Thursday's Serials: "Dwellers in the Mirage" by A. E. Merritt (in English) - X

CHAPTER XIX - THE TAKING OF SIRK

                Again I rode through the forest toward Sirk, with Lur at my left hand and Tibur beside her. At my back were my two captains, Dara and Naral. Close at our heels came Ouarda, with twelve slim, strong girls, fair skins stained strangely green and black, and naked except for a narrow belt around their waists. Behind these rode four score of the nobles with Tibur's friend Rascha at their head. And behind them marched silently a full thousand of Karak's finest fighting women.

                It was night. It was essential to reach the edge of the forest before the last third of the stretch between midnight and dawn. The hoofs of the horses were muffled so that no sharp ears might hear their distant tread, and the soldiers marched in open formation, noiselessly. Five days had passed since I had first looked on the fortress.

                They had been five days of secret, careful preparation. Only the Witch-woman and the Smith knew what I had in mind. Secret as we had been, the rumour had spread that we were preparing for a sortie against the Rrrllya. I was well content with that. Not until we had gathered to start did even Rascha, or so I believed, know that we were headed toward Sirk. This so no word might be carried there to put them on guard, for I knew well that those we menaced had many friends in Karak - might have them among the ranks that slipped along behind us. Surprise was the essence of my plan. Therefore the muffling of the horses' hoofs. Therefore the march by night. Therefore the silence as we passed through the forest. And therefore it was that when we heard the first howling of Lur's wolves the Witch-woman slipped from her horse and disappeared in the luminous green darkness.

                We halted, awaiting her return. None spoke; the howls were stilled; she came from the trees and remounted. Like well-trained dogs the white wolves spread ahead of us, nosing over the ground we still must travel, ruthless scouts which no spy nor chance wanderer, whether from or to Sirk, could escape.

                I had desired to strike sooner than this, had chafed at the delay, had been reluctant to lay bare my plan to Tibur. But Lur had pointed out that if the Smith were to be useful at Sirk's taking he would have to be trusted, and that he would be less dangerous if informed and eager than if uninformed and suspicious. Well, that was true. And Tibur was a first-class fighting man with strong friends.

                So I had taken him into my confidence and told him what I had observed when first I had stood with Lur beside Sirk's boiling moat – the vigorously growing clumps of ferns which extended in an almost unbroken, irregular line high up and across the black cliff, from the forest on the hither side and over the geyser-spring, and over the parapets. It betrayed, I believed, a slipping or cracking of the rock which had formed a ledge. Along that ledge, steady-nerved, sure-footed climbers might creep, and make their way unseen into the fortress – and there do for us what I had in mind.

                Tibur's eyes had sparkled, and he had laughed as I had not heard him laugh since my ordeal by Khalk'ru. He had made only one comment.

                "The first link of your chain is the weakest, Dwayanu."

                "True enough. But it is forged where Sirk's chain of defence is weakest."

                "Nevertheless - I would not care to be the first to test that link."

                For all my lack of trust, I had warmed to him for that touch of frankness.

                "Thank the gods for your weight then, Anvil-smiter," I had said. "I cannot see those feet of yours competing for toe-holds with ferns. Otherwise I might have picked you."

                I had looked down at the sketch I had drawn to make the matter clearer.

                "We must strike quickly. How long before we can be in readiness, Lur?"

                I had raised my eyes in time to see a swift glance pass between the two. Whatever suspicion I may have felt had been fleeting. Lur had answered, quickly.

                "So far as the soldiers are concerned, we could start to-night. How long it will take to pick the climbers, I cannot tell. Then I must test them. All that will take time."

                "How long, Lur? We must be swift."

                "Three days - five days - I will be swift as may be. Beyond that I will not promise."

                With that I had been forced to be content. And now, five nights later, we marched on Sirk. It was neither dark nor light in the forest; a strange dimness floated over us; the glimmer of the flowers was our torch. All the fragrances were of life. But it was death whose errand we were on.

                The weapons of the soldiers were covered so that there could be no betraying glints; spear-heads darkened - no shining of metal upon any of us. On the tunics of the soldiers was the Wheel of Luka, so that friend would not be mistaken for foe once we were behind the walls of Sirk. Lur had wanted the Black Symbol of Khalk'ru.

                I would not have it. We reached the spot where we had decided to leave the horses. And here in silence our force separated. Under leadership of Tibur and Rascha, the others crept through wood and fern-brake to the edge of the clearing opposite the drawbridge.

                With the Witch-woman and myself went a scant dozen of the nobles, Ouarda with the naked girls, a hundred of the soldiers. Each of these had bow and quiver in well-protected cases on their backs. They carried the short battleaxe, long sword and dagger. They bore the long, wide rope ladder I had caused to be made, like those I had used long and long ago to meet problems similar to this of Sirk - but none with its peculiarly forbidding aspects. They carried another ladder, long and flexible and of wood. I was armed only with battleaxe and long sword, Lur and the nobles with the throwing hammers and swords.

                We stole toward the torrent whose hissing became louder with each step.

                Suddenly I halted, drew Lur to me.

                "Witch-woman, can you truly talk to your wolves?"

                "Truly, Dwayanu."

                "I am thinking it would be no bad plan to draw eyes and ears from this end of the parapet. If some of your wolves would fight and howl and dance a bit there at the far bastion for the amusement of the guards, it might help us here."

                She sent a low call, like the whimper of a she-wolf. Almost instantly the head of the great dog-wolf which had greeted her on our first ride lifted beside her. Its hackles bristled as it glared at me. But it made no sound. The Witch-woman dropped to her knees beside it, took its head in her arms, whispering. They seemed to whisper together. And then as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. Lur arose, in her eyes something of the green fire of the wolf's.

                "The guards shall have their amusement."

                I felt a little shiver along my back, for this was true witchcraft. But I said nothing and we went on. We came to that place from which I had scanned the cliff. We parted the ferns and peered out upon the fortress.

                Thus it was. At our right, a score of paces away, soared the sheer wall of the cliff which, continuing over the boiling torrent, formed this nearer bastion. The cover in which we lurked ran up to it, was thrown back like a green wave from its base. Between our cover and the moat was a space not more than a dozen paces across, made barren by the hot spray that fell on it. Here, the walls of the fortress were not more than a javelin cast distant. The wall and the parapet touched the cliff, but hardly could they be seen through the thick veils of steam. And this was what I had meant when I had said that our weakest link would be forged where Sirk's defences were weakest. For no sentinels stood at this corner. With the heat and steam and exhalations from the geyser, there was no need - or so they thought. How, here at its hottest source, could the torrent be crossed? Who could scale that smooth and dripping cliff? Of all the defences, this spot was the impregnable one, unnecessary to guard - or so they thought. Therefore it was the exact point to attack - if it could be done.

                I studied it. Not for full two hundred paces was there a single sentinel. From somewhere behind the fortress came the glare of a fire. It cast flickering shadows on the terraces of fallen rock beyond the bastioning cliffs; and that was good, since if we gained their shelter, we, too, would seem but flickering shadows. I beckoned Ouarda, and pointed to the rocks which were to be the goal of the naked girls. They were close to the cliff where it curved inward beyond the parapet, and they were about the height of twenty tall men above where we hid. She drew the girls to her and instructed them. They nodded, their eyes dropping swiftly to the cauldron of the moat, then turning to the glistening precipice. I saw some of them shudder. Well, I could not hold that against them, no!

                We crept back and found the base of the cliff. Here were enough and to spare of rock holds for the grapnels of the ladder. We unwound the rope ladder. We set the wooden ladder against the cliff. I pointed out the ledge that might be the key to Sirk, counselled the climbers as best I could. I knew that the ledge could not be much wider than the span of a hand. Yet above it and below it were small crevices, pockets, where fingers and toes could grip, for clumps of ferns sprouted there.

                Hai! But they had courage, those slim girls. We fastened to their belts long strong cords which would slip through our hands as they crept along. And they looked at one another's stained faces and bodies and laughed. The first went up the ladder like a squirrel, got foothold and handhold and began to edge across. In an instant she had vanished, the green and black with which her body was stained merging into the dim green and black of the cliff. Slowly, slowly, the first cord slipped through my fingers.

                Another followed her, and another, until I held six cords. And now the others climbed up and crept out on the perilous path, their leashes held in the strong hands of the Witch-woman.

                Hai! But that was queer fishing! With will strained toward keeping these girl-fish out of water! Slowly - Gods, but how slowly - the cords crept through my fingers! Through the fingers of the Witch-woman...  slowly... slowly... but ever on and on.

                Now that first slim girl must be over the cauldron... I had swift vision of her clinging to the streaming rock, the steam of the cauldron clothing her...

                That line slackened in my hand. It slackened, then ran out so swiftly that it cut the skin... slackened again... a tug upon it as of a great fish racing away... I felt the line snap. The girl had fallen! Was now dissolving flesh in the cauldron!

                The second cord slackened and tugged and snapped... and the third... Three of them gone! I whispered to Lur:

                "Three are gone!"

                "And two!" she said. I saw that her eyes were tightly closed, but the hands that clutched the cords were steady.

                Five of those slim girls! Only seven left! Luka - spin your wheel!

                On and on, slowly, with many a halt, the remaining cords crept through my fingers. Now the fourth girl must be over the moat... must be over the parapet... must be well on her way to the rocks... my heart beat in my throat, half-strangling me... Gods - the sixth had fallen! "Another!" I groaned to Lur. "And another!" she whispered, and cast the end of a cord from her hand.

                Five left... only five now... Luka, a temple to you in Karak – all your own, sweet goddess!

