ACROSS THE ZODIAC by Percy Greg
 
Chapter XXVI—Twilight.
 
I was, perhaps, the only member of the assembly to whom the doomed man was not personally known, and to all of us the tie which had been severed was one at least as close as that of natural brotherhood on Earth.
 
How long the pause lasted—how, or why, or when we resumed our seats, even I knew not. The Shrine was unveiled, and Esmo’s next colleague spoke again—
 
“A seat among the elders has been three days vacant by the departure of one well known and dear to all. His colleagues have considered how best it may be filled. The member they have selected is of the youngest in experience here; but from the first moment of his initiation it was evident to us that more than half the learning of the Starlight had been his before. Nothing could so deeply confirm our joy and confidence in that lore, as to find that in another world the truths we hold dearest are held with equal faith, that many of our deepest secrets have there been sought and discovered by societies not unlike our own. For that reason, and because of that House, whereof now but two members are left us, he is by wedlock and adoption the third, the elder brethren have unanimously resolved to recommend to Clavelta, and to the Children of the Star, that this seat,” and he pointed to the vacant place, “shall be filled by him who has but now expressed, with a warmth seldom shown in this place, his love and trust for the daughter of our Chief, the descendant of our Founder.”
 
Certainly not on my own account, but from the earnest attachment and devotion they felt for Esmo, both personally as a long-tried and deservedly revered Chief, and as almost the last representative of a lineage so profoundly loved and honoured, the approval of all present was expressed with a sudden and eager warmth which deeply affected me; the more that it expressed an hereditary regard and esteem, not for myself but for Eveena, rarely or never, even among the Zveltau, paid to a woman. Esmo bent his head in assent, and then, addressing me by name, called me to the foot of the platform.
 
He held in his hand the golden sash and rose-coloured wand which marked the rank about to be bestowed on me. I felt very deeply my own incompetence and ignorance; and even had I valued more the proffered honour, I should have been bound to decline it. But at the third word I spoke, I was silenced with a stern though perfectly calm severity. Flinging back the fold of his robe that covered his left arm, with a gesture that placed the Signet full before my eyes, he said—
 
“You have sworn obedience.”
 
A soldier’s instinct or habit, the mesmeric command of Esmo’s glance, and the awe, due less to my own feeling than to the infectious reverence of others, which the symbols and the oaths of the Order extorted, left me no further will to resist. At the foot of the Throne I received the investiture of my new rank; and as I rose and faced my brethren, every hand was lifted to the lips, every head bent in salutation of their new leader. Then, as I passed to the extreme place on the right, they came forward to grasp my hand and utter a few words of sympathy and kindness, in which a frank spirit of affectionate comradeship, that reminded me forcibly of the mess-tent and the bivouac fire, was mingled with the sense of a deeper and more sacred tie.
 
Scarcely had we resumed our places than a startling incident gave a new turn to the scene. Approaching the barrier, a woman, veiled, but wearing the sash and star, knelt for a moment to the presence of the Arch-Teacher, and then, as the barrier was thrown open by the sentries, came up to the dais.
 
“She,” said the new-comer, “has a message for you, Clavelta, for your Council, and particularly for the last of its members.”
 
“It is well,” he answered.
 
The messenger took her seat among the Initiates, and Esmo dismissed the assembly in the solemn form employed on the former occasion. Then, followed by the twelve, and guided by the messenger (the gloved fingers of whose left hand, as I observed, he very slightly touched with his own right), he passed by another door out of the Hall, and along one of the many passages of the subterrene Temple, into a chamber resembling in every respect an apartment in an ordinary residence. Here, with her veil, as is permitted only to maidenhood, drawn back from her face, but covering almost entirely her neck and bosom, and clad in the vestal white, reclined with eyes nearly closed a young girl, in whose countenance a beauty almost spiritual was enhanced rather than marred by signs of physical ill-health painfully unmistakable. Warning us back with a slight movement of his hand, Esmo approached her. Our presence had at first seemed to cast her into almost convulsive agitation; but under his steady gaze and the movement of his hands, she lapsed almost instantly into what appeared to be profound slumber.
 
