eye‐sighthow
the
world
of
men
has
dealt
with
this
your
god
.
”
“
I
will
come
.
”
Sartorian
gazed
at
her
in
silence
.
“
You
are
a
barbarian
;
and
so
you
are
heroic
always
.
I
would
not
lie
to
you
,
and
here
I
have
no
need
.
Come
;
it
is
very
near
to
you
.
A
rood
of
stone
can
sever
two
lives
,
though
the
strength
of
all
the
world
cannot
unite
them
.
Come
.
”
She
gripped
the
knife
closer
,
and
,
with
feet
that
stumbled
as
the
feet
of
a
dumb
beast
that
goes
out
to
its
slaughter
,
followed
him
,
through
the
dark
and
narrow
ways
.
She
had
no
fear
for
herself
;
she
had
no
dread
of
treachery
or
peril
;
for
herself
she
could
be
strong
—
always
:
and
the
point
of
the
steel
was
set
hard
against
her
breast
.
But
for
him
?
—
had
the
gods
forgotten
?
had
he
forgot
?
She
was
sick
and
cold
and
white
with
terror
as
she
went
.
She
dreaded
the
unknown
thing
her
eyes
might
look
upon
.
She
dreaded
the
truth
that
she
had
sought
to
learn
all
through
the
burning
months
of
summer
,
all
through
the
horrors
of
the
crowded
city
.
Was
it
well
with
him
,
or
ill
?
Had
the
gods
remembered
at
last
?
Had
the
stubborn
necks
of
men
been
bent
to
his
feet
?
Was
he
free
?
—
free
to
rise
in
the
heights
of
lofty
desire
,
and
never
look
downward
—
in
pity
—
once
?
They
passed
in
silence
through
many
passage
ways
of
the
great
stone
hive
of
human
life
in
which
she
dwelt
.
Once
only
Sartorian
paused
and
looked
back
and
spoke
.
“
If
you
find
him
in
a
woman’s
arms
—
lost
in
a
sloth
of
passion
—
what
then
?
Will
you
stay
still
,
let
him
have
greatness
?
”
In
the
gloom
he
saw
her
stagger
as
though
struck
upon
the
head
.
But
she
rallied
and
gazed
at
him
in
answer
with
eyes
that
would
neither
change
nor
shrink
.
“
What
is
that
to
you
?
”
she
said
,
in
her
shut
teeth
.
“
Show
me
the
truth
:
as
for
him
—
he
has
a
right
to
do
as
he
will
.
Have
I
said
ever
otherwise
?
”
He
led
the
way
onward
in
silence
.
This
passion
,
so
heroic
even
in
its
barbarism
,
so
faithful
even
in
its
wretchedness
,
so
pure
even
in
its
abandonment
,
almost
appalled
him
—
and
yet
on
it
he
had
no
pity
.
By
his
lips
the
world
spoke
:
the
world
which
,
to
a
creature
nameless
,
homeless
,
godless
,
friendless
,
offered
only
one
choice
—
shame
or
death
;
and
for
such
privilege
of
choice
bade
her
be
thankful
to
men
and
to
their
deity
.
He
led
her
through
many
vaulted
ways
,
and
up
the
shaft
of
a
stone
stairway
in
a
distant
side
of
the
vast
pile
,
which
,
from
holding
many
habitants
of
kings
and
monks
and
scholars
,
had
become
the
populous
home
of
the
most
wretched
travailers
of
a
great
city
.
“
Wait
here
,
”
he
said
,
and
drew
her
backward
into
a
hollow
in
the
wall
.
It
was
nearly
dark
.
As
she
stood
there
in
the
darkness
looking
down
through
the
narrow
space
,
there
came
a
shadow
to
her
through
the
gloom
—
a
human
shadow
,
noiseless
and
voiceless
.
It
ascended
the
shaft
of
the
stairs
with
a
silent
swift
tread
and
passed
by
her
and
went
onward
;
as
it
passed
,
the
rays
of
her
lamp
were
shed
on
it
,
and
her
eyes
at
last
saw
the
face
of
Arslàn
.
It
was
pale
as
death
;
his
head
was
sunk
on
his
breast
;
his
lips
muttered
without
the
sounds
of
words
,
his
fair
hair
streamed
in
the
wind
;
he
moved
without
haste
,
without
pause
,
with
the
pulseless
haste
,
the
bloodless
quiet
of
a
phantom
.
She
had
heard
men
talk
of
those
who
being
dead
yet
dwelt
on
earth
and
moved
amidst
the
living
.
She
had
no
thought
of
him
in
that
moment
save
as
amongst
the
dead
.
But
he
,
dead
or
living
,
could
have
no
horror
for
her
;
he
,
dead
or
living
,
ruled
her
as
the
moon
the
sea
,
and
drew
her
after
him
,
and
formed
the
one
law
of
her
life
.
She
neither
trembled
nor
prayed
,
nor
wept
nor
laughed
,
nor
cried
aloud
in
her
inconceivable
joy
.
Her
heart
stood
still
,
as
though
some
hand
had
caught
and
gripped
it
.
She
was
silent
in
the
breathless
silence
of
an
unspeakable
awe
;
and
with
a
step
as
noiseless
as
his
own
she
glided
in
his
path
through
the
deep
shaft
of
the
stairs
,
upward
and
upward
through
the
hushed
house
,
through
the
innumerable
chambers
,
through
the
dusky
shadows
,
through
the
chill
of
the
bitter
dawn
,
through
the
close
hive
of
the
sleeping
creatures
,
up
and
up
,
into
the
very
roof
itself
,
where
it
seemed
to
meet
the
low
and
lurid
clouds
,
and
to
be
lifted
from
the
habitations
and
the
homes
of
men
.
A
doorway
was
open
;
he
passed
through
it
;
beyond
it
was
a
bare
square
place
through
which
there
came
the
feeblest
rays
of
dawn
,
making
the
yellow
oil
flame
that
burned
in
it
look
dull
and
hot
and
garish
.
He
passed
into
the
chamber
and
stood
still
a
moment
,
with
his
head
dropped
on
his
chest
and
his
lips
muttering
sounds
without
meaning
.
The
light
fell
on
his
face
;
she
saw
that
he
was
living
.
Crouched
on
his
threshold
,
she
watched
him
,
her
heart
leaping
with
a
hope
so
keen
,
a
rapture
so
intense
,
that
its
very
strength
and
purity
suffocated
her
like
some
mountain
air
too
pure
and
strong
for
human
lungs
to
breathe
.
He
walked
in
his
sleep
;
that
sleep
so
strange
and
so
terrible
,
which
drugs
the
sense
and
yet
stimulates
the
brain
:
in
which
the
sleeper
moves
,
acts
,
remembers
,
returns
to
daily
habits
,
and
resorts
to
daily
haunts
,
and
yet
to
all
the
world
around
him
is
deaf
and
blind
and
indifferent
as
the
dead
.
The
restless
brain
,
unstrung
by
too
much
travail
and
to
little
food
,
had
moved
the
limbs
unconsciously
to
their
old
haunts
and
habits
;
and
in
his
sleep
,
though
sightless
and
senseless
,
he
seemed
still
to
know
and
still
to
suffer
.
For
he
moved
again
after
a
moment’s
rest
,
and
passed
straight
to
the
wooden
tressels
on
which
a
great
canvas
was
outstretched
.
He
sank
down
on
a
rough
bench
in
front
of
it
,
and
passed
his
hand
before
the
picture
with
the
fond
caressing
gesture
with
which
a
painter
shows
to
another
some
wave
of
light
,
some
grace
of
colour
,
and
then
sat
there
,
stupidly
,
steadfastly
,
with
his
elbows
on
his
knees
and
his
head
on
his
hands
,
and
his
eyes
fastened
on
the
creation
before
him
.