                What was that? A pull upon a cord, and twice repeated! The signal! One had crossed! Honour and wealth to you, slim girl...

                "All gone but one, Dwayanu!" whispered the Witch-woman.

                I groaned again, and glared at her... Again the twitches - upon my fifth cord! Another safe! "My last is over!" whispered Lur. Three safe! Three hidden among the rocks. The fishing was done. Sirk had stolen three-fourths of my bait.

                But Sirk was hooked!

                Weakness like none I had known melted bones and muscles. Lur's face was white as chalk, black shadows under staring eyes.

                Well, now it was our turn. The slim maids who had fallen might soon have company!

                I took the cord from Lur. Sent the signal. Felt it answered.

                We cut the cords, and knotted their ends to heavier strands. And when they had run out we knotted to their ends a stronger, slender rope.

                It crept away - and away - and away -

                And now for the ladder - the bridge over which we must go.

                It was light but strong, that ladder. Woven cunningly in a way thought out long and long ago. It had claws at each end which, once they had gripped, were not easily opened.

                We fastened that ladder's end to the slender rope. It slipped away from us... over the ferns... out into the hot breath of the cauldron... through it.

                Invisible within that breath... invisible against the green dusk of the cliff... on and on it crept...

                The three maids had it! They were making it fast. Under my hands it straightened and stiffened. We drew it taut from our end. We fastened our grapnels.

                The road to Sirk was open!

                I turned to the Witch-woman. She stood, her gaze far and far away. In her eyes was the green fire of her wolves. And suddenly over the hissing of the torrent, I heard the howling of her wolves - far and far away.

                She relaxed; her head dropped; she smiled at me -”Yes - truly can I talk to my wolves, Dwayanu!"

                I walked to the ladder, tested it. It was strong, secure.

                "I go first, Lur. Let none follow me until I have crossed. Then do you, Dara and Naral, climb to guard my back."

                Lur's eyes blazed.

                "I follow you. Your captains come after me."

                I considered that. Well - let it be.

                "As you say, Lur. But do not follow until I have crossed. Then let Ouarda send the soldiers. Ouarda - not more than ten may be on the ladder at a time. Bind cloths over their mouths and nostrils before they start. Count thirty - slowly, like this - before each sets forth behind the other. Fasten axe and sword between my shoulders, Lur. See to it that all bear their weapons so. Watch now, how I use my hands and feet."

                I swung upon the ladder, arms and legs opened wide. I began to climb it. Like a spider. Slowly, so they could learn. The ladder swayed but little; its angle was a good one.

                And now I was above the fern-brake. And now I was at the edge of the torrent. Above it. The stream swirled round me. It hid me. The hot breath of the geyser shrivelled me. Nor could I see anything of the ladder except the strands beneath me...

                Thank Luka for that! If what was before me was hidden - so was I hidden from what was before me!

                I was through the steam. I had passed the cliff. I was above the parapet. I dropped from the ladder, among the rocks - unseen. I shook the ladder. There was a quivering response. There was weight upon it...  more weight... and more...

                I unstrapped axe and sword -

                "Dwayanu -”

                I turned. There were the three maids. I began to praise them – holding back laughter. Green and black had run and combined under bath of steam into grotesque pattern.

                "Nobles you are, maids! From this moment! Green and black your colours. What you have done this night will long be a tale in Karak."

                I looked toward the battlements. Between us and them was a smooth floor of rock and sand, less than half a bow-shot wide. A score of soldiers stood around the fire. There was a larger group on the parapet close to the towers of the bridge. There were more at the farther end of the parapet, looking at the wolves.

                The towers of the drawbridge ran straight down to the rocky floor. The tower at the left was blank wall. The tower at the right had a wide gate. The gate was open, unguarded, unless the soldiers about the fire were its guards. Down from between the towers dropped a wide ramp, the approach to the bridge-head.

                There was a touch on my arm. Lur was beside me. And close after her came my two captains. After them, one by one, the soldiers. I bade them string bows, set arrows. One by one they melted out of the green darkness, slipped by me. They made ready in the shadow of the rocks.

                One score - two score... a shriek cut like an arrow through the hissing of the torrent! The ladder trembled. It shook - and twisted... Again the despairing cry... the ladder fell slack!

                "Dwayanu - the ladder is broken? At - Ouarda -”

                "Quiet, Lur! They may have heard that shrieking. The ladder could not break...”

                "Draw it in, Dwayanu - draw it in!"

                Together we pulled upon it. It was heavy. We drew it in like a net, and swiftly. And suddenly it was of no weight at all. It rushed into our hands -

                Its ends were severed as though by knife slash or axe blow.

                "Treachery!" I said.

                "But treachery... how... with Ouarda on guard."

                I crept, crouching, behind the shadow of the rocks.

                "Dara - spread out the soldiers. Tell Naral to slip to the farther end. On the signal, let them loose their arrows. Three flights only. The first at those around the fire. The second and the third at those on the walls closest to the towers. Then follow me. You understand me?"

                "It is understood, Lord."

                The word went along the line; I heard the bowstrings whisper.

                "We are fewer than I like, Lur - yet nothing for us but to go through with it. No way out of Sirk now but the way of the sword."

                "I know. It is of Ouarda I am thinking...” Her voice trembled.

                "She is safe. If treachery had been wide-spread, we would have heard sounds of fighting. No more talking, Lur. We must move swiftly. After the third arrow flight, we rush the tower gate."

                I gave the signal. Up rose the archers. Straight upon those around the fire flew their shafts. They left few alive. Instantly upon those around the towers of the bridge whistled a second arrow storm.

                Hai! But that was straight shooting! See them fall! Once more -

                Whistle of feathered shaft! Song of the bow-string! Gods - but this is to live again!

                I dropped down the rocks, Lur beside me. The soldier women poured after us. Straight to the tower door we sped. We were half-way there before those upon the long parapet awakened.

                Shouts rang. Trumpets blared, and the air was filled with the brazen clangour of a great gong bellowing the alarm to Sirk asleep behind the gap. We sped on. Javelins dropped among us, arrows whistled. From other gates along the inner walls guards began to emerge, racing to intercept us.

                We were at the door of the bridge towers - and through it!

                But not all. A third had fallen under javelin and arrow. We swung the stout door shut. We dropped across it the massive bars that secured it. And not an instant too soon. Upon the door began to beat the sledges of the tricked guards.

                The chamber was of stone, huge and bare. Except for the door through which we had come, there was no opening. I saw the reason for that - never had Sirk expected to be attacked from within. There were arrow slits high up, looking over the moat, and platforms for archers. At one side were cogs and levers which raised and lowered the bridge.

                All this I took in at one swift glance. I leaped over to the levers, began to manipulate them. The cogs revolved.

                The bridge was falling!

                The Witch-woman ran up to the platform of the archers; she peered out; set horn to lips; she sent a long call through the arrow slit – summoning signal for Tibur and his host.

                The hammering against the door had ceased. The blows against it were stronger, more regular-timed. The battering of a ram. The stout wood trembled under them; the bars groaned, Lur called to me:

                "The bridge is down, Dwayanu! Tibur is rushing upon it. It grows lighter. Dawn is breaking. They have brought their horses!"

                I cursed.

                "Luka, sent him wit not to pound across that bridge on horse!"

                "He is doing it... he and Rascha and a handful of others only... the rest are dismounting...”

                "Hai - they are shooting at them from the arrow slits... the javelins rain among them... Sirk takes toll...”

                There was a thunderous crash against the door. The wood split...

                A roaring tumult. Shouts and battle cries. Ring of sword upon sword and the swish of arrows. And over it all the laughter of Tibur.

                No longer was the ram battering at the door.

                I threw up the bars, raised axe in readiness, opened the great gate a finger's breadth and peered out.

                The soldiers of Karak were pouring down the ramp from the bridge-head.

                I opened the door wider. The dead of the fortress lay thick around tower base and bridge-head.

                I stepped through the door. The soldiers saw me.

                "Dwayanu!" rang their shout.

                From the fortress still came the clamour of the great gong - warning Sirk.

Sirk - no longer sleeping!

               

CHAPTER XX - "TSANTAWU-FAREWELL!"

                There was a humming as of a disturbed gigantic hive beyond Sirk's gap. Trumpet blasts and the roll of drums. Clang of brazen gongs answering that lonely one which beat from the secret heart of the raped fortress. And ever Karak's women-warriors poured over the bridge until the space behind the fortress filled with them.

                The Smith wheeled his steed - faced me. "Gods - Tibur! But that was well done!"

                "Never done but for you, Dwayanu! You saw, you knew - you did. Ours the least part."

                Well, that was true. But I was close to liking Tibur then. Life of my blood! It had been no play to lead that charge against the bridge end. The Smith was a soldier! Let him be only half loyal to me - and Khalk'ru take the Witch-woman!

                "Sweep the fortress clean, Anvil-smiter. We want no arrows at our backs."

                "It is being swept, Dwayanu."

                By brooms of sword and spear, by javelin and arrow, the fortress was swept dean.

                The clamour of the brazen gong died on a part stroke.

                My stallion rested his nose on my shoulder, blew softly against my ear.

                "You did not forget my horse! My hand to you, Tibur!"

                "You lead the charge, Dwayanu!" I leaped upon the stallion. Battleaxe held high I wheeled and galloped toward the gap. Like the point of a spear I sped, Tibur at my left, the Witch-woman at my right, the nobles behind us, the soldiers sweeping after us.

                We hurled ourselves through the cliffed portal of Sirk.