 
 
The practical information that concerned the present peril menacing the Order delivered, and when it was plain that no further revelation or counsel was to be expected on this all-important topic, Esmo beckoned to me, taking my hand in his own and placing it very gently and carefully in that of the unconscious sybil. The effect, however, was startling. Without unclosing her eyes, she sprang into a sitting posture and clasped my hand almost convulsively with her own long, thin all but transparent fingers. Turning her face to mine, and seeming, though her eyes were closed, as if she looked intently into it, she murmured words at first unintelligible, but which seemed by degrees to bear clearer and clearer reference to some of the stormy scenes of my youth in another world. Then—as one looking upon pictures but partially intelligible to her, and commenting on them as a girl who had never seen or known the passions and the mutual enmity of men—she startled me by breaking into the kind of chant in which the peculiar verse of her language is commonly delivered. My own thought of the moment was not her guide. The Moslem battle-cry had rung too often in my ears ever to be forgotten; but up to that moment I had never recalled to memory the words in which on my last field I retorted upon my Arab comrades, when flinching from a third charge against those terrible “sons of Eblis,” whose stubborn courage had already twice hurled us back in confusion and disgrace with a hundred empty saddles. At first her tone was one of simple amaze and horror. It softened afterwards into wonder and perplexity, and the oft-repeated rebuke or curse was on its last recurrence spoken with more of pitying tenderness and regret than of severity:—
 
 “What! those are human bosoms whereon the brute hath trod!
 What! through the storm of slaughter rings the appeal to God!
 Through the smoke and flash of battle a single form is shown;
 O’er clang and crash and rattle peals out one trumpet-tone—
 ‘Strike, for Allah and the Prophet! let Eblis take his own!’
 “Strange! the soul that, fresh from carnage, quailed not alone to face
 The unfathomed depths of Darkness, the solitudes of Space!
 Strange! the smile of scorn, while nerveless dropped the sword-arm from the sting,
 On the death that scowled at distance, on the closing murder-ring.
 Strange! no crimson stain on conscience from the hand in gore imbrued!
 But Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood!
 “Strange! the arm that smote and spared not in the tempest of the strife,
 Quivers with pitying terror—clings, for a maiden’s life!
 Strange! the heart steel-hard to death-shrieks by girlish tears subdued;
 The falcon’s sheathless talons among the esve’s brood!
 But Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood.
 “The breast for woman’s peril that dared the despot’s ire,
 Shall dauntless front, and scathless, the closing curve of fire.
 The heart, by household treason stung home, that can forgive,
 Shall brave a woman’s hatred, a woman’s wiles, and live.
 “A woman’s well-won fealty shall give the life he gave,
 Love shall redeem the loving, and Sacrifice shall save.
 But—God heal the tortured spirit, God calm the maddened mood;
 For Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood!”
 
Relaxing but not releasing her grasp of my own hand, she felt about with her left till Esmo gently placed his own therein. Then, in a tone at first of deep and passionate anxiety and eagerness, passing into one of regretful admiration, and varying with the purport of each utterance, she broke into another chant, in which were repeated over and again phrases familiar in the traditions and prophetic or symbolic formularies of the Zinta:—
 