It
was
a
rugged
,
desolate
,
wind‐blown
chamber
,
set
in
the
topmost
height
of
the
old
pile
,
beaten
on
by
all
snows
,
drenched
by
all
rains
,
rocked
by
all
storms
,
bare
,
comfortless
,
poor
to
the
direst
stretch
of
poverty
,
close
against
the
clouds
and
with
the
brazen
bells
and
teeming
roofs
of
the
city
close
beneath
.
She
saw
his
face
once
more
.
She
had
dwelt
by
him
for
many
weeks
,
and
no
sense
of
his
presence
had
come
to
her
,
no
instinct
had
awakened
in
him
towards
the
love
which
clung
to
him
with
a
faithfulness
only
as
great
as
its
humility
.
She
,
praying
always
to
see
this
man
once
more
,
and
die
—
had
been
severed
from
him
by
the
breadth
of
a
stone
as
by
an
ocean’s
width
;
and
he
—
doomed
to
fail
always
,
spending
his
life
in
one
endeavour
,
and
by
that
one
perpetually
vanquished
—
he
had
had
no
space
left
to
look
up
at
a
nameless
creature
with
lithe
golden
limbs
,
about
whose
head
the
white‐winged
pigeons
fluttered
at
twilight
on
the
house‐top
.
His
eyes
had
swept
over
her
more
than
once
;
but
they
had
had
no
sight
for
her
;
they
were
a
poet’s
eyes
that
saw
for
ever
in
fancy
faces
more
amorous
and
divine
,
limbs
lovelier
and
more
lily‐like
,
mouths
sweeter
and
more
persuasive
in
their
kiss
,
than
any
they
ever
saw
on
earth
.
One
passion
consumed
him
,
and
left
him
not
pause
,
nor
breath
,
nor
pity
,
nor
sorrow
for
any
other
thing
.
He
rested
from
his
work
and
knew
that
it
was
good
;
but
this
could
not
content
him
,
for
this
his
fellow‐men
denied
.
There
was
scarcely
any
light
,
but
there
was
enough
for
her
to
read
his
story
by
—
the
story
of
continual
failure
.
Yet
where
she
hid
upon
the
threshold
her
heart
beat
with
wildest
music
of
recovered
joy
:
she
had
found
him
,
and
she
had
found
him
alone
.
No
woman
leaned
upon
his
breast
;
no
soft
tossed
hair
bathed
his
arms
,
no
mouth
murmured
against
his
own
.
He
was
alone
.
Her
only
rival
was
that
one
great
passion
with
which
she
had
never
in
her
humility
dreamed
to
meet
herself
.
Dead
he
might
be
to
all
the
world
of
men
,
dead
in
his
own
sight
by
a
worse
fate
than
any
death
could
give
:
but
for
her
he
was
living
,
—
to
her
what
mattered
failure
or
scorn
,
famine
or
woe
,
defeat
or
despair
?
She
crouched
upon
his
threshold
now
,
and
trembled
,
with
the
madness
of
her
joy
,
and
courted
its
torture
.
She
dared
not
creep
and
touch
his
hand
,
she
dared
not
steal
and
kneel
a
moment
at
his
feet
.
He
had
rejected
her
.
He
had
had
no
need
of
her
.
He
had
left
her
with
the
first
hour
that
freedom
came
to
him
.
He
had
seen
her
beauty
,
and
learned
its
lines
and
hues
,
and
used
them
for
his
art
,
and
let
it
go
again
,
a
soulless
thing
that
gave
him
no
delight
;
a
thing
so
slight
that
he
had
thought
it
scarcely
worth
his
while
even
to
break
it
for
an
hour’s
sport
.
This
was
what
he
had
deemed
her
;
that
she
knew
.
She
accepted
the
fate
at
his
hands
with
the
submission
that
was
an
integral
part
of
the
love
she
bore
him
.
She
had
never
thought
of
equality
between
herself
and
him
;
he
might
have
beaten
her
,
or
kicked
her
,
as
a
brute
his
dog
,
and
she
would
not
have
resisted
nor
resented
.
To
find
him
,
to
watch
him
from
a
distance
,
to
serve
him
in
any
humble
ways
she
might
;
to
give
him
his
soul’s
desire
,
if
any
barter
of
her
own
soul
could
purchase
it
,
—
this
was
all
she
asked
.
She
had
told
him
that
he
could
have
no
sins
to
her
,
and
it
had
been
no
empty
phrase
.
She
crouched
on
his
threshold
,
not
daring
to
breathe
aloud
lest
he
should
hear
her
.
In
the
dull
light
of
dawn
and
of
the
sickly
lamp
she
saw
the
great
canvas
on
the
tressels
that
his
eyes
,
without
seeing
it
,
yet
stared
at
;
—
it
was
the
great
picture
of
the
Barabbas
,
living
its
completed
life
in
colour
:
beautiful
,
fearful
,
and
divine
,
full
of
its
majesty
of
godhead
and
its
mockery
of
man
.
She
knew
then
how
the
season
since
they
had
parted
had
been
spent
with
him
;
she
knew
then
,
without
any
telling
her
in
words
,
how
he
had
given
up
all
his
nights
and
days
,
all
his
scant
store
of
gold
,
all
leisure
and
comfort
and
peace
,
all
hours
of
summer
sunshine
and
of
midnight
cold
,
all
laughter
of
glad
places
,
and
all
pleasures
of
passion
or
of
ease
,
to
render
perfect
this
one
work
by
which
he
had
elected
to
make
good
his
fame
or
perish
.
And
she
knew
that
he
must
have
failed
;
failed
always
;
that
spending
his
life
in
one
endeavour
,
circumstance
had
been
stronger
than
he
,
and
had
baffled
him
perpetually
.
She
knew
that
it
was
still
in
vain
that
he
gave
his
peace
and
strength
and
passions
,
all
the
golden
years
of
manhood
,
and
all
the
dreams
and
delights
of
the
senses
;
and
that
,
although
these
were
a
treasure
which
once
spent
came
back
nevermore
to
the
hands
which
scattered
them
,
he
had
failed
to
purchase
with
them
,
though
they
were
his
all
,
this
sole
thing
which
he
besought
from
the
waywardness
of
fate
.
“
I
will
find
a
name
or
a
grave
,
”
he
had
said
,
when
they
had
parted
:
she
,
with
the
instinct
of
that
supreme
love
which
clung
to
him
with
a
faithfulness
only
equalled
by
its
humility
,
needed
no
second
look
upon
his
face
to
see
that
no
gods
had
answered
him
save
the
gods
of
oblivion
;
—
the
gods
whose
pity
he
rejected
and
whose
divinity
he
denied
.
For
to
the
proud
eyes
of
a
man
,
looking
eagle‐wise
at
the
far‐off
sun
of
a
great
ambition
,
the
coming
of
Thanatos
could
seem
neither
as
consolation
nor
as
vengeance
,
but
only
as
the
crowning
irony
in
the
mockery
and
the
futility
of
life
.
CHAPTER
VIII
.
THE
dawn
grew
into
morning
.
A
day
broke
full
of
winds
and
of
showers
,
with
the
dark
masses
of
clouds
tossed
roughly
hither
and
thither
,
and
the
bells
of
the
steeples
blown
harshly
out
of
time
and
tune
,
and
the
wet
metal
roofs
glistening
through
a
steam
of
rain
.
The
sleepers
wakened
of
themselves
or
dreamed
on
as
they
might
.
She
had
no
memory
of
them
.
She
crouched
in
the
gloom
on
his
threshold
,
watching
him
.