                A living wave lifted itself to throw us back. Hammers flew, axes hewed, javelins and spears and feathered shafts sleeted us. My horse tottered and dropped, screaming, his hinder hocks cut through. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, dragging me to my feet. The Witch-woman smiled at me. She sliced with her sword the arm drawing me down among the dead. With axe and sword we cleared a ring around us. I threw myself on the back of a grey from which a noble had fallen, bristling with arrows.

                We thrust forward against the living wave. It gave, curling round us.

                On and on! Cut sword and hew axe! Cut and slash and batter through!

                The curling wave that tore at us was beaten down. We were through the gap. Sirk lay before us.

                I reined in my horse. Sirk lay before us - but too invitingly!

                The city nestled in a hollow between sheer, unscalable black walls. The lip of the gap was higher than the roof of the houses. They began an arrow flight away. It was a fair city. There was no citadel nor forts; there were no temples nor palaces. Only houses of stone, perhaps a thousand of them, flat roofed, set wide apart, gardens around them, a wide street straying among them, tree-bordered. There were many lanes. Beyond the city fertile field upon field, and flowering orchards.

                And no battle ranks arrayed against us. The way open.

                Too open!

                I caught the glint of arms on the housetops. There was the noise of axes above the blaring of trumpets and the roll of the kettle-drums.

                Hai! They were barricading the wide street with their trees, preparing a hundred ambushes for us, expecting us to roll down in force.

                Spreading the net in the sight of Dwayanu!

                Yet they were good tactics. The best defence I had met with it in many a war against the barbarians. It meant we must fight for every step, with every house a fort, with arrows searching for us from every window and roof. They had a leader here in Sirk, to arrange such reception on such brief notice! I had respect for that leader, whoever he might be. He had picked the only possible way to victory - unless those against whom he fought knew the countermove.

                And that, hard earned, I did know.

                How long could this leader keep Sirk within its thousand forts? There, always, lay the danger in this defence. The overpowering impulse of a pierced city is to swarm out upon its invaders as ants and bees do from their hills and nests. Not often is there a leader strong enough to hold them back. If each house of Sirk could remain linked to the other, each ever an active part of the whole - then Sirk might be unconquerable. But how, when they began to be cut off, one by one? Isolated? The leader's will severed?

                Hai! Then it is that despair creeps through every chink! They are drawn out by fury and despair as though by ropes. They pour out - to kill or to be killed. The cliff crumbles, stone by stone. The cake is eaten by the attackers, crumb by crumb.

                I divided our soldiers, and sent the first part against Sirk in small squads, with orders to spread and to take advantage of all cover. They were to take the outer fringe of houses, at all costs, shooting their arrows up in the high curved flight against the defenders while others hammered their way into those houses. Still others were to attack farther on, but never getting too far from their comrades nor from the broad way running through the city.

                I was casting a net over Sirk and did not want its meshes broken.

                By now it was broad daylight.

                The soldiers moved forward. I saw the arrows stream up and down, twisting among each other like serpents... I heard the axe-blows on the doors... By Luka! There floats a banner of Karak from one of the roofs! And another.

                The hum of Sirk shot higher, became louder, in it a note of madness. Hai! I knew they could not long stand this nibbling! And I knew that sound! Soon it would rise to frenzy. Drone from that into despair!

                Hai! Not long now before they came tumbling out...

                Tibur was cursing at my elbow. I looked at Lur, and she was trembling. The soldiers were murmuring, straining at the leash, mad to join battle. I looked at their blue eyes, hard and cold; their faces beneath the helmet-caps were not those of women but of young warriors... those who sought in them for woman's mercy would have rude awakening!

                "By Zarda! But the fight will be done before we can dip blade!" I laughed.

                "Patience, Tibur! Patience is our strong weapon. Sirk's strongest – if they but knew it. Let them be first to lose that weapon."

                The turmoil grew louder. At the head of the street appeared half a hundred of Karak's soldiers, struggling against more than equal number which steadily, swiftly, was swelled by others of Sirk pouring from side lanes and dropping from roofs and windows of the beleaguered houses.

                It was the moment for which I had waited!

                I gave the command. I raised the battle-cry. We drove down upon them. Our skirmishers opened to let us through, melting into the shouting ranks behind. We ripped into the defenders of Sirk. Down they went, but as they fell they fought, and many a saddle of the nobles was empty, and many were the steeds lost before we won to the first barricade.

                Hai! But how they fought us there from behind the hastily felled trees - women and men and children hardly big enough to bend the bow or wield the knife!

                Now the soldiers of Karak began to harry them from the sides; the soldiers of Karak shot into them from the tops of the houses they had abandoned; we fought Sirk as it had planned to fight us. And those who fought against us soon broke and fled, and we were over the barricade. Battling, we reached the heart of Sirk, a great and lovely square in which fountains played and flowers blossomed. The spray of the fountains was crimson and there were no flowers when we left that square.

We paid heavy toll there. Full half of the nobles were slain. A spear had struck my helmet and well-nigh dropped me. Bare-headed, blood-flecked I rode, shouting, sword dripping red. Naral and Dara both bore wounds, but still guarded my back. The Witch-woman, and the Smith and his scarred familiar fought on, untouched.

                There was a thunder of hoofs. Down upon us swept a wave of horsemen. We raced toward them. We struck like two combers. Surged up. Mingled. Flash swords! Hammers smite! Axes cleave! Hai! But now it was hand-to-hand in the way I knew best and best loved!

                We swirled in a mad whirlpool. I glanced at right and saw the Witch-woman had been separated from me. Tibur, too, was gone. Well, they were giving good account of themselves no doubt - wherever they were.

                I swung to right and to left with my sword. In the front of those who fought us, over the caps of Karak which had swirled between us, was a dark face... a dark face whose black eyes looked steadily into mine - steadily... steadily. At the shoulder of that man was a slighter figure whose clear, brown eyes stared at me... steadily... steadily. In the black eyes was understanding and sorrow. The brown eyes were filled with hate.

                Black eyes and brown eyes touched something deep and deep within me... They were rousing that something... calling to it... something that had been sleeping.

                I heard my own voice shouting command to cease fighting, and at that shout abruptly all sound of battle close by was stilled. Sirk and Karak alike stood silent, amazed, staring at me. I thrust my horse through the press of bodies, looked deep into the black eyes.

                And wondered why I had dropped my sword... why I stood thus... and why the sorrow in those eyes racked my heart... The dark-faced man spoke - two words -

                "Leif!... Degataga!"

                That something which had been asleep was wide awake, rushing up through me... rocking my brain... tearing at it... shaking every nerve...

                I heard a cry - the voice of the Witch-woman.

                A horse burst through the ring of the soldiers. Upon it was Rascha, lips drawn back over his teeth, cold eyes glaring into mine. His arm came up. His dagger gleamed, and was hidden in the back of the man who had called me - Degataga!

                Had called me -

                God - but I knew him!

                Tsantawu! Jim!

                The sleeping thing that had awakened was all awake... it had my brain... it was myself... Dwayanu forgotten!

                I threw my horse forward.

                Rascha's arm was up for second stroke - the brown-eyed rider was swinging at him with sword, and Jim was falling, settling over his horse's mane.

                I caught Rascha's arm before the dagger could descend again. I caught his arm, bent it back, and heard the bone snap. He howled - like a wolf.

                A hammer hummed by my head, missing it by a hair. I saw Tibur drawing it back by its thong.

                I leaned and lifted Rascha from his saddle. His sound arm swept up, hand clutching at my throat. I caught the wrist and twisted that arm back. I snapped it as I had the other.

                My horse swerved. With one hand at Rascha's throat, the other arm holding him, I toppled from the saddle bearing him down with me. I fell upon him. I twisted, and threw him over the bar of my knee. My hand slipped from his throat to his chest. My right leg locked over his.

                A swift downward thrust - a sound like the breaking of a faggot. The Back-breaker would break no more backs. His own was broken.

                I leaped to my feet. Looked up into the face of the brown-eyed rider... Evalie!...

                I cried out to her -”Evalie!"

                Abruptly, all about me the battle broke out afresh. Evalie turned to meet the charge. I saw Tibur's great shoulders rise behind her...  saw him snatch her from her horse... saw from his left hand a flash of light... It sped toward me... I was hurled aside. None too soon - not soon enough -

                Something caught me a glancing blow upon the side of my head. I went down upon my knees and hands, blind and dizzy. I heard Tibur laughing; I strove to conquer blind dizziness and nausea, felt blood streaming down my face.

                And crouching, swaying on knees and hands, heard the tide of battle sweep around and over and past me.

                My head steadied. The blindness was passing. I was still on my hands and knees. Under me was the body of a man - a man whose black eyes were fixed on mine with understanding - with love!

                I felt a touch on my shoulder; with difficulty I looked up. It was Dara.

                "A hair between life and death. Lord. Drink this."

                She put a phial to my lips. The bitter, fiery liquid coursed through me, brought steadiness, brought strength. I could see there was a ring of soldier-women around me, guarding me - beyond them a ring of others, on horses.

                "Can you hear me, Leif?... I haven't much time...”

                I lurched aside and knelt.

                "Jim! Jim! Oh, God - why did you come here? Take this sword and kill me!"

                He reached for my hand, held it tight.

                "Don't be a damned fool, Leif! You couldn't help it... but you've got to save Evalie!"

                "I've got to save you, Tsantawu - get you out of here -”

                "Shut up and listen. I've got mine, Leif, and I know it. That blade went through the mail right into the lungs... I'm trickling out - inside... hell, Leif - don't take it so hard... It might have been in the war... It might have been any time... It's not your fault...”

                A sob shook me, tears mingled with the blood upon my face.