 “Ever on deadliest peril shines the Star with steadiest ray;
 Ever quail the fiercest hunters when Kargynda turns at bay.
 Close, Children of the Starlight! close, for the Emerald Throne!
 Close round the life that closeth your life within the zone!
 Rests the Golden Circle’s glory, rests the silver gleam on her
 Who shall rein Kargynda’s fury with a thread of gossamer.
 He metes not mortal measure, He pays not human price,
 Who crowns that life’s devotion with the death of sacrifice!
 Woe worth the moment’s panic; woe worth the victory won!
 But the Night is near the breaking when the Stranger claims his own.
 “Ever on deadliest peril shines the Star with steadiest ray;
 Ever quail the fiercest hunters when Kargynda turns at bay.
 No life is worth the living that counts each fleeting breath;
 No eyes from God averted can meet the eyes of Death.
 Vague fear and spectral terrors haunt the soul that dwells in shade,
 Nor e’er can crimson conscience confront the crimson blade.
 From a cloud of shame and sorrow breaks the Light that shines afar,
 And cold and dark the household spark that lit the Silver Star.
 The triumph is a death-march; the victor’s voice a moan:—
 But the Powers of Night are broken when the Stranger wins his own!
 “Ever in blackest midnight shines the Star with brightest ray;
 Woe to them that hunt the theme if Kargynda cross the way!
 In the Home of Peace, Clavelta, can our fears thy spirit move?
 Look down! whence comes the rescue to the household of thy love?
 As the All-Commander’s lightning falls the Vengeance from above!
 A shriek from thousand voices; a thunder crash; a groan;
 A thousand homes in mourning—a thousand deaths in one!
 Woe to the Sons of Darkness, for the Stranger wields his own!
 Oh, hide that scene of horror in the deepest shades of night!
 Look upward to the welkin, where the Vessel fades from sight …
 But the Veil is rent for ever by the Hand that veiled the Shrine;
 And, on a peace of ages, the Star of Peace shall shine!”
 
Esmo listened with the anxious attention of one who believed that her every word had a real and literal meaning; and his face was overclouded with a calm but deep sadness, which testified to the nature of the impression made on his mind by language that hardly conveyed to my own more than a dim and general prediction of victory, won through scenes of trial and trouble. But when she had closed, a quiet satisfaction in what seemed to be the final promise of triumph to the Star, at whatever cost to the noblest of its adherents, was all that I could trace in his countenance.
 
The sibyl fell back as the last word passed her lips, with a sigh of relief, into what was evidently a profound and insensible sleep. Those around me must have witnessed such scenes at least as often as I; but it was plain that the impression made, even on the experienced Chiefs of the Order, was far deeper than had affected myself. I should hardly have been able to remember the words of the prophecy, but for subsequent conversation thereon with Eveena, when one part had been fulfilled and the rest was on the eve of a too terribly truthful fulfilment; but for the events that fixed their prediction in my mind—it may be in terms a little more precise than those actually employed, though I have endeavoured to record these with conscientious accuracy.
 
Led by Esmo, we passed along another gallery into the small chamber where met the secret Council of the Order, and long and anxious were the debates wherein the revelations of the dreamer were treated as conveying the most certain and unquestionable warning. The first rays of morning were stealing through the mists into the peristyle of our host’s dwelling before I re-entered Eveena’s chamber. She was slumbering, but restlessly, and so lightly that she sprang up at once on my entrance. For a few moments all other thought was lost in the delight of my return after an absence whose very length had alarmed her, despite her father’s previous assurance. But as at last she drew back sufficiently to look into my face, its expression seemed to startle and sadden her. The questions that sprang to her lips died there, as she probably saw in my eyes a look not only of weariness and perplexity, but of profound reluctance to speak of what had passed. Expressing her sympathy only by look and touch, she began to unclasp my robe at the throat, aware that my only wish was for rest, and content to postpone her own anxiety and natural curiosity. Then, as the golden sash which I had not removed met her sight, she looked up for a moment with a glance of natural pride and fondness, intensely gratified by the highly-prized honour paid to her husband; then bent low and kissed my hand with the gesture wherewith the presence of a superior is acknowledged by the members of the Order. “Used as my earlier life was, Eveena, to the Eastern prostrations of my own world, I hate all that recalls them; and if I must accept, as I fulfil, these forms in the Halls of the Zinta, let me never be reminded of them by you.”
 
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