He
sank
awhile
into
profound
stupor
,
sitting
there
before
his
canvas
,
with
his
head
dropped
and
his
eyelids
closed
.
Then
suddenly
a
shudder
ran
through
him
;
he
awoke
with
a
start
,
and
shook
off
the
lethargy
which
drugged
him
.
He
rose
slowly
to
his
feet
,
and
looked
at
the
open
shutters
,
and
saw
that
it
was
morning
.
“
Another
day
—
another
day
!
”
he
muttered
,
wearily
;
and
he
turned
from
the
Barabbas
and
flung
himself
face
forward
on
his
bed
of
straw
.
Towards
the
form
on
his
threshold
he
had
never
looked
.
She
sat
without
and
waited
.
Waited
—
for
what
?
She
did
not
know
.
She
did
not
dare
even
to
steal
to
him
and
touch
his
hand
with
even
such
a
timid
caress
as
a
beaten
dog
ventures
to
give
the
hand
of
the
master
who
has
driven
it
from
him
.
For
even
a
beaten
dog
is
a
creature
less
humble
and
timid
than
a
woman
that
loves
and
whose
love
is
rejected
.
He
took
up
a
palette
ready
set
,
and
went
to
a
blank
space
of
canvas
and
began
to
cover
it
with
shapes
and
shadows
on
the
unconscious
creative
instinct
of
the
surcharged
brain
.
Faces
and
foilage
,
beasts
and
scrolls
,
the
heads
of
gods
,
the
folds
of
snakes
,
forms
of
women
rising
from
flames
and
clouds
,
the
flowers
of
Paradise
blossoming
amidst
the
corruption
and
tortures
of
Antenora
.
All
were
cast
in
confusion
,
wave
on
wave
,
shape
on
shape
,
horror
with
loveliness
,
air
with
flame
,
heaven
with
hell
,
in
all
the
mad
tumult
of
an
artist’s
dream
.
With
a
curse
he
flung
his
brushes
from
him
,
and
cast
himself
face
downward
on
his
bed
of
straw
.
The
riot
of
fever
was
in
his
blood
.
Famine
,
sleepless
nights
,
opiates
with
which
he
had
lulled
the
pangs
of
vain
desires
,
unnatural
defiance
of
all
passions
and
all
joys
,
the
pestilence
rife
in
the
crowded
quarter
of
the
poor
,
—
all
these
had
done
their
work
upon
him
.
He
had
breathed
in
the
foul
air
of
plague‐stricken
places
,
unconscious
of
its
peril
;
he
had
starved
his
body
,
reckless
of
the
flight
of
time
;
he
had
consumed
his
manhood
in
one
ceaseless
,
ruthless
,
and
absorbing
sacrifice
;
and
Nature
,
whom
he
had
thus
outraged
,
and
thought
to
outrage
with
impunity
as
mere
bestial
feebleness
,
took
her
vengeance
on
him
and
cast
him
here
,
and
mocked
him
,
crying
:
—
“
A
deathless
name
?
—
Oh
,
madman
.
A
little
breath
on
the
mouths
of
men
in
all
the
ages
to
come
?
—
Oh
,
fool
!
Hereafter
,
you
cry
?
—
oh
,
fool
!
—
heaven
and
earth
may
pass
away
,
like
a
scroll
that
is
burnt
into
ashes
,
and
the
future
you
live
for
may
never
come
—
neither
for
you
nor
the
world
.
What
you
may
gain
—
who
shall
say
?
But
all
you
have
missed
,
I
know
.
And
no
man
shall
scorn
me
—
and
pass
unscathed
.
”
There
came
an
old
lame
woman
by
,
laboriously
bearing
a
load
of
firewood
.
She
passed
beside
the
threshold
.
“
You
look
yonder
,
”
she
said
,
resting
her
eyes
on
the
stranger
crouching
on
the
threshold
.
“
Are
you
anything
to
that
man
?
”
Silence
only
answered
her
.
“
He
has
no
friends
,
”
muttered
the
cripple
.
“
No
human
being
has
ever
come
to
him
;
and
he
has
been
here
many
months
.
He
will
be
mad
—
very
soon
.
I
have
seen
it
before
.
Those
men
do
not
die
.
Their
bodies
are
too
strong
.
But
their
brains
go
,
—
look
you
.
And
their
brains
go
,
and
yet
they
live
—
to
fourscore
and
ten
many
a
time
—
shut
up
and
manacled
like
wild
beasts
.
”
Folle‐Farine
shivered
where
she
crouched
in
the
shadow
of
the
doorway
;
she
still
said
nothing
.
The
crone
mumbled
on
indifferent
of
answer
,
and
yet
pitiful
,
gazing
into
the
chamber
.
“
I
have
watched
him
often
;
he
is
fair
to
look
at
—
one
is
never
too
old
to
care
for
that
.
All
winter
,
spring
,
and
summer
he
has
lived
so
hard
:
—
so
cold
too
and
so
silent
—
painting
that
strange
thing
yonder
.
He
looks
like
a
king
—
he
lives
like
a
beggar
.
The
picture
was
his
god
,
—
see
you
.
And
no
doubt
he
has
set
his
soul
on
fame
—
men
will
.
All
the
world
is
mad
.
One
day
in
the
spring
time
it
was
sent
somewhere
—
that
great
thing
yonder
on
the
tressels
,
—
to
be
seen
by
the
world
,
no
doubt
.
And
whoever
its
fate
lay
with
would
not
see
any
greatness
in
it
,
or
else
no
eyes
would
look
.
It
came
back
as
it
went
.
No
doubt
they
knew
best
;
—
in
the
world
.
That
was
in
the
spring
of
the
year
.
He
has
been
like
this
ever
since
.
Walking
most
nights
;
—
starving
most
days
;
—
I
think
.
But
he
is
always
silent
.
”
The
speaker
raised
her
pails
and
went
slowly
,
muttering
as
she
limped
down
each
steep
stair
:
“
There
must
hang
a
crown
of
stars
,
I
suppose
—
somewhere
—
since
so
many
of
them
for
ever
try
to
reach
one
.
But
all
they
ever
get
here
below
is
a
crown
of
straws
in
a
madhouse
.
”
“
The
woman
says
aright
,
”
the
voice
of
Sartorian
murmured
low
against
her
ear
.
She
had
forgotten
that
he
was
near
from
the
first
moment
that
her
eyes
had
once
more
fed
themselves
upon
the
face
of
Arslàn
.
“
The
woman
says
aright
,
”
he
echoed
softly
.
“
This
man
will
perish
;
his
body
may
not
die
,
but
his
brain
will
—
surely
.
And
yet
for
his
life
you
would
give
yours
?
”
She
looked
up
with
a
gleam
of
incredulous
hope
;
she
was
yet
so
ignorant
;
she
thought
there
might
yet
be
ways
by
which
one
life
could
buy
another’s
from
the
mercy
of
earth
,
from
the
pity
of
heaven
.
“
Ah
!
”
she
murmured
with
a
swift
soft
trembling
eagerness
.
“
If
the
gods
would
but
remember
!
—
and
take
me
instead
.
But
they
forget
—
they
forget
always
.
He
smiled
.
“
Ay
,
truly
,
the
gods
forget
.
But
if
you
would
give
yourself
to
death
for
him
,
why
not
do
a
lesser
thing
?
—
give
your
beauty
—
Folle‐Farine
.
”
A
scarlet
flush
burnt
her
from
head
to
foot
.
For
once
she
mistook
his
meaning
.
She
thought
—
how
could
a
beauty
that
he
who
perished
there
had
scorned
,
have
rarity
or
grace
in
those
cold
eyes
,
or
force
or
light
enough
to
lure
him
from
his
grave
?