                "But I killed him, Jim - I killed him!"

                "I know, Leif... a neat job... I saw you... but there's something I've got to tell you...” his voice faltered.

                I put the phial to his lips - it brought him back.

                "Just now... Evalie... hates you! You have to save her... Leif ... whether she does or not. Listen. Word came to us from Sirk through the Little People that you wanted us to meet you there. You were pretending to be Dwayanu... pretending to remember nothing but Dwayanu... to allay suspicion and to gain power. You were going to slip away... come to Sirk, and lead it against Karak. You needed me to stand beside you... needed Evalie to persuade the pygmies...”

                "I sent you no message, Jim!" I groaned.

                "I know you didn't - now... But we believed it... You saved Sri from the wolves and defied the Witch-woman -”

                "Jim - how long was it after Sri's escape that the lying message came?"

                "Two days... What does it matter? I'd told Evalie what was - wrong - with you... gone over your story again and again. She didn't understand... but she took me on faith... Some more of that stuff, Leif... I'm going...”

                Again the fiery draught revived him.

                "We reached Sirk... two days ago... across the river with Sri and twenty pygmies... it was easy... too easy... not a wolf howled, although I knew the beasts were watching us... stalking us... and the others did, too. We waited... then came the attack... and then I knew we had been trapped... How did you get over those geysers... Big Fellow... never mind... but... Evalie believes you sent the message... you... black treachery...”

                His eyes closed. Cold, cold were his hands.

                "Tsantawu - brother - you do not believe! Tsantawu - come back... speak to me...”

                His eyes opened, but hardly could I hear him speak -

                "You're not Dwayanu - Leif? Not now - or ever again?"

                "No, Tsantawu... don't leave me!"

                "Bend... your head... closer, Leif... keep fighting... save Evalie."

                Fainter grew his voice:

                "Good-bye... Degataga... not your fault...”

                A ghost of the old sardonic smile passed over the white face.

                "You didn't pick your... damned... ancestors!... Worse luck... We've had... hell of good times... together...  Save... Evalie...”

                There was a gush of blood from his mouth.

                Jim was dead... was dead.

                Tsantawu - no more!

Good Readings: "Il Desiderio di Ricchezza del Sottoproletariato Romano" by Pier Paolo Pasolini (in Italian)

Li osservo, questi uomini, educati
ad altra vita che la mia: frutti
d'una storia tanto diversa, e ritrovati,
quasi fratelli, qui, nell'ultima forma
storica di Roma. Li osservo: in tutti
c'è come l'aria d'un buttero che dorma
armato di coltello: nei loro succhi
vitali, è disteso un tenebrore intenso,
la papale itterizia del Belli,
non porpora, ma spento peperino,
bilioso cotto. La biancheria, sotto,
fine e sporca; nell'occhio, l'ironia
che trapela il suo umido, rosso,
indecente bruciore. La sera li espone
quasi in romitori, in riserve
fatte di vicoli, muretti, androni
e finestrelle perse nel silenzio.
È certo la prima delle loro passioni
il desiderio di ricchezza: sordido
come le loro membra non lavate,
nascosto, e insieme scoperto,
privo di ogni pudore: come senza pudore
è il rapace che svolazza pregustando
chiotto il boccone, o il lupo, o il ragno;
essi bramano i soldi come zingari,
mercenari, puttane: si lagnano
se non ce n'hanno, usano lusinghe
abbiette per ottenerli, si gloriano
plautinamente se ne hanno le saccocce
piene.
Se lavorano - lavoro di mafiosi
macellari,
ferini lucidatori, invertiti commessi,
tranvieri incarogniti, tisici ambulanti,
manovali buoni come cani - avviene
che abbiano ugualmente un'aria di ladri:
troppa avita furberia in quelle vene...

Sono usciti dal ventre delle loro madri
a ritrovarsi in marciapiedi o in prati
preistorici, e iscritti in un'anagrafe
che da ogni storia li vuole ignorati...
Il loro desiderio di ricchezza
è, così, banditesco, aristocratico.
Simile al mio. Ognuno pensa a sé,
a vincere l'angosciosa scommessa,
a dirsi: "È fatta," con un ghigno di re...
La nostra speranza è ugualmente
ossessa:
estetizzante, in me, in essi anarchica.
Al raffinato e al sottoproletariato spetta
la stessa ordinazione gerarchica
dei sentimenti: entrambi fuori dalla
storia,
in un mondo che non ha altri varchi
che verso il sesso e il cuore,
altra profondità che nei sensi.
In cui la gioia è gioia, il dolore dolore.

Tuesday's Serial: "The Hill of Dreams" by Arthur Machen - II (in English)

II

            Lucian was growing really anxious about his manuscript. He had gained enough experience at twenty-three to know that editors and publishers must not be hurried; but his book had been lying at Messrs Beit's office for more than three months. For six weeks he had not dared to expect an answer, but afterwards life had become agonizing. Every morning, at post-time, the poor wretch nearly choked with anxiety to know whether his sentence had arrived, and the rest of the day was racked with alternate pangs of hope and despair. Now and then he was almost assured of success; conning over these painful and eager pages in memory, he found parts that were admirable, while again, his inexperience reproached him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward book, wholly unfit for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it with notable magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that after all there might be good points in the thing; he could not help liking the first chapter for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it went on; week after week of sick torture made more exquisite by such gleams of hope; it was as if he were stretched in anguish on the rack, and the pain relaxed and kind words spoken now and again by the tormentors, and then once more the grinding pang and burning agony. At last he could bear suspense no longer, and he wrote to Messrs Beit, inquiring in a humble manner whether the manuscript had arrived in safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing regret that their reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was promised in a week's time, and the letter ended with apologies for the delay and a hope that he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the "final decision" did not come at the end of the week, but the book was returned at the end of three weeks, with a circular thanking the author for his kindness in submitting the manuscript, and regretting that the firm did not see their way to producing it. He felt relieved; the operation that he had dreaded and deprecated for so long was at last over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters were brought in. He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting March winds. Messrs Beit had put in with the circular one of their short lists, a neat booklet, headed: Messrs Beit & Co.'s Recent Publications.

            He settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to read: "A Bad Un to Beat: a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede, author of Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The Sportleigh Stables, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries." The Press, it seemed, pronounced this to be a "charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has wit and humor enough to furnish forth half-a-dozen ordinary sporting novels." "Told with the sparkle and vivacity of a past-mistress in the art of novel writing," said the Review; while Miranda, of Smart Society, positively bubbled with enthusiasm. "You must forgive me, Aminta," wrote this young person, "if I have not sent the description I promised of Madame Lulu's new creations and others of that ilk. I must a tale unfold; Tom came in yesterday and began to rave about the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede's last novel, A Bad Un to Beat. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie's. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully chic." Nearly all the novelists on Messrs Beit's list were ladies, their works all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the Press, the Review, and Miranda of Smart Society. One of these books, Millicent's Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the school-room table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured of our daughters. "This," the reviewer went on, "is high praise, especially in these days when we are deafened by the loud-voiced clamor of self-styled 'artists.' We would warn the young men who prate so persistently of style and literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of domestic interest, a faithful reproduction of the open and manly life of the hunting field, pictures of innocent and healthy English girlhood such as Miss Sanders here affords us; these are the topics that will always find a welcome in our homes, which remain bolted and barred against the abandoned artist and the scrofulous stylist."

            He turned over the pages of the little book and chuckled in high relish; he discovered an honest enthusiasm, a determination to strike a blow for the good and true that refreshed and exhilarated. A beaming face, spectacled and whiskered probably, an expansive waistcoat, and a tender heart, seemed to shine through the words which Messrs Beit had quoted; and the alliteration of the final sentence; that was good too; there was style for you if you wanted it. The champion of the blushing cheek and the gushing eye showed that he too could handle the weapons of the enemy if he cared to trouble himself with such things. Lucian leant back and roared with indecent laughter till the tabby tom-cat who had succeeded to the poor dead beasts looked up reproachfully from his sunny corner, with a face like the reviewer's, innocent and round and whiskered. At last he turned to his parcel and drew out some half-dozen sheets of manuscript, and began to read in a rather desponding spirit; it was pretty obvious, he thought, that the stuff was poor and beneath the standard of publication. The book had taken a year and a half in the making; it was a pious attempt to translate into English prose the form and mystery of the domed hills, the magic of occult valleys, the sound of the red swollen brook swirling through leafless woods. Day-dreams and toil at nights had gone into the eager pages, he had labored hard to do his very best, writing and rewriting, weighing his cadences, beginning over and over again, grudging no patience, no trouble if only it might be pretty good; good enough to print and sell to a reading public which had become critical. He glanced through the manuscript in his hand, and to his astonishment, he could not help thinking that in its measure it was decent work. After three months his prose seemed fresh and strange as if it had been wrought by another man, and in spite of himself he found charming things, and impressions that were not commonplace. He knew how weak it all was compared with his own conceptions; he had seen an enchanted city, awful, glorious, with flame smitten about its battlements, like the cities of the Sangraal, and he had molded his copy in such poor clay as came to his hand; yet, in spite of the gulf that yawned between the idea and the work, he knew as he read that the thing accomplished was very far from a failure. He put back the leaves carefully, and glanced again at Messrs Beit's list. It had escaped his notice that A Bad Un to Beat was in its third three-volume edition. It was a great thing, at all events, to know in what direction to aim, if he wished to succeed. If he worked hard, he thought, he might some day win the approval of the coy and retiring Miranda of Smart Society; that modest maiden might in his praise interrupt her task of disinterested advertisement, her philanthropic counsels to "go to Jumper's, and mind you ask for Mr. C. Jumper, who will show you the lovely blue paper with the yellow spots at ten shillings the piece." He put down the pamphlet, and laughed again at the books and the reviewers: so that he might not weep. This then was English fiction, this was English criticism, and farce, after all, was but an ill-played tragedy.

