, nothing definitely moved. How could he express the
violent contradiction? For the immobility was apparent only--a sham, a
counterfeit; while behind it the essential _being_ of these things did
rush and shift and alter. He saw the two things side by side: the outer
immobility the senses commonly agree upon, _and_ this amazing flying-out
of their inner, invisible substance towards the vortex of attracting
life that sucked them in. For stubborn matter turned docile before the
stress of this returning life, taught somewhere to be plastic. It was
being moulded into an approach to bodily outline. A mobile elasticity
invaded rigid substance. The two officiating human beings, safe at the
stationary centre, and himself, just outside the circle of operation,
alone remained untouched and unaffected. But a few feet in any
direction, for any one of them, meant--instantaneous death. They would
be absorbed into the vortex, mere corpuscles pressed into the service of
this sphere of action of a mighty Body....

How these perceptions reached him with such conviction, Henriot could
never say. He knew it, because he _felt_ it. Something fell about him
from the sky that already paled towards the dawn. The stars themselves,
it seemed, contributed some part of the terrific, flowing impulse that
conquered matter and shaped itself this physical expression.

Then, before he was able to fashion any preconceived idea of what
visible form this potent life might assume, he was aware of further
change. It came at the briefest possible interval after the
beginning--this certainty that, to and fro about him, as yet however
indeterminate, passed Magnitudes that were stupendous as the desert.
There was beauty in them too, though a terrible beauty hardly of this
earth at all. A fragment of old Egypt had returned--a little portion of
that vast Body of Belief that once was Egypt. Evoked by the worship of
one human heart, passionately sincere, the Ka of Egypt stepped back to
visit the material it once informed--the Sand.

Yet only a portion came. Henriot clearly realised that. It stretched
forth an arm. Finding no mass of worshippers through whom it might
express itself completely, it pressed inanimate matter thus into its
service.

Here was the beginning the woman had spoken of--little opening clue.
Entire reconstruction lay perhaps beyond.

And Henriot next realised that these Magnitudes in which this
group-energy sought to clothe itself as visible form, were curiously
familiar. It was not a new thing that he would see. Booming softly as
they dropped downwards through the sky, with a motion the size of them
rendered delusive, they trooped up the Avenue towards the central point
that summoned them. He realised the giant flock of them--descent of
fearful beauty--outlining a type of life denied to the world for ages,
countless as this sand that blew against his skin. Careering over the
waste of Desert moved the army of dark Splendours, that dwarfed any
organic structure called a body men have ever known. He recognised them,
cold in him of death, though the outlines reared higher than the
pyramids, and towered up to hide whole groups of stars. Yes, he
recognised them in their partial revelation, though he never saw the
monstrous host complete. But, one of them, he realised, posing its
eternal riddle to the sands, had of old been glimpsed sufficiently to
seize its form in stone,--yet poorly seized, as a doll may stand for the
dignity of a human being or a child's toy represent an engine that draws
trains....

And he knelt there on his narrow ledge, the world of men forgotten. The
power that caught him was too great a thing for wonder or for fear; he
even felt no awe. Sensation of any kind that can be named or realised
left him utterly. He forgot himself. He merely watched. The glory numbed
him. Block and pencil, as the reason of his presence there at all, no
longer existed....

Yet one small link remained that held him to some kind of consciousness
of earthly things: he never lost sight of this--that, being just outside
the circle of evocation, he was safe, and that the man and woman, being
stationary in its untouched centre, were also safe. But--that a movement
of six inches in any direction meant for any one of them instant death.

What was it, then, that suddenly strengthened this solitary link so that
the chain tautened and he felt the pull of it? Henriot could not say. He
came back with the rush of a descending drop to the realisation--dimly,
vaguely, as from great distance--that he was with these two, now at this
moment, in the Wadi Hof, and that the cold of dawn was in the air about
him. The chill breath of the Desert made him shiver.