The
low
melody
of
the
voice
in
her
ear
flowed
on
.
“
See
you
—
what
he
lacks
is
only
the
sinew
that
gold
gives
.
What
he
has
done
is
great
.
The
world
rightly
seeing
must
fear
it
;
and
fear
is
the
highest
homage
the
world
ever
gives
.
But
he
is
penniless
;
and
he
has
many
foes
;
and
jealousy
can
with
so
much
ease
thrust
aside
the
greatness
which
it
fears
into
obscurity
,
when
that
greatness
is
marred
by
the
failures
and
the
feebleness
of
poverty
.
Genius
scorns
the
power
of
gold
:
it
is
wrong
;
gold
is
the
war
scythe
on
its
chariot
,
which
mows
down
the
millions
of
its
foes
and
gives
free
passage
to
the
sun‐coursers
,
with
which
it
leaves
those
heavenly
fields
of
light
for
the
gross
battle‐fields
of
earth
.
”
“
You
were
to
give
that
gold
,
”
she
muttered
,
in
her
throat
.
“
Nay
,
not
so
.
I
was
to
set
him
free
:
to
find
his
fame
or
his
grave
;
as
he
might
.
He
will
soon
find
one
,
no
doubt
.
Nay
;
you
would
make
no
bond
with
me
,
Folle‐Farine
.
You
scorned
my
golden
pear
.
Otherwise
—
how
great
his
genius
is
!
That
cruel
scorn
,
that
burning
colour
,
that
ice‐like
coldness
!
If
the
world
could
be
brought
to
see
them
once
aright
,
the
world
would
know
that
no
powers
greater
than
these
have
been
amongst
it
for
many
ages
.
But
who
shall
force
the
world
to
look
?
—
who
?
It
is
so
deaf
,
so
slow
of
foot
,
so
blind
,
unless
the
film
before
its
eyes
be
opened
by
gold
.
”
He
paused
and
waited
.
She
watched
silent
on
the
threshold
there
.
The
cruel
skill
of
his
words
cast
on
her
all
the
weight
of
this
ruin
which
they
watched
.
Her
love
must
need
be
weak
,
her
pledge
to
the
gods
must
needs
be
but
imperfectly
redeemed
,
since
she
,
who
had
bade
them
let
her
perish
in
his
stead
,
recoiled
from
the
lingering
living
death
of
any
shame
,
if
such
could
save
him
.
The
sweet
voice
of
Sartorian
murmured
on
:
“
Nay
;
it
were
easy
.
He
has
many
foes
.
He
daunts
the
world
and
scourges
it
.
Men
hate
him
,
and
thrust
him
into
oblivion
.
Yet
it
were
easy
!
—
a
few
praises
to
the
powerful
,
a
few
bribes
to
the
base
,
and
yonder
thing
once
lifted
up
in
the
full
light
of
the
world
,
would
make
him
great
—
beyond
any
man’s
dispute
—
for
ever
.
I
could
do
it
,
almost
in
a
day
;
and
he
need
never
know
.
But
then
you
are
not
tired
,
—
Folle‐Farine
!
”
She
writhed
from
him
,
as
the
doe
struck
to
the
ground
writhes
from
the
hounds
at
her
throat
.
“
Kill
me
!
”
she
muttered
.
“
Will
not
that
serve
you
?
Kill
me
—
and
save
him
!
”
Sartorian
smiled
.
“
Ah
!
you
are
but
weak
,
after
all
,
Folle‐Farine
.
You
would
die
for
that
man’s
single
sake
—
so
you
say
;
and
yet
it
is
not
him
whom
you
love
.
It
is
yourself
.
If
this
passion
of
yours
were
great
and
pure
,
as
you
say
,
would
you
pause
?
Could
you
ask
yourself
twice
if
what
you
think
your
shame
would
not
grow
noble
and
pure
beyond
all
honour
,
being
embraced
for
his
sake
?
Nay
;
you
are
weak
,
like
all
your
sex
.
You
would
die
,
so
you
say
.
To
say
it
is
easy
;
but
to
live
,
that
were
harder
.
You
will
not
sacrifice
yourself
—
so
.
And
yet
it
were
greater
far
,
Folle‐Farine
,
to
endure
for
his
sake
in
silence
one
look
of
his
scorn
,
than
to
brave
,
in
visionary
phrase
,
the
thrusts
of
a
thousand
daggers
,
the
pangs
of
a
thousand
deaths
.
Kill
you
!
—
vain
words
cost
but
little
.
But
to
save
him
by
sacrifice
that
he
shall
never
acknowledge
;
to
reach
a
heroism
which
he
shall
ever
regard
as
cowardice
;
to
live
and
see
him
pass
you
by
in
cold
contempt
,
while
in
your
heart
you
shut
your
secret
,
and
know
that
you
have
given
him
his
soul’s
desire
,
and
saved
the
genius
in
him
from
a
madman’s
cell
and
from
a
pauper’s
grave
—
ah
!
that
is
beyond
you
;
beyond
any
woman
perhaps
.
And
yet
your
love
seemed
great
enough
almost
to
reach
such
a
height
as
this
,
I
thought
.
”
He
looked
at
her
once
,
then
turned
away
.
He
left
in
her
soul
the
barbed
sting
of
remorse
.
He
had
made
her
think
her
faith
,
her
love
,
her
strength
,
her
sinless
force
,
were
but
the
cowardly
fruit
of
cruellest
self‐love
,
that
dared
all
things
in
words
,
—
yet
in
action
failed
.
To
save
him
by
any
martyrdom
of
her
body
or
her
soul
,
so
she
had
sworn
;
yet
now
!
—
Suddenly
she
seemed
base
to
herself
,
and
timorous
,
and
false
.
When
daybreak
came
fully
over
the
roofs
of
the
city
,
it
found
him
senseless
,
sightless
,
dying
in
a
garret
:
the
only
freedom
that
he
had
reached
was
the
delirious
liberty
of
the
brain
,
which
,
in
its
madness
,
casts
aside
all
bonds
of
time
and
place
and
memory
and
reason
.
All
the
day
she
watched
beside
him
,
there
,
amidst
the
brazen
clangour
of
the
bells
and
scream
of
the
rough
winds
above
the
roofs
.
In
the
gloom
of
the
place
,
the
burning
colour
of
the
great
canvas
of
Jerusalem
glowed
in
s
wondrous
pomp
and
power
against
all
the
grey
,
cold
poverty
of
that
wretched
place
.
And
the
wanton
laughed
with
her
lover
on
the
housetop
;
and
the
thief
clutched
the
rolling
gold
;
and
the
children
lapped
the
purple
steam
of
wasted
wine
;
and
the
throngs
flocked
after
the
thief
,
whom
they
had
elected
for
their
god
;
and
ever
and
again
a
stray
flickering
ray
of
light
flashed
from
the
gloom
of
the
desolate
chamber
,
and
struck
upon
it
till
it
glowed
like
flame
;
—
this
mighty
parable
,
whereby
the
choice
of
the
people
was
symbolised
for
all
time
;
the
choice
eternal
,
which
never
changes
,
but
for
ever
turns
from
all
diviner
life
to
grovel
in
the
dust
before
the
Beast
.
The
magnificence
of
thought
,
the
glory
of
imagination
,
the
radiance
of
colour
which
the
canvas
held
,
served
only
to
make
more
naked
,
more
barren
,
more
hideous
the
absolute
desolation
which
reigned
around
.
Not
one
grace
,
not
one
charm
,
not
one
consolation
had
been
left
to
the
life
of
the
man
who
had
sacrificed
all
things
to
the
inexorable
tyranny
of
his
genius
.