            The rejected manuscript was hidden away, and his father quoted Horace's maxim as to the benefit of keeping literary works for some time "in the wood." There was nothing to grumble at, though Lucian was inclined to think the duration of the reader's catarrh a little exaggerated. But this was a trifle; he did not arrogate to himself the position of a small commercial traveler, who expects prompt civility as a matter of course, and not at all as a favor. He simply forgot his old book, and resolved that he would make a better one if he could. With the hot fit of resolution, the determination not to be snuffed out by one refusal upon him, he began to beat about in his mind for some new scheme. At first it seemed that he had hit upon a promising subject; he began to plot out chapters and scribble hints for the curious story that had entered his mind, arranging his circumstances and noting the effects to be produced with all the enthusiasm of the artist. But after the first breath the aspect of the work changed; page after page was tossed aside as hopeless, the beautiful sentences he had dreamed of refused to be written, and his puppets remained stiff and wooden, devoid of life or motion. Then all the old despairs came back, the agonies of the artificer who strives and perseveres in vain; the scheme that seemed of amorous fire turned to cold hard ice in his hands. He let the pen drop from his fingers, and wondered how he could have ever dreamed of writing books. Again, the thought occurred that he might do something if he could only get away, and join the sad procession in the murmuring London streets, far from the shadow of those awful hills. But it was quite impossible; the relative who had once promised assistance was appealed to, and wrote expressing his regret that Lucian had turned out a "loafer," wasting his time in scribbling, instead of trying to earn his living. Lucian felt rather hurt at this letter, but the parson only grinned grimly as usual. He was thinking of how he signed a check many years before, in the days of his prosperity, and the check was payable to this didactic relative, then in but a poor way, and of a thankful turn of mind.

            The old rejected manuscript had almost passed out of his recollection. It was recalled oddly enough. He was looking over the Reader, and enjoying the admirable literary criticisms, some three months after the return of his book, when his eye was attracted by a quoted passage in one of the notices. The thought and style both wakened memory, the cadences were familiar and beloved. He read through the review from the beginning; it was a very favorable one, and pronounced the volume an immense advance on Mr. Ritson's previous work. "Here, undoubtedly, the author has discovered a vein of pure metal," the reviewer added, "and we predict that he will go far." Lucian had not yet reached his father's stage, he was unable to grin in the manner of that irreverent parson. The passage selected for high praise was taken almost word for word from the manuscript now resting in his room, the work that had not reached the high standard of Messrs Beit & Co., who, curiously enough, were the publishers of the book reviewed in the Reader. He had a few shillings in his possession, and wrote at once to a bookseller in London for a copy of The Chorus in Green, as the author had oddly named the book. He wrote on June 21st and thought he might fairly expect to receive the interesting volume by the 24th; but the postman, true to his tradition, brought nothing for him, and in the afternoon he resolved to walk down to Caermaen, in case it might have come by a second post; or it might have been mislaid at the office; they forgot parcels sometimes, especially when the bag was heavy and the weather hot. This 24th was a sultry and oppressive day; a grey veil of cloud obscured the sky, and a vaporous mist hung heavily over the land, and fumed up from the valleys. But at five o'clock, when he started, the clouds began to break, and the sunlight suddenly streamed down through the misty air, making ways and channels of rich glory, and bright islands in the gloom. It was a pleasant and shining evening when, passing by devious back streets to avoid the barbarians (as he very rudely called the respectable inhabitants of the town), he reached the post-office; which was also the general shop.

            "Yes, Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir," said the man. "Williams the postman forgot to take it up this morning," and he handed over the packet. Lucian took it under his arm and went slowly through the ragged winding lanes till he came into the country. He got over the first stile on the road, and sitting down in the shelter of a hedge, cut the strings and opened the parcel. The Chorus in Green was got up in what reviewers call a dainty manner: a bronze-green cloth, well-cut gold lettering, wide margins and black "old-face" type, all witnessed to the good taste of Messrs Beit & Co. He cut the pages hastily and began to read. He soon found that he had wronged Mr. Ritson - that old literary hand had by no means stolen his book wholesale, as he had expected. There were about two hundred pages in the pretty little volume, and of these about ninety were Lucian's, dovetailed into a rather different scheme with skill that was nothing short of exquisite. And Mr. Ritson's own work was often very good; spoilt here and there for some tastes by the "cataloguing" method, a somewhat materialistic way of taking an inventory of the holy country things; but, for that very reason, contrasting to a great advantage with Lucian's hints and dreams and note of haunting. And here and there Mr. Ritson had made little alterations in the style of the passages he had conveyed, and most of these alterations were amendments, as Lucian was obliged to confess, though he would have liked to argue one or two points with his collaborator and corrector. He lit his pipe and leant back comfortably in the hedge, thinking things over, weighing very coolly his experience of humanity, his contact with the "society" of the countryside, the affair of the The Chorus in Green, and even some little incidents that had struck him as he was walking through the streets of Caermaen that evening. At the post-office, when he was inquiring for his parcel, he had heard two old women grumbling in the street; it seemed, so far as he could make out, that both had been disappointed in much the same way. One was a Roman Catholic, hardened, and beyond the reach of conversion; she had been advised to ask alms of the priests, "who are always creeping and crawling about." The other old sinner was a Dissenter, and, "Mr. Dixon has quite enough to do to relieve good Church people."

            Mrs. Dixon, assisted by Henrietta, was, it seemed, the lady high almoner, who dispensed these charities. As she said to Mrs. Colley, they would end by keeping all the beggars in the county, and they really couldn't afford it. A large family was an expensive thing, and the girls must have new frocks. "Mr. Dixon is always telling me and the girls that we must not demoralize the people by indiscriminate charity." Lucian had heard of these sage counsels, and through it them as he listened to the bitter complaints of the gaunt, hungry old women. In the back street by which he passed out of the town he saw a large "healthy" boy kicking a sick cat; the poor creature had just strength enough to crawl under an outhouse door; probably to die in torments. He did not find much satisfaction in thrashing the boy, but he did it with hearty good will. Further on, at the corner where the turnpike used to be, was a big notice, announcing a meeting at the school-room in aid of the missions to the Portuguese. "Under the Patronage of the Lord Bishop of the Diocese," was the imposing headline; the Reverend Merivale Dixon, vicar of Caermaen, was to be in the chair, supported by Stanley Gervase, Esq., J.P., and by many of the clergy and gentry of the neighborhood. Senhor Diabo, "formerly a Romanist priest, now an evangelist in Lisbon," would address the meeting. "Funds are urgently needed to carry on this good work," concluded the notice. So he lay well back in the shade of the hedge, and thought whether some sort of an article could not be made by vindicating the terrible Yahoos; one might point out that they were in many respects a simple and unsophisticated race, whose faults were the result of their enslaved position, while such virtues as they had were all their own. They might be compared, he thought, much to their advantage, with more complex civilizations. There was no hint of anything like the Beit system of publishing in existence amongst them; the great Yahoo nation would surely never feed and encourage a scabby Houyhnhnm, expelled for his foulness from the horse-community, and the witty dean, in all his minuteness, had said nothing of "safe" Yahoos. On reflection, however, he did not feel quite secure of this part of his defense; he remembered that the leading brutes had favorites, who were employed in certain simple domestic offices about their masters, and it seemed doubtful whether the contemplated vindication would not break down on this point. He smiled queerly to himself as he thought of these comparisons, but his heart burned with a dully fury. Throwing back his unhappy memory, he recalled all the contempt and scorn he had suffered; as a boy he had heard the masters murmuring their disdain of him and of his desire to learn other than ordinary school work. As a young man he had suffered the insolence of these wretched people about him; their cackling laughter at his poverty jarred and grated in his ears; he saw the acrid grin of some miserable idiot woman, some creature beneath the swine in intelligence and manners, merciless, as he went by with his eyes on the dust, in his ragged clothes. He and his father seemed to pass down an avenue of jeers and contempt, and contempt from such animals as these! This putrid filth, molded into human shape, made only to fawn on the rich and beslaver them, thinking no foulness too foul if it were done in honor of those in power and authority; and no refined cruelty of contempt too cruel if it were contempt of the poor and humble and oppressed; it was to this obscene and ghastly throng that he was something to be pointed at. And these men and women spoke of sacred things, and knelt before the awful altar of God, before the altar of tremendous fire, surrounded as they professed by Angels and Archangels and all the Company of Heaven; and in their very church they had one aisle for the rich and another for the poor. And the species was not peculiar to Caermaen; the rich business men in London and the successful brother author were probably amusing themselves at the expense of the poor struggling creature they had injured and wounded; just as the "healthy" boy had burst into a great laugh when the miserable sick cat cried out in bitter agony, and trailed its limbs slowly, as it crept away to die. Lucian looked into his own life and his own will; he saw that in spite of his follies, and his want of success, he had not been consciously malignant, he had never deliberately aided in oppression, or looked on it with enjoyment and approval, and he felt that when he lay dead beneath the earth, eaten by swarming worms, he would be in a purer company than now, when he lived amongst human creatures. And he was to call this loathsome beast, all sting and filth, brother! "I had rather call the devils my brothers," he said in his heart, "I would fare better in hell." Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky seemed of blood, and the earth burned with fire.