But at first, so deeply had his soul been dipped in this fragment of
ancient worship, he could remember nothing more. Somewhere lay a little
spot of streets and houses; its name escaped him. He had once been
there; there were many people, but insignificant people. Who were they?
And what had he to do with them? All recent memories had been drowned in
the tide that flooded him from an immeasurable Past.

And who were they--these two beings, standing on the white floor of sand
below him? For a long time he could not recover their names. Yet he
remembered them; and, thus robbed of association that names bring, he
saw them for an instant naked, and knew that one of them was evil. One
of them was vile. Blackness touched the picture there. The man, his name
still out of reach, was sinister, impure and dark at the heart. And for
this reason the evocation had been partial only. The admixture of an
evil motive was the flaw that marred complete success.

The names then flashed upon him--Lady Statham--Richard
Vance.

Vance! With a horrid drop from splendour into something mean
and sordid, Henriot felt the pain of it. The motive of the man was
so insignificant, his purpose so atrocious. More and more, with the
name, came back--his first repugnance, fear, suspicion. And human
terror caught him. He shrieked. But, as in nightmare, no sound escaped
his lips. He tried to move; a wild desire to interfere, to protect,
to prevent, flung him forward--close to the dizzy edge of the
gulf below. But his muscles refused obedience to the will. The
paralysis of common fear rooted him to the rocks.

But the sudden change of focus instantly destroyed the picture;
and so vehement was the fall from glory into meanness, that it dislocated
the machinery of clairvoyant vision. The inner perception
clouded and grew dark. Outer and inner mingled in violent, inextricable
confusion. The wrench seemed almost physical. It happened
all at once, retreat and continuation for a moment somehow combined.
And, if he did not definitely see the awful thing, at least he
was aware that it had come to pass. He knew it as positively as
though his eye were glued against a magnifying lens in the stillness
of some laboratory. He witnessed it.

The supreme moment of evocation was close. Life, through that
awful sandy vortex, whirled and raged. Loose particles showered
and pelted, caught by the draught of vehement life that moulded the
substance of the Desert into imperial outline--when, suddenly, shot
the little evil thing across that marred and blasted it.

Into the whirlpool flew forward a particle of material that was a
human being. And the Group-Soul caught and used it.

The actual accomplishment Henriot did not claim to see. He was
a witness, but a witness who could give no evidence. Whether the
woman was pushed of set intention, or whether some detail of
sound and pattern was falsely used to effect the terrible result, he
was helpless to determine. He pretends no itemised account. She
went. In one second, with appalling swiftness, she disappeared,
swallowed out of space and time within that awful maw--one little
corpuscle among a million through which the Life, now stalking the
Desert wastes, moulded itself a troop-like Body. Sand took her.

There followed emptiness--a hush of unutterable silence, stillness,
peace. Movement and sound instantly retired whence they
came. The avenues of Memory closed; the Splendours all went
down into their sandy tombs....

       *       *       *       *       *

The moon had sunk into the Libyan wilderness; the eastern sky was
red. The dawn drew out that wondrous sweetness of the Desert,
which is as sister to the sweetness that the moonlight brings. The
Desert settled back to sleep, huge, unfathomable, charged to the
brim with life that watches, waits, and yet conceals itself behind
the ruins of apparent desolation. And the Wadi, empty at his feet,
filled slowly with the gentle little winds that bring the sunrise.

Then, across the pale glimmering of sand, Henriot saw a figure
moving. It came quickly towards him, yet unsteadily, and with a
hurry that was ugly. Vance was on the way to fetch him. And the
horror of the man's approach struck him like a hammer in the face.
He closed his eyes, sinking back to hide.

But, before he swooned, there reached him the clatter of the
murderer's tread as he began to climb over the splintered rocks, and
the faint echo of his voice, calling him by name--falsely and in
pretence--for help.


THE END


[Transcriber's Note: In chapter IX of the story Sand, the
word "indescriable" was corrected to "indescribable."]





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