Destitution
,
in
its
ghastliest
and
most
bitter
meaning
,
was
alone
his
recompense
and
portion
.
Save
a
few
of
the
tools
and
pigments
of
his
art
,
and
a
little
opium
in
a
broken
glass
,
there
was
nothing
there
to
stand
between
him
and
utter
famine
.
When
her
eyes
had
first
dwelt
upon
him
lying
senseless
under
the
gaze
of
the
gods
,
he
had
not
been
more
absolutely
destitute
than
he
was
now
.
The
hard
sharp
outlines
of
his
fleshless
limbs
,
the
sunken
temples
,
the
hollow
cheeks
,
the
heavy
respiration
which
spoke
each
breath
a
pang
,
—
all
these
told
their
story
with
an
eloquence
more
cruel
than
lies
in
any
words
.
He
had
dared
to
scourge
the
world
without
gold
in
his
hand
wherewith
to
bribe
it
to
bear
his
stripes
;
and
the
world
had
been
stronger
than
he
,
and
had
taken
its
vengeance
,
and
had
cast
him
here
powerless
.
All
the
day
through
she
watched
beside
him
—
watched
the
dull
mute
suffering
of
stupor
,
which
was
only
broken
by
fierce
unconscious
words
muttered
in
the
unknown
tongue
of
his
birth
country
.
She
could
give
him
no
aid
,
no
food
,
no
succour
;
she
was
the
slave
of
the
poorest
of
the
poor
;
she
had
not
upon
her
even
so
much
as
a
copper
piece
to
buy
a
crust
of
bread
,
a
stoup
of
wine
,
a
little
cluster
of
autumn
fruit
to
cool
his
burning
lips
.
She
had
nothing
,
—
she
,
who
in
the
world
of
men
had
dared
to
be
strong
,
and
to
shut
her
lips
,
and
to
keep
her
hands
clean
,
and
her
feet
straight
;
she
,
whose
soul
had
been
closed
against
the
Red
Mouse
.
If
she
had
gone
down
amongst
the
dancing
throngs
,
and
rioted
with
them
,
and
feasted
with
them
,
and
lived
vilely
,
they
would
have
hung
her
breast
with
gems
,
and
paved
her
path
with
gold
.
That
she
knew
;
and
she
could
have
saved
him
.
Where
she
kneeled
beside
his
bed
she
drew
his
hands
against
her
heart
—
timidly
,
lest
consciousness
should
come
to
him
and
he
should
curse
her
and
drive
her
thence
;
—
and
laid
her
lips
on
them
,
and
bathed
them
in
the
scorching
dew
of
her
hot
tears
,
and
prayed
him
to
pardon
her
if
it
had
been
weakness
in
her
,
—
if
it
had
been
feebleness
and
self‐pity
thus
to
shrink
from
any
abasement
,
any
vileness
,
any
martyrdom
,
if
such
could
have
done
him
service
.
She
did
not
know
;
she
felt
astray
and
blind
,
and
full
of
guilt
.
It
might
be
—
so
she
thought
—
that
it
was
thus
the
gods
had
tested
her
;
thus
they
had
bade
her
suffer
shame
to
give
him
glory
;
thus
they
had
tried
her
strength
,
—
and
found
her
wanting
.
Herself
,
she
was
so
utterly
nothing
in
her
own
sight
,
and
he
was
so
utterly
all
in
all
;
her
life
was
a
thing
so
undesired
and
so
valueless
,
and
his
a
thing
so
great
and
so
measureless
in
majesty
,
that
it
seemed
to
her
she
might
have
erred
in
thrusting
away
infamy
,
since
infamy
would
have
brought
with
it
gold
to
serve
him
.
Dignity
,
innocence
,
strength
,
pride
—
what
right
had
she
to
these
,
what
title
had
she
to
claim
them
—
she
who
had
been
less
than
the
dust
from
her
birth
upward
?
To
perish
for
him
anyhow
—
that
was
all
that
she
had
craved
in
prayer
of
the
gods
.
And
she
watched
him
now
all
through
the
bitter
day
;
watched
him
dying
of
hunger
,
of
fever
,
of
endless
desire
,
of
continual
failure
,
—
and
was
helpless
.
More
helpless
even
than
she
had
been
when
first
she
had
claimed
back
his
life
from
Thanatos
.
Seven
days
she
watched
thus
by
him
amidst
the
metal
clangour
of
the
bells
,
amidst
the
wailing
of
the
autumn
winds
between
the
roofs
.
She
moistened
his
lips
with
a
little
water
:
it
was
all
he
took
.
A
few
times
she
left
him
and
stole
down
amidst
the
people
whom
she
had
served
,
and
was
met
by
a
curse
from
most
of
them
;
for
they
thought
that
she
tended
some
unknown
fever
which
she
might
bring
amidst
them
,
so
they
drove
her
back
and
would
hear
naught
of
her
.
A
few
,
more
pitiful
than
the
rest
,
flung
her
twice
or
thrice
a
little
broken
bread
;
she
took
it
eagerly
,
and
fed
on
it
,
knowing
that
she
must
keep
life
in
her
by
some
food
,
or
leave
him
utterly
alone
.
For
him
she
had
laid
down
all
pride
;
for
him
she
would
have
kissed
the
feet
of
the
basest
or
sued
to
the
lowest
for
alms
.
And
when
the
people
—
whose
debts
to
her
she
had
often
forgiven
,
and
whom
she
had
once
fancied
had
borne
her
a
little
love
—
drove
her
from
them
with
harshest
reviling
,
she
answered
nothing
,
but
dropped
her
head
and
turned
and
crept
again
up
the
winding
stairs
to
kneel
beside
his
couch
of
straw
,
and
wonder
,
in
the
bewildered
anguish
of
her
aching
brain
,
if
indeed
evil
were
good
,
—
since
evil
alone
could
save
him
.
Seven
days
went
by
;
the
chimes
of
the
bells
blown
on
the
wild
autumn
winds
in
strange
bursts
of
jangled
sound
;
the
ceaseless
murmur
of
the
city’s
crowd
surging
ever
on
the
silence
from
the
far
depths
below
;
sunrise
and
moonrise
following
one
another
with
no
change
in
the
perishing
life
that
she
alone
guarded
,
whilst
every
day
the
light
that
freshly
rose
upon
the
world
found
the
picture
of
the
Barabbas
,
and
shone
on
the
god
rejected
and
the
thief
adored
.
Every
night
during
those
seven
days
the
flute‐like
voice
of
her
tempter
made
hated
music
to
her
ear
.
It
asked
always
,
—
“
Are
you
tired
,
—
Folle‐Farine
?
”
Her
ears
were
always
deaf
;
her
lips
were
always
dumb
.
On
the
eigth
night
Sartorian
paused
a
little
longer
by
her
in
the
gloom
.
“
He
dies
there
,
”
he
said
,
slowly
resting
his
tranquil
musing
gaze
upon
the
bed
of
straw
.
“
It
is
a
pity
.
So
little
would
save
him
still
.
A
little
wine
,
a
little
fruit
,
a
little
skill
,
—
his
soul’s
desire
when
his
sense
returns
.
So
little
—
and
he
would
live
,
and
he
would
be
great
;
and
the
Barabbas
would
scourge
the
secret
sins
of
the
nations
,
and
the
nations
,
out
of
very
fear
and
very
shame
,
would
lift
their
voices
loud
and
hail
him
prophet
and
seer
.
”
Her
strength
was
broken
as
she
heard
.
She
turned
and
flung
herself
in
supplication
at
his
feet
.
“
So
little
—
so
little
;
and
you
hold
your
hand
!
”
Sartorian
smiled
.
“
Nay
;
you
hold
your
silence
,
Folle‐Farine
.