            The sun was sinking low on the mountain when he set out on the way again. Burrows, the doctor, coming home in his trap, met him a little lower on the road, and gave him a friendly good-night.

            "A long way round on this road, isn't it?" said the doctor. "As you have come so far, why don't you try the short cut across the fields? You will find it easily enough; second stile on the left hand, and then go straight ahead."

            He thanked Dr. Burrows and said he would try the short cut, and Burrows span on homeward. He was a gruff and honest bachelor, and often felt very sorry for the lad, and wished he could help him. As he drove on, it suddenly occurred to him that Lucian had an awful look on his face, and he was sorry he had not asked him to jump in, and to come to supper. A hearty slice of beef, with strong ale, whisky and soda afterwards, a good pipe, and certain Rabelaisian tales which the doctor had treasured for many years, would have done the poor fellow a lot of good, he was certain. He half turned round on his seat, and looked to see if Lucian were still in sight, but he had passed the corner, and the doctor drove on, shivering a little; the mists were beginning to rise from the wet banks of the river.

            Lucian trailed slowly along the road, keeping a look out for the stile the doctor had mentioned. It would be a little of an adventure, he thought, to find his way by an unknown track; he knew the direction in which his home lay, and he imagined he would not have much difficulty in crossing from one stile to another. The path led him up a steep bare field, and when he was at the top, the town and the valley winding up to the north stretched before him. The river was stilled at the flood, and the yellow water, reflecting the sunset, glowed in its deep pools like dull brass. These burning pools, the level meadows fringed with shuddering reeds, the long dark sweep of the forest on the hill, were all clear and distinct, yet the light seemed to have clothed them with a new garment, even as voices from the streets of Caermaen sounded strangely, mounting up thin with the smoke. There beneath him lay the huddled cluster of Caermaen, the ragged and uneven roofs that marked the winding and sordid streets, here and there a pointed gable rising above its meaner fellows; beyond he recognized the piled mounds that marked the circle of the amphitheatre, and the dark edge of trees that grew where the Roman wall whitened and waxed old beneath the frosts and rains of eighteen hundred years. Thin and strange, mingled together, the voices came up to him on the hill; it was as if an outland race inhabited the ruined city and talked in a strange language of strange and terrible things. The sun had slid down the sky, and hung quivering over the huge dark dome of the mountain like a burnt sacrifice, and then suddenly vanished. In the afterglow the clouds began to writhe and turn scarlet, and shone so strangely reflected in the pools of the snake-like river, that one would have said the still waters stirred, the fleeting and changing of the clouds seeming to quicken the stream, as if it bubbled and sent up gouts of blood. But already about the town the darkness was forming; fast, fast the shadows crept upon it from the forest, and from all sides banks and wreaths of curling mist were gathering, as if a ghostly leaguer were being built up against the city, and the strange race who lived in its streets. Suddenly there burst out from the stillness the clear and piercing music of the réveillé, calling, recalling, iterated, reiterated, and ending with one long high fierce shrill note with which the steep hills rang. Perhaps a boy in the school band was practicing on his bugle, but for Lucian it was magic. For him it was the note of the Roman trumpet, tuba mirum spargens sonum, filling all the hollow valley with its command, reverberated in dark places in the far forest, and resonant in the old graveyards without the walls. In his imagination he saw the earthen gates of the tombs broken open, and the serried legion swarming to the eagles. Century by century they passed by; they rose, dripping, from the river bed, they rose from the level, their armor shone in the quiet orchard, they gathered in ranks and companies from the cemetery, and as the trumpet sounded, the hill fort above the town gave up its dead. By hundreds and thousands the ghostly battle surged about the standard, behind the quaking mist, ready to march against the moldering walls they had built so many years before.

            He turned sharply; it was growing very dark, and he was afraid of missing his way. At first the path led him by the verge of a wood; there was a noise of rustling and murmuring from the trees as if they were taking evil counsel together. A high hedge shut out the sight of the darkening valley, and he stumbled on mechanically, without taking much note of the turnings of the track, and when he came out from the wood shadow to the open country, he stood for a moment quite bewildered and uncertain. A dark wild twilight country lay before him, confused dim shapes of trees near at hand, and a hollow below his feet, and the further hills and woods were dimmer, and all the air was very still. Suddenly the darkness about him glowed; a furnace fire had shot up on the mountain, and for a moment the little world of the woodside and the steep hill shone in a pale light, and he thought he saw his path beaten out in the turf before him. The great flame sank down to a red glint of fire, and it led him on down the ragged slope, his feet striking against ridges of ground, and falling from beneath him at a sudden dip. The bramble bushes shot out long prickly vines, amongst which he was entangled, and lower he was held back by wet bubbling earth. He had descended into a dark and shady valley, beset and tapestried with gloomy thickets; the weird wood noises were the only sounds, strange, unutterable mutterings, dismal, inarticulate. He pushed on in what he hoped was the right direction, stumbling from stile to gate, peering through mist and shadow, and still vainly seeking for any known landmark. Presently another sound broke upon the grim air, the murmur of water poured over stones, gurgling against the old misshapen roots of trees, and running clear in a deep channel. He passed into the chill breath of the brook, and almost fancied he heard two voices speaking in its murmur; there seemed a ceaseless utterance of words, an endless argument. With a mood of horror pressing on him, he listened to the noise of waters, and the wild fancy seized him that he was not deceived, that two unknown beings stood together there in the darkness and tried the balances of his life, and spoke his doom. The hour in the matted thicket rushed over the great bridge of years to his thought; he had sinned against the earth, and the earth trembled and shook for vengeance. He stayed still for a moment, quivering with fear, and at last went on blindly, no longer caring for the path, if only he might escape from the toils of that dismal shuddering hollow. As he plunged through the hedges the bristling thorns tore his face and hands; he fell amongst stinging-nettles and was pricked as he beat out his way amidst the gorse. He raced headlong, his head over his shoulder, through a windy wood, bare of undergrowth; there lay about the ground moldering stumps, the relics of trees that had thundered to their fall, crashing and tearing to earth, long ago; and from these remains there flowed out a pale thin radiance, filling the spaces of the sounding wood with a dream of light. He had lost all count of the track; he felt he had fled for hours, climbing and descending, and yet not advancing; it was as if he stood still and the shadows of the land went by, in a vision. But at last a hedge, high and straggling, rose before him, and as he broke through it, his feet slipped, and he fell headlong down a steep bank into a lane. He lay still, half-stunned, for a moment, and then rising unsteadily, he looked desperately into the darkness before him, uncertain and bewildered. In front it was black as a midnight cellar, and he turned about, and saw a glint in the distance, as if a candle were flickering in a farm-house window. He began to walk with trembling feet towards the light, when suddenly something pale started out from the shadows before him, and seemed to swim and float down the air. He was going down hill, and he hastened onwards, and he could see the bars of a stile framed dimly against the sky, and the figure still advanced with that gliding motion. Then, as the road declined to the valley, the landmark he had been seeking appeared. To his right there surged up in the darkness the darker summit of the Roman fort, and the streaming fire of the great full moon glowed through the bars of the wizard oaks, and made a halo shine about the hill. He was now quite close to the white appearance, and saw that it was only a woman walking swiftly down the lane; the floating movement was an effect due to the somber air and the moon's glamour. At the gate, where he had spent so many hours gazing at the fort, they walked foot to foot, and he saw it was Annie Morgan.

            "Good evening, Master Lucian," said the girl, "it's very dark, sir, indeed."

            "Good evening, Annie," he answered, calling her by her name for the first time, and he saw that she smiled with pleasure. "You are out late, aren't you?"

            "Yes, sir; but I've been taking a bit of supper to old Mrs. Gibbon. She's been very poorly the last few days, and there's nobody to do anything for her."

            Then there were really people who helped one another; kindness and pity were not mere myths, fictions of "society," as useful as Doe and Roe, and as non-existent. The thought struck Lucian with a shock; the evening's passion and delirium, the wild walk and physical fatigue had almost shattered him in body and mind. He was "degenerate," decadent, and the rough rains and blustering winds of life, which a stronger man would have laughed at and enjoyed, were to him "hail-storms and fire-showers." After all, Messrs Beit, the publishers, were only sharp men of business, and these terrible Dixons and Gervases and Colleys merely the ordinary limited clergy and gentry of a quiet country town; sturdier sense would have dismissed Dixon as an old humbug, Stanley Gervase, Esquire, J.P., as a "bit of a bounder," and the ladies as "rather a shoddy lot." But he was walking slowly now in painful silence, his heavy, lagging feet striking against the loose stones. He was not thinking of the girl beside him; only something seemed to swell and grow and swell within his heart; it was all the torture of his days, weary hopes and weary disappointment, scorn rankling and throbbing, and the thought "I had rather call the devils my brothers and live with them in hell." He choked and gasped for breath, and felt involuntary muscles working in his face, and the impulses of a madman stirring him; he himself was in truth the realization of the vision of Caermaen that night, a city with moldering walls beset by the ghostly legion. Life and the world and the laws of the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began. The Celt assailed him, becoming from the weird wood he called the world, and his far-off ancestors, the "little people," crept out of their caves, muttering charms and incantations in hissing inhuman speech; he was beleaguered by desires that had slept in his race for ages.

            "I am afraid you are very tired, Master Lucian. Would you like me to give you my hand over this rough bit?"