”
She
did
not
move
;
her
upraised
face
spoke
without
words
the
passion
of
her
prayer
.
“
Save
him
!
—
save
him
!
So
little
,
so
you
say
;
and
the
gods
will
not
hear
.
”
“
The
gods
are
all
dead
,
—
Folle‐Farine
.
”
“
Save
him
!
You
are
as
a
god
!
Save
him
!
”
“
I
am
but
a
mortal
,
—
Folle‐Farine
.
Can
I
open
the
gates
of
the
tomb
,
or
close
them
?
”
“
You
can
save
him
,
—
for
you
have
gold
.
”
He
smiled
still
.
“
Ah
!
you
learn
at
last
that
there
is
but
one
god
?
You
have
been
slow
to
believe
,
—
Folle‐Farine
.
”
She
clung
to
him
;
she
writhed
around
him
;
she
kissed
with
her
soilless
lips
the
base
dust
at
his
feet
.
“
You
hold
the
keys
of
the
world
;
you
can
save
the
life
of
his
body
;
you
can
give
him
the
life
of
his
soul
.
You
are
a
beast
,
a
devil
,
a
thing
foul
and
unclean
,
and
without
mercy
,
and
cruel
as
a
lie
;
and
therefore
you
are
the
thing
that
men
follow
,
and
worship
,
and
obey
.
I
know
!
—
I
know
!
You
can
save
him
if
you
will
!
”
She
laughed
where
she
was
stretched
upon
the
ground
,
a
laugh
that
stayed
the
smile
upon
his
mouth
.
He
stooped
,
and
the
sweetness
of
his
voice
was
low
and
soft
as
the
south
wind
.
“
I
will
save
him
,
if
you
say
that
you
are
tired
,
—
Folle‐Farine
.
”
Where
she
was
stretched
face
downward
at
his
feet
she
shuddered
,
as
though
the
folds
of
a
snake
curled
round
her
,
and
stifled
her
,
and
slew
her
with
a
touch
.
“
I
cannot
!
”
she
muttered
faintly
in
her
throat
.
“
Then
let
him
die
!
”
he
said
;
and
turned
away
.
Once
again
he
smiled
,
—
and
left
her
.
The
hours
passed
;
she
did
not
move
;
stretched
there
,
she
wrestled
with
her
agony
as
the
fate‐pursued
wrestled
with
their
doom
on
the
steps
of
the
temple
,
while
the
dread
Eumenides
drew
round
them
and
waited
—
waiting
in
cold
patience
for
the
slow
sure
end
.
She
arose
and
went
to
Arslàn’s
side
as
a
dying
beast
in
the
public
roadway
under
a
blow
staggers
to
its
feet
to
breathe
its
last
.
“
Let
him
die
!
”
she
muttered
,
with
lips
dry
as
the
lips
of
the
dead
.
“
Let
him
die
!
”
Once
more
the
choice
was
left
to
her
.
So
men
said
:
and
the
gods
were
dead
.
An
old
creature
,
with
a
vulture’s
eyes
and
bony
fingers
,
and
rags
that
were
plague‐stricken
with
the
poisons
of
filth
and
of
disease
,
had
followed
and
looked
at
her
in
the
doorway
,
and
kicked
her
where
she
lay
.
“
He
owes
me
twenty
days
for
the
room
,
”
he
muttered
,
while
his
breath
scorched
her
throat
with
the
fumes
of
drink
.
“
A
debt
is
a
debt
.
To‐morrow
I
will
take
the
canvas
;
it
will
do
to
burn
.
You
shiver
?
—
fool
!
If
you
chose
,
you
could
fill
this
garret
with
gold
this
very
night
.
But
you
love
this
man
,
and
so
you
let
him
perish
while
you
prate
of
‘shame.’
Oh‐ho
!
that
is
a
woman
!
”
He
went
away
through
the
blackness
and
the
stench
,
muttering
,
as
he
struck
his
staff
upon
each
stair
:
“
The
picture
will
feed
the
stove
;
the
law
will
give
me
that
.
”
She
heard
and
shivered
,
and
looked
at
the
bed
of
straw
,
and
on
the
great
canvas
of
the
Barabbas
.
Before
another
day
had
come
and
gone
,
he
would
lie
in
the
common
ditch
of
the
poor
,
and
the
work
of
his
hand
would
be
withered
,
as
a
scroll
withers
in
a
flame
.
If
she
tried
once
more
?
If
she
sought
human
pity
,
human
aid
?
Some
deliverance
,
some
mercy
,
—
who
could
say
?
—
might
yet
be
found
,
she
thought
.
The
gods
were
dead
;
but
men
—
were
they
all
more
wanton
than
the
snake
,
more
cruel
than
the
scorpion
?
For
the
first
time
in
seven
days
she
left
his
side
to
go
forth
into
the
living
world
.
She
rose
and
staggered
for
the
garret
,
down
the
stairway
,
into
the
lower
stories
of
the
wilderness
of
wood
and
stone
.
She
traced
her
way
blindly
to
the
places
she
had
known
.
They
closed
their
doors
in
haste
,
and
fled
from
her
in
terror
.
They
had
heard
that
she
had
gone
to
tend
some
madman
plague‐stricken
with
some
nameless
fever
;
and
those
wretched
lives
to
life
clung
closely
,
with
a
frantic
love
.
One
woman
she
stayed
,
and
held
with
timid
,
eager
hands
.
Of
this
woman
she
had
taken
nothing
all
the
summer
long
in
wage
for
waking
her
tired
eyes
at
daybreak
.
“
Have
pity
!
”
she
muttered
.
“
You
are
poor
,
indeed
,
I
know
;
but
help
me
.
He
dies
there
!
”
The
woman
shook
her
off
and
shrank
.
“
Get
you
gone
,
”
she
cried
.
“
My
little
child
will
sicken
if
you
breathe
on
her
!
”
The
others
said
the
same
,
some
less
harshly
,
some
more
harshly
.
Twice
or
thrice
they
added
:
“
You
beg
of
us
,
and
send
the
jewels
back
?
Go
and
be
wise
.
Make
your
harvest
of
gold
whist
you
can
.
Reap
while
you
may
in
the
yellow
fields
with
the
sharp
sure
sickle
of
youth
!
”
Not
one
amongst
them
braved
the
peril
of
a
touch
of
pity
;
not
one
amongst
them
asked
the
story
of
her
woe
;
and
when
the
little
children
ran
to
her
their
mothers
plucked
them
back
,
and
cried
:
“
Art
mad
?
She
is
plague‐stricken
.
”
She
went
from
them
in
silence
,
and
left
them
and
passed
out
into
the
open
air
.
In
all
this
labyrinth
of
roofs
,
in
all
these
human
herds
she
yet
thought
,
“
Surely
there
must
be
some
who
pity
?
”
For
even
yet
she
was
so
young
;
and
even
yet
she
knew
the
world
so
little
.
She
went
out
into
the
streets
.
Her
brain
was
on
fire
,
and
her
heart
seemed
frozen
;
her
lips
moved
without
sound
,
and
unconsciously
shaped
the
words
which
night
and
day
pursued
her
,
“
A
little
gold
—
a
little
gold
!
”
So
slight
a
thing
,
they
said
,
and
yet
high
above
reach
as
Aldebaran
,
when
it
glistened
through
the
storm
wrack
of
the
rain
.
Why
could
he
have
not
been
content
,
as
she
had
been
,
with
the
rush
of
the
winds
over
the
plains
,
the
strife
of
the
flood
and
the
hurricane
,
the
smell
of
the
fruit‐hung
ways
at
night
,
the
cool
green
shadows
of
the
summer
woods
,
the
courses
of
the
clouds
,
the
rapture
of
the
keen
air
blowing
from
the
sea
,
the
flight
of
a
bird
over
the
tossing
poppies
,
the
day
song
of
the
lark
,
—
all
these
were
life
enough
for
her
;
were
freedom
,
loveliness
,
companionship
,
and
solace
.