            He had stumbled against a great round stone and had nearly fallen. The woman's hand sought his in the darkness; as he felt the touch of the soft warm flesh he moaned, and a pang shot through his arm to his heart. He looked up and found he had only walked a few paces since Annie had spoken; he had thought they had wandered for hours together. The moon was just mounting above the oaks, and the halo round the dark hill brightened. He stopped short, and keeping his hold of Annie's hand, looked into her face. A hazy glory of moonlight shone around them and lit up their eyes. He had not greatly altered since his boyhood; his face was pale olive in color, thin and oval; marks of pain had gathered about the eyes, and his black hair was already stricken with grey. But the eager, curious gaze still remained, and what he saw before him lit up his sadness with a new fire. She stopped too, and did not offer to draw away, but looked back with all her heart. They were alike in many ways; her skin was also of that olive color, but her face was sweet as a beautiful summer night, and her black eyes showed no dimness, and the smile on the scarlet lips was like a flame when it brightens a dark and lonely land.

            "You are sorely tired, Master Lucian, let us sit down here by the gate."

            It was Lucian who spoke next: "My dear, my dear." And their lips were together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other fast. And then the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweethearts' breast, and burst into a passion of weeping. The tears streamed down his face, and he shook with sobbing, in the happiest moment that he had ever lived. The woman bent over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears were his consolation and his triumph. Annie was whispering to him, her hand laid on his heart; she was whispering beautiful, wonderful words, that soothed him as a song. He did not know what they meant.

            "Annie, dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have never heard such beautiful words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?"

            She laughed, and said it was only nonsense that the nurses sang to the children.

            "No, no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more," he said, when they parted, "you must call me Lucian; and I, I worship you, my dear Annie."

            He fell down before her, embracing her knees, and adored, and she allowed him, and confirmed his worship. He followed slowly after her, passing the path which led to her home with a longing glance. Nobody saw any difference in Lucian when he reached the rectory. He came in with his usual dreamy indifference, and told how he had lost his way by trying the short cut. He said he had met Dr. Burrows on the road, and that he had recommended the path by the fields. Then, as dully as if he had been reading some story out of a newspaper, he gave his father the outlines of the Beit case, producing the pretty little book called The Chorus in Green. The parson listened in amazement.

            "You mean to tell me that you wrote this book?" he said. He was quite roused.

            "No; not all of it. Look; that bit is mine, and that; and the beginning of this chapter. Nearly the whole of the third chapter is by me."

            He closed the book without interest, and indeed he felt astonished at his father's excitement. The incident seemed to him unimportant.

            "And you say that eighty or ninety pages of this book are yours, and these scoundrels have stolen your work?"

            "Well, I suppose they have. I'll fetch the manuscript, if you would like to look at it."

            The manuscript was duly produced, wrapped in brown paper, with Messrs

Beit's address label on it, and the post-office dated stamps.

            "And the other book has been out a month." The parson, forgetting the sacerdotal office, and his good habit of grinning, swore at Messrs Beit and Mr. Ritson, calling them damned thieves, and then began to read the manuscript, and to compare it with the printed book.

            "Why, it's splendid work. My poor fellow," he said after a while, "I had no notion you could write so well. I used to think of such things in the old days at Oxford; 'old Bill,' the tutor, used to praise my essays, but I never wrote anything like this. And this infernal ruffian of a Ritson has taken all your best things and mixed them up with his own rot to make it go down. Of course you'll expose the gang?"

            Lucian was mildly amused; he couldn't enter into his father's feelings at all. He sat smoking in one of the old easy chairs, taking the rare relish of a hot grog with his pipe, and gazing out of his dreamy eyes at the violent old parson. He was pleased that his father liked his book, because he knew him to be a deep and sober scholar and a cool judge of good letters; but he laughed to himself when he saw the magic of print. The parson had expressed no wish to read the manuscript when it came back in disgrace; he had merely grinned, said something about boomerangs, and quoted Horace with relish. Whereas now, before the book in its neat case, lettered with another man's name, his approbation of the writing and his disapproval of the "scoundrels," as he called them, were loudly expressed, and, though a good smoker, he blew and puffed vehemently at his pipe.

            "You'll expose the rascals, of course, won't you?" he said again.

            "Oh no, I think not. It really doesn't matter much, does it? After all, there are some very weak things in the book; doesn't it strike you as 'young?' I have been thinking of another plan, but I haven't done much with it lately. But I believe I've got hold of a really good idea this time, and if I can manage to see the heart of it I hope to turn out a manuscript worth stealing. But it's so hard to get at the core of an idea - the heart, as I call it," he went on after a pause. "It's like having a box you can't open, though you know there's something wonderful inside. But I do believe I've a fine thing in my hands, and I mean to try my best to work it."

            Lucian talked with enthusiasm now, but his father, on his side, could not share these ardors. It was his part to be astonished at excitement over a book that was not even begun, the mere ghost of a book flitting elusive in the world of unborn masterpieces and failures. He had loved good letters, but he shared unconsciously in the general belief that literary attempt is always pitiful, though he did not subscribe to the other half of the popular faith - that literary success is a matter of very little importance. He thought well of books, but only of printed books; in manuscripts he put no faith, and the paulo-post-futurum tense he could not in any manner conjugate. He returned once more to the topic of palpable interest.

            "But about this dirty trick these fellows have played on you. You won't sit quietly and bear it, surely? It's only a question of writing to the papers."

            "They wouldn't put the letter in. And if they did, I should only get laughed at. Some time ago a man wrote to the Reader, complaining of his play being stolen. He said that he had sent a little one-act comedy to Burleigh, the great dramatist, asking for his advice. Burleigh gave his advice and took the idea for his own very successful play. So the man said, and I daresay it was true enough. But the victim got nothing by his complaint. 'A pretty state of things,' everybody said. 'Here's a Mr. Tomson, that no one has ever heard of, bothers Burleigh with his rubbish, and then accuses him of petty larceny. Is it likely that a man of Burleigh's position, a playwright who can make his five thousand a year easily, would borrow from an unknown Tomson?' I should think it very likely, indeed," Lucian went on, chuckling, "but that was their verdict. No; I don't think I'll write to the papers."

            "Well, well, my boy, I suppose you know your own business best. I think you are mistaken, but you must do as you like."

            "It's all so unimportant," said Lucian, and he really thought so. He had sweeter things to dream of, and desired no communion of feeling with that madman who had left Caermaen some few hours before. He felt he had made a fool of himself, he was ashamed to think of the fatuity of which he had been guilty, such boiling hatred was not only wicked, but absurd. A man could do no good who put himself into a position of such violent antagonism against his fellow-creatures; so Lucian rebuked his heart, saying that he was old enough to know better. But he remembered that he had sweeter things to dream of; there was a secret ecstasy that he treasured and locked tight away, as a joy too exquisite even for thought till he was quite alone; and then there was that scheme for a new book that he had laid down hopelessly some time ago; it seemed to have arisen into life again within the last hour; he understood that he had started on a false tack, he had taken the wrong aspect of his idea. Of course the thing couldn't be written in that way; it was like trying to read a page turned upside down; and he saw those characters he had vainly sought suddenly disambushed, and a splendid inevitable sequence of events unrolled before him.

            It was a true resurrection; the dry plot he had constructed revealed itself as a living thing, stirring and mysterious, and warm as life itself. The parson was smoking stolidly to all appearance, but in reality he was full of amazement at his own son, and now and again he slipped sly furtive glances towards the tranquil young man in the arm-chair by the empty hearth. In the first place, Mr. Taylor was genuinely impressed by what he had read of Lucian's work; he had so long been accustomed to look upon all effort as futile that success amazed him. In the abstract, of course, he was prepared to admit that some people did write well and got published and made money, just as other persons successfully backed an outsider at heavy odds; but it had seemed as improbable that Lucian should show even the beginnings of achievement in one direction as in the other. Then the boy evidently cared so little about it; he did not appear to be proud of being worth robbing, nor was he angry with the robbers.

            He sat back luxuriously in the disreputable old chair, drawing long slow wreaths of smoke, tasting his whisky from time to time, evidently well at ease with himself. The father saw him smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his son was very handsome; he had such kind gentle eyes and a kind mouth, and his pale cheeks were flushed like a girl's. Mr. Taylor felt moved. What a harmless young fellow Lucian had been; no doubt a little queer and different from others, but wholly inoffensive and patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her contribution to the evening's discussion had been characteristic; she had remarked, firstly, that writing was a very unsettling occupation, and secondly, that it was extremely foolish to entrust one's property to people of whom one knew nothing. Father and son had smiled together at these observations, which were probably true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian along; he shook hands with a good deal of respect, and said, almost deferentially:

            "You mustn't work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn't stay up too late, if I were you, after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your way."

            "I'm not tired now, though. I feel as if I could write my new book on the spot"; and the young man laughed a gay sweet laugh that struck the father as a new note in his son's life.

            He sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He cherished his chief treasure of thought in its secret place; he would not enjoy it yet. He drew up a chair to the table at which he wrote or tried to write, and began taking pens and paper from the drawer. There was a great pile of ruled paper there; all of it used, on one side, and signifying many hours of desperate scribbling, of heart-searching and rack of his brain; an array of poor, eager lines written by a waning fire with waning hope; all useless and abandoned. He took up the sheets cheerfully, and began in delicious idleness to look over these fruitless efforts. A page caught his attention; he remembered how he wrote it while a November storm was dashing against the panes; and there was another, with a queer blot in one corner; he had got up from his chair and looked out, and all the earth was white fairyland, and the snowflakes whirled round and round in the wind. Then he saw the chapter begun of a night in March: a great gale blew that night and rooted up one of the ancient yews in the churchyard. He had heard the trees shrieking in the woods, and the long wail of the wind, and across the heaven a white moon fled awfully before the streaming clouds. And all these poor abandoned pages now seemed sweet, and past unhappiness was transmuted into happiness, and the nights of toil were holy. He turned over half a dozen leaves and began to sketch out the outlines of the new book on the unused pages; running out a skeleton plan on one page, and dotting fancies, suggestions, hints on others. He wrote rapidly, overjoyed to find that loving phrases grew under his pen; a particular scene he had imagined filled him with desire; he gave his hand free course, and saw the written work glowing; and action and all the heat of existence quickened and beat on the wet page. Happy fancies took shape in happier words, and when at last he leant back in his chair he felt the stir and rush of the story as if it had been some portion of his own life. He read over what he had done with a renewed pleasure in the nimble and flowing workmanship, and as he put the little pile of manuscript tenderly in the drawer he paused to enjoy the anticipation of tomorrow's labor.