Ah
,
God
!
she
thought
,
if
only
these
had
made
the
world
of
his
desires
likewise
.
And
even
in
her
ghastlier
grief
her
heart
sickened
for
them
in
vain
anguish
as
she
went
—
these
the
pure
joys
of
earth
and
air
which
were
her
only
heritage
.
She
went
out
into
the
streets
.
It
was
a
night
of
wind
and
rain
.
The
lamps
flickered
through
the
watery
darkness
.
Beggars
and
thieves
and
harlots
jostled
her
in
the
narrow
ways
.
“
It
must
be
Hell
—
the
hell
of
the
Christians
,
”
she
muttered
,
as
she
stood
alone
on
the
flints
of
the
roads
,
in
the
rancid
smell
,
in
the
hideous
riot
,
in
the
ghastly
mirth
,
in
the
choking
stench
,
in
the
thick
steam
of
the
darkness
,
whose
few
dull
gleams
of
yellow
light
served
to
show
the
false
red
on
a
harlot’s
cheek
,
or
the
bleeding
wound
on
a
crippled
horse
,
or
the
reeling
dance
of
a
drunkard
.
It
was
the
hell
of
the
Christians
:
in
it
there
was
no
hope
for
her
.
She
moved
on
with
slow
unconscious
movement
of
her
limbs
;
her
hair
blew
back
,
her
eyes
had
a
pitiless
wonder
in
their
vacant
stare
;
her
bloodless
face
had
the
horror
in
it
that
Greek
sculptors
gave
to
the
face
of
those
whom
a
relentless
destiny
pursued
and
hunted
down
;
ever
and
again
she
looked
back
as
she
went
,
as
though
some
nameless
,
shapeless
,
unutterable
horror
were
behind
her
in
her
steps
.
The
people
called
her
mad
,
and
laughed
and
hooted
her
;
when
they
had
any
space
to
think
of
her
at
all
.
“
A
little
food
,
a
little
wine
,
for
pity’s
sake
,
”
she
murmured
;
for
her
own
needs
she
had
never
asked
a
crust
in
charity
,
but
for
his
,
—
she
would
have
kissed
the
mud
from
the
feet
of
any
creature
who
would
have
had
thus
much
of
mercy
.
In
answer
they
only
mocked
her
,
some
struck
her
int
he
palm
of
her
outstretched
hand
.
Some
called
her
by
foul
names
;
some
seized
her
with
a
drunken
laugh
,
and
cursed
her
as
she
writhed
from
their
lewd
hold
;
some
,
and
these
often
women
,
whispered
to
her
of
the
bagnio
and
the
brothel
;
some
muttered
against
her
as
a
thief
;
one
,
a
youth
,
who
gave
her
the
gentlest
answer
that
she
had
,
murmured
in
her
ear
,
“
a
beggar
?
with
that
face
?
come
tarry
with
me
to‐night
.
”
She
went
on
through
the
sulphurous
yellow
gare
,
and
the
poisonous
steam
of
these
human
styes
,
shuddering
from
the
hands
that
grasped
,
the
voices
that
wooed
her
,
the
looks
that
ravished
her
,
the
laughs
that
mocked
her
.
It
was
the
hell
of
the
Christians
;
it
was
a
city
at
midnight
;
and
its
very
stones
seemed
to
arise
and
give
tongue
in
her
derision
and
cry
,
“
Oh
,
fool
,
you
dreamt
of
a
sacrifice
which
should
be
honour
;
of
a
death
,
which
should
be
release
;
of
a
means
whereby
through
you
the
world
should
hear
the
old
songs
of
the
gods
?
Oh
,
fool
!
We
are
Christians
here
:
and
we
only
gather
the
reeds
of
the
river
to
bruise
them
and
break
them
,
songless
and
dead
,
in
the
name
of
our
Lord
.
”
She
stumbled
on
through
the
narrow
ways
.
After
a
little
space
they
widened
,
and
the
lights
multiplied
,
and
through
the
rushing
rains
she
saw
the
gay
casements
of
the
houses
of
pleasure
.
On
a
gust
of
wind
there
came
a
breath
of
fragrance
from
a
root
of
autumn
blossom
in
a
balcony
.
The
old
sweet
woodland
smell
smote
her
as
with
a
blow
;
the
people
in
the
street
looked
after
her
.
“
She
is
mad
,
”
they
said
to
one
another
,
and
went
onward
.
She
came
to
a
broad
place
,
which
even
in
that
night
of
storm
was
still
a
blaze
of
fire
,
and
seemed
to
her
to
laugh
through
all
its
marble
mask
,
and
all
its
million
eyes
of
golden
light
.
A
cruel
laugh
which
mocked
and
said
:
“
The
seven
chords
of
the
lyre
;
who
listens
,
who
cares
,
who
has
ears
to
hear
?
But
the
rod
of
wealth
all
women
kiss
,
and
to
its
rule
all
men
crawl
;
for
ever
.
You
dreamt
to
give
him
immortality
?
—
fool
!
Give
him
gold
—
give
him
gold
!
We
are
Christians
here
:
and
we
have
but
one
God
.
”
Under
one
of
the
burning
cressets
of
flame
there
was
a
slab
of
stone
on
which
were
piled
,
bedded
in
leaves
,
all
red
and
gold
,
with
pomp
of
autumn
,
the
fruit
of
the
vine
in
great
clear
pyramids
of
white
and
purple
;
tossed
there
so
idly
in
such
profusion
from
the
past
vintage
time
,
that
a
copper
coin
or
two
could
buy
a
feast
for
half
a
score
of
months
.
Some
of
the
clusters
rotted
already
from
their
over
ripeness
.
She
looked
at
them
with
the
passionate
woful
eyes
of
a
dog
mad
with
thirst
,
which
can
see
water
and
yet
cannot
reach
it
.
She
leaned
towards
them
,
she
caught
their
delicious
coldness
in
her
burning
hands
,
she
breathed
in
their
old
familiar
fragrance
with
quick
convulsive
breath
.
“
He
dies
there
!
”
she
muttered
,
lifting
her
face
to
the
eyes
of
the
woman
guarding
her
.
“
He
dies
there
;
would
you
give
me
a
little
cluster
,
ever
such
a
little
one
,
to
cool
his
mouth
,
for
pity’s
sake
?
”
The
woman
thrust
her
away
,
and
raised
,
shrill
and
sharp
through
all
the
clamour
of
the
crowd
,
the
cry
of
thief
.
A
score
of
hands
were
stretched
to
seize
her
,
only
the
fleetness
of
her
feet
saved
her
.
She
escaped
from
them
,
and
as
a
hare
flies
to
her
form
,
so
she
fled
to
the
place
whence
she
came
.
She
had
done
all
she
could
;
she
had
made
one
effort
,
for
his
sake
;
and
all
living
creatures
had
repulsed
her
.
None
would
believe
;
none
would
pity
;
none
would
hear
.
Her
last
strength
was
broken
,
her
last
faint
hope
had
failed
.
In
her
utter
wretchedness
she
ceased
to
wonder
,
she
ceased
to
revolt
,
she
accepted
the
fate
which
all
men
told
her
was
her
heritage
and
portion
.
“
It
was
I
who
was
mad
,
”
she
thought
,
“
so
mad
,
so
vain
,
to
dream
that
I
might
ever
be
chosen
as
the
reed
was
chosen
.