            And then - but the rest of the night was given to tender and delicious things, and when he went up to bed a scarlet dawn was streaming from the east.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Dead Sentence" by Unknown Writer (in English)

art by Syd Check - Tomb of Terror #14 - Harvey Publications, Inc., March 1954.

Good Readings: "Pedro Ivo" by Castro Alves (in Portuguese)

Sonhava nesta geração bastarda
Glórias e liberdade!

....................................................

Era um leão sangrento, que rugia,
Da glória nos clarins se embriagava,
E vossa gente pálida recuava,
Quando ele aparecia.

ÁLVARES DE AZEVEDO

I
Rebramaram os ventos... Da negra tormenta
Nos montes de nuvens galopa o corcel...
Relincha — troveja... galgando no espaço
Mil raios desperta co'as patas revel.

É noite de horrores... nas grunas celestes,
Nas naves etéreas o vento gemeu...
E os astros fugiram, qual bando de garças
Das águas revoltas do lago do céu.

E a terra é medonha... As árvores nuas
Espectros semelham fincados de pé,
Com os braços de múmias, que os ventos retorcem,
Tremendo a esse grito, que estranho lhes é.

Desperta o infinito... Co'a boca entreaberta
Respira a borrasca do largo pulmão.
Ao longe o oceano sacode as espáduas
— Encélado novo calcado no chão.

É noite de horrores... Por ínvio caminho
Um vulto sombrio sozinho passou,
Co'a noite no peito, co'a noite no busto
Subiu pelo monte, — nas cimas parou.

Cabelos esparsos ao sopro dos ventos,
Olhar desvairado, sinistro, fatal,
Diríeis estátua roçando nas nuvens,
P'ra qual a montanha se fez pedestal.

Rugia a procela — nem ele escutava!...
Mil raios choviam — nem ele os fitou!
Com a destra apontando bem longe a cidade,
Após largo tempo sombrio falou!...

..........................................................................


II
Dorme, cidade maldita,
Teu sono de escravidão!...
Dorme, vestal da pureza,
Sobre os coxins do Sultão!...
Dorme, filha da Geórgia,
Prostituta em negra órgia
Sê hoje Lucrécia Bórgia
Da desonra no balcão!...

Dormir?!... Não! Que a infame grita
Lá se alevanta fatal...
Corre o champagne e a desonra
Na orgia descomunal...
Na fronte já tens um laço...
Cadeias de ouro no braço,
De pérolas um baraço,
— Adornos da saturnal!

Louca!... Nem sabes que as luzes,
Que acendeu p'ra as saturnais,
São do enterro de seus brios
Tristes círios funerais...
Que o seu grito de alegria
É o estertor da agonia,
A que responde a ironia
Do riso de Satanás!...

Morreste... E ao teu saimento
Dobra a procela no céu.
E os astros — olhar dos mortos —
A mão da noite escondeu.
Vê!... Do raio mostra a lampa
Mão de espectro, que destampa
Com dedos de ossos a campa,
Onde a glória adormeceu.

E erguem-se as lápides frias,
Saltam bradando os heróis:
"Quem ousa da eternidade
Roubar-nos o sono a nós?"
Responde o espectro: "A desgraça!
Que a realeza, que passa,
Com o sangue de vossa raça,
Cospe lodo sobre vós!..."

Fugi, fantasmas augustos!
Caveiras que coram mais
Do que essas faces vermelhas
Dos infames pariás!...
Fugi do solo maldito...
Embuçai-vos no infinito!
E eu por detrás do granito
Dos montes ocidentais...

Eu também fujo... Eu fugindo!...
Mentira desses vilões!...
Não foge a nuvem trevosa
Quando em asas de tufões,
Sobe dos céus à esplanada,
Para tomar emprestada
De raios uma outra espada,
À luz das constelações!...

Como o tigre na caverna
Afia as garras no chão,
Como em Elba amola a espada
Nas pedras — Napoleão,
Tal eu — vaga encapelada,
Recuo de uma passada,
P'ra levar de derribada
Rochedos, reis, multidões... !

III
"Pernambuco! Um dia eu vi-te
Dormido imenso ao luar,
Com os olhos quase cerrados,
Com os lábios — quase a falar
Do braço o clarim suspenso,
— O punho no sabre extenso
De pedra — recife imenso,
Que rasga o peito do mar...

E eu disse: Silêncio, ventos!
Cala a boca, furacão!
No sonho daquele sono
Perpassa a Revolução!
Este olhar que não se move
"Stá fito em — Oitenta e Nove —
Lê Homero — escuta Jove...
— Robespierre — Dantão.

Naquele crânio entra em ondas
O verbo de Mirabeau...
Pernambuco sonha a escada
Que também sonhou Jacó;
Cisma a República alçada,
E pega os copos da espada,
Enquanto em su'alma brada:
"Somos irmãos, Vergniaud."

Então repeti ao povo:
— Desperta do sono teu!
Sansão — derroca as colunas!
Quebra os ferros — Prometeu!
Vesúvio curvo — não pares,
lgnea coma solta aos ares,
Em lavas inunda os mares,
Mergulha o gládio no céu.

República!... Vôo ousado
Do homem feito condor!
Raio de aurora inda oculta
Que beija a fronte ao Tabor!
Deus! Por qu'enquanto que o monte
Bebe a luz desse horizonte,
Deixas vagar tanta fronte,
No vale envolto em negror?!...

Inda me lembro... Era, há pouco,
A luta! Horror!... Confusão!...
A morte voa rugindo
Da garganta do canhão!...
O bravo a fileira cerra!...
Em sangue ensopa-se a terra!...
E o fumo — o corvo da guerra —
Com as asas cobre a amplidão...

Cheguei!... Como nuvens tontas,
Ao bater no monte — além,
Topam, rasgam-se, recuam...
Tais a meus pés vi também
Hostes mil na luta inglória...
...Da pirâmide da glória
São degraus... Marcha a vitória,
Porque este braço a sustém.

Foi uma luta de bravos,
Como a luta do jaguar,
De sangue enrubesce a terra,
— De fogo enrubesce o ar!...
... Oh!... mas quem faz que eu não vença?
— O acaso... — avalanche imensa,
Da mão do Eterno suspensa,
Que a idéia esmaga ao tombar!...

Não importa! A liberdade
É como a hidra, o Anteu.
Se no chão rola sem forças,
Mais forte do chão se ergueu...
São os seus ossos sangrentos
Gládios terríveis, sedentos...
E da cinza solta aos ventos
Mais um Graco apareceu!...

.....................................................

Dorme, cidade maldita!
Teu sono de escravidão!
Porém no vasto sacrário
Do templo do coração,
Ateia o lume das lampas,
Talvez que um dia dos pampas
Eu surgindo quebre as campas
Onde te colam no chão.

Adeus! Vou por ti maldito
Vagar nos ermos pauis.
Tu ficas morta, na sombra,
Sem vida, sem fé, sem luz!...
Mas quando o povo acordado
Te erguer do tredo valado,
Virá livre, grande, ousado,
De pranto banhar-me a cruz!... "

IV
Assim falara o vulto errante e negro,
Como a estátua sombria do revés,
Uiva o tufão nas dobras de seu manto,
Como um cão do senhor ulula aos pés...

Inda um momento esteve solitário
Da tempestade semelhante ao deus,
Trocando frases com os trovões no espaço
Raios com os astros nos sombrios céus...

Depois sumiu-se dentre as brumas densas
Da negra noite — de su'alma irmã...
E longe... longe... no horizonte imenso
Ressonava a cidade cortesã!...

Vai!... Do sertão esperam-te as Termópilas
A liberdade ainda pulula ali...
Lá não vão vermes perseguir as águias,
Não vão escravos perseguir a ti!

Vai!... Que o teu manto de mil balas roto
É uma bandeira, que não tem rival.
— Desse suor é que Deus faz os astros...
Tens uma espada, que não foi punhal.

Vai, tu que vestes do bandido as roupas,
Mas não te cobres de uma vil libré
Se te renega teu país ingrato
O mundo, a glória tua pátria é!...
....................................................................

E foi-se... E inda hoje nas horas errantes,
Que os cedros farfalham, que ruge o tufão,
E os lábios da noite murmuram nas selvas
E a onça vagueia no vasto sertão.

Se passa o tropeiro nas ermas devesas,
Caminha medroso, figura-lhe ouvir
O infrene galope d'Espectra soberbo,
Com um grito de glória na boca a rugir.

Que importa se o túm'lo ninguém lhe conhece?
Nem tem epitáfio, nem leito, nem cruz?...
Seu túmulo é o peito do vasto universo,
Do espaço — por cúpula — as conchas azuis! ...

... Mas contam que um dia rolara o oceano
Seu corpo na praia, que a vida lhe deu...
Enquanto que a glória rolava sua alma
Nas margens da história, na areia do céu!...