If
I
can
save
him
,
anyhow
,
what
matter
,
what
matter
for
me
?
”
She
went
back
to
the
place
where
he
lay
—
dying
,
unless
help
came
to
him
.
She
climbed
the
stairway
,
and
stole
through
the
foulness
and
the
darkness
of
the
winding
ways
,
and
retraced
her
steps
,
and
stood
upon
his
threshold
.
She
had
been
absent
but
one
hour
;
yet
already
the
last
,
most
abject
,
most
wretched
penalty
of
death
had
come
to
him
.
They
robbed
him
in
his
senselessness
.
The
night
was
wet
.
The
rain
dropped
through
the
roof
.
The
rats
fought
on
the
floor
and
climbed
the
walls
.
The
broken
lattice
blew
to
and
fro
with
every
gust
of
wind
.
A
palsied
crone
,
with
ravenous
hands
;
sheared
the
locks
of
his
fair
hair
,
muttering
,
“
They
will
fetch
a
stoup
of
brandy
;
and
they
would
take
them
to‐morrow
in
the
dead‐house
.
”
The
old
man
who
owned
the
garret
crammed
into
a
wallet
such
few
things
of
metal
,
or
of
wood
,
or
of
paper
,
as
were
left
in
the
utter
poverty
of
the
place
,
muttering
as
he
gathered
the
poor
shreds
of
art
,
“
They
will
do
to
burn
;
they
will
do
to
burn
.
At
sunrise
I
will
get
help
and
carry
the
great
canvas
down
.
”
The
rats
hurried
to
their
holes
at
the
light
;
the
hag
let
fall
her
shears
,
and
fled
through
an
opening
in
the
wall
.
The
old
man
looked
up
and
smiled
with
a
ghastly
leer
upon
her
in
the
shadows
.
“
To‐morrow
I
will
have
the
great
canvas
,
”
he
said
,
as
he
passed
out
,
bearing
his
wallet
with
him
.
“
And
the
students
will
give
me
a
silver
bit
,
for
certain
,
for
that
fine
corpse
of
his
.
It
will
make
good
work
for
their
knives
and
their
moulding‐clay
.
And
he
will
be
dead
to‐morrow
;
—
dead
,
dead
.
”
And
he
grinned
in
her
eyes
as
he
passed
her
.
A
shiver
shook
her
;
she
said
nothing
;
it
seemed
to
her
as
though
she
would
never
speak
again
.
She
set
down
her
lamp
,
and
crossed
the
chamber
,
and
kneeled
down
beside
the
straw
that
made
his
bed
.
She
was
quite
calm
.
She
knew
that
the
world
gave
her
one
chance
—
one
only
.
She
knew
that
men
alone
reigned
,
and
that
the
gods
were
dead
.
She
flung
herself
beside
him
on
the
straw
and
wound
her
arms
about
him
,
and
laid
his
head
to
rest
upon
her
heart
;
one
moment
—
he
would
never
know
.
Between
them
there
would
be
for
ever
silence
.
He
would
never
know
.
Greatness
would
come
to
him
,
and
the
dominion
of
gold
;
and
the
work
of
his
hands
would
pass
amidst
the
treasures
of
the
nations
;
and
he
would
live
and
arise
and
say
,
“
the
desire
of
my
heart
is
mine
,
”
—
and
yet
he
would
never
know
that
one
creature
had
so
loved
him
that
she
had
perished
more
horribly
than
by
death
to
save
him
.
If
he
lived
to
the
uttermost
years
of
man
,
he
would
never
know
how
,
body
and
soul
,
she
had
passed
away
to
destruction
for
his
sake
.
To
die
for
him
!
She
laughed
to
think
how
sweet
and
calm
such
sacrifice
as
that
had
been
.
Amidst
the
folded
lilies
,
on
the
white
waters
,
as
the
moon
rose
,
—
she
laughed
to
think
how
she
had
sometimes
dreamed
to
slay
herself
in
such
tender
summer
peace
for
him
.
That
was
how
women
perished
when
men
loved
,
and
loved
enough
to
die
with
them
,
their
lips
upon
each
other’s
to
the
last
.
But
she
—
Death
in
peace
;
sacrifice
in
honour
;
a
little
memory
in
a
human
heart
;
a
little
place
in
a
great
hereafter
;
there
were
things
too
noble
for
her
—
so
they
said
.
A
martyrdom
in
shame
;
a
life
in
ignominy
—
these
were
all
to
which
she
might
aspire
—
so
they
said
.
Upon
his
breast
women
would
sink
to
sleep
;
amongst
his
hair
their
hands
would
wander
,
and
on
his
mouth
their
sighs
would
spend
themselves
.
Shut
in
the
folded
leaves
of
the
unblossomed
years
some
dreams
of
passion
and
some
flower
of
love
must
lie
for
him
—
that
she
knew
.
She
loved
him
with
that
fierce
and
envious
force
which
grudged
the
wind
its
privilege
to
breathe
upon
his
lips
,
the
earth
its
right
to
bear
his
footsteps
,
which
was
for
ever
jealous
of
the
mere
echo
of
his
voice
,
avaricious
of
the
mere
touch
of
his
hand
.
And
when
she
gave
him
to
the
future
,
she
gave
him
to
other
eyes
,
that
would
grow
blind
with
passion
,
meeting
his
;
to
other
forms
,
that
would
burn
with
sweetest
shame
beneath
his
gaze
;
to
other
lives
,
whose
memories
would
pass
with
his
to
the
great
Hereafter
,
made
immortal
by
his
touch
:
all
these
she
gave
,
she
knew
.
Almost
it
was
stronger
than
her
strength
.
Almost
she
yielded
to
the
desire
which
burned
in
her
to
let
him
die
,
—
and
die
there
with
him
,
—
and
so
hold
him
for
ever
hers
,
and
not
the
world’s
;
his
and
none
other’s
in
the
eternal
unison
of
the
grave
,
so
that
with
hers
his
beauty
should
be
consumed
,
and
so
that
with
hers
his
beauty
should
be
shut
from
human
sight
,
and
the
same
corruption
feed
together
on
their
hearts
.
Almost
she
yielded
;
but
the
greatness
of
her
love
was
stronger
than
its
vileness
,
and
its
humility
was
more
perfect
than
its
cruelty
.
It
seemed
to
her
,
—
mad
,
and
bruised
,
and
stunned
with
her
misery
,
—
that
for
a
thing
so
worthless
and
loveless
and
despised
as
she
to
suffer
the
deadliest
shame
to
save
a
life
so
great
as
his
was
,
after
all
,
a
fate
more
noble
than
she
could
have
hoped
.
For
her
—
what
could
it
matter
?
—
a
thing
baser
than
the
dust
,
—
whether
the
feet
of
men
trampled
her
in
scorn
a
little
more
,
a
little
less
,
before
she
sank
away
into
the
eternal
night
wherein
all
things
are
equal
and
all
things
forgotten
?
CHAPTER
IX
.
THAT
night
the
moon
found
the
Red
Mouse
,
and
said
:
“
Did
I
not
declare
aright
?
Over
every
female
thing
you
are
victorious
—
soon
or
late
?
”
“
But
the
Red
Mouse
answered
:
—
“
Nay
,
not
so
.
For
the
soul
still
is
closed
against
me
;
and
the
soul
still
is
pure
.
But
this
men
do
not
see
,
and
women
cannot
know
;
—
they
are
so
blind
.
”
CHAPTER
X
.
ERE
another
year
had
been
fully
born
,
the
world
spoke
in
homage
and
in
wonder
of
two
things
.
The
one
,
—
a
genius
which
had
suddenly
arisen
in
its
midst
,
and
taken
vengeance
for
the
long
neglect
of
bitter
years
,
