CHAPTER XX.

THE RETURN TO ATHENS.

Although Thoth assured Daphne in the most explicit manner that the whole assembly of the royal race must have perished, she insisted upon instant flight.

The danger had been so great and the culminating events so appalling, that she desired above everything to be hundreds of leagues from the scene.

Thoth became silent and gloomy, and most reluctantly agreed to obey her requests. Daphne attempted to soothe him, and to make his deed appear great and noble, but without effect.

“Surely thou dost not repent?” she said.

He replied as if he had not heard her question—

“Canst thou not remain with me a few months in this city until I arrange some kind of order? There are none left now but the people thou hast seen, as harmless as sheep, and, without a ruler, as helpless. My brothers were weaker than I, but every one played some necessary part. If I leave the city without a guiding mind, a disaster is possible. Why art thou in such haste to be gone? Thine enemies are irrevocably dead.”

“I fear even the dead,” she answered. “I cannot stay in this place.”

“Not even with me—in the first glow of our love?”

“Restore me to Greece,” she said, “and then, if thou wilt, return hither and put in order the affairs of thy giants and pigmies.”

“And this,” he said bitterly, “is thy love, when for thee I have sacrificed everything.”

“Restore me to Greece,” she said; “I can stay no longer in this dreadful place.”

He yielded, and in silence conducted her to the car. Then he said to her with gentle, affectionate persuasion—

“Drink again of the nepenthe, and thou shalt awake in Athens.”

She hesitated, as if with distrust, and he said with a tone of reproach—

“Nay, if I intended harm to thee, there are still a thousand ways in which I could show my power.”

She drank as he bade her, and again felt the strange soothing effect of the drug.

* * * * *

She was awakened by the words of Thoth.

“Thou art at the rocks from which we departed, and the dawn is near at hand. Here is abundance of gold and jewels. Meet me at daybreak in the same place in ten days.”

He kissed her hand and said—

“I return to my people to set the city in order.”

And without further farewell he entered the car and disappeared.

* * * * *

Some peasants found Daphne and took her into the city.

The plague had vanished, and she found that many friends and companions had survived. When questioned as to her journey, she said simply that the vessel had been wrecked, and that she alone had been saved, and after much toil and suffering she had been restored to Athens by a man of Grecian birth, who wished to take her to wife. She showed the treasures in token of the truth of her words.

* * * * *

Every day, as the old familiar life was renewed, the recollection of Thoth and his city became more odious to her.

On all sides she saw vestiges of the plague, and she could not efface from her mind the thought that he and his companions had first implanted it in Greece. How could she love a man who had done such a deed?

She began to dread his return. She knew not what to do. She feared if she let him depart from her in anger that he might renew the work of destruction.

She feared to disclose the secret to the people and those in authority. She doubted if, against his will, they could overpower him,—and in her heart she wished him no harm—least of all, death by her devices.

She could not forget the fate from which he had rescued her, and the sacrifice which he had made.

The appointed day arrived, and still her mind was divided by doubt.

Before daybreak she was at the meeting-place—alone. The scene of her former departure rose before her, and she wondered if again she could trust herself with this man.

* * * * *

The first light of day appeared, and she saw no one. The light became stronger and larger, and she saw, as it were, a large bird in the distance, advancing rapidly towards her over the sea. She knew that Thoth would soon be beside her.

Nearer and nearer he came, and she pictured to herself his face aflame with eagerness and love.

Suddenly, about fifty paces from the shore, without warning, the car fell, like a wounded bird, into the sea. Daphne waited in breathless expectation, and in a few moments Thoth rose to the surface, and, swimming with great difficulty, made his way to the shore.

She ran down to meet him, and when he reached the land, she observed that he was pallid with suffering.

The water at the place was deep, and the rocks rough and cruel. She bent down and assisted him to land, and as he felt her touch, a look of pleasure crossed his suffering face.

“Art thou hurt?” she said.

“My bodily hurt,” he said, “is nothing, but I fear to tell thee the whole of my evil fortune. My city, with all its people and wealth and power, is buried in the sands of the desert—not a trace is left. There, in the depth of the sea, lies the last remnant of our skill. I stand before thee a nameless, powerless man. Yet if thou wilt only love me, I regret nothing,” and he looked with longing into her eyes.

“Tell me but one thing,” she said; “assure me that thou thyself didst not bring hither the pestilence that destroyed my race.”

His face darkened, and he said—

“That is long since past, and I have become a different being.”

She shrank back, and said—

“At least, say that it was thy companions—that thine own hands are guiltless.”

“Surely thou didst know before that I alone did it,” he said.

Horror seized her, and she cried—

“How can I forget? How can I dwell with thee or love thee?”

But he said with passionate entreaty—

“Now I am altogether different. Since I knew thee, it is as if I had been born again.”

But she looked at him with dismay and undisguised terror.

“Alas! these are empty words, and the dreadful deed cannot be undone. How can a man be born again?”

Thoth looked at her, and for a moment seemed to wait for some sign of relenting, and then he said, hopelessly—

“Then there is but one course left.”

He seized her hand passionately, and she tried to escape.

“Nay,” he said, “fear no violence. I have always treated thee with honour and respect.”

She left her hand quietly in his, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

“Farewell,” he said; “but hereafter, when thou thinkest of me, remember that my last words were true, and that the man who loved thee was not the man who did this wrong.”

Then he turned, and, without a word, plunged into the sea.

In a moment bitter repentance seized on Daphne’s mind. Her memory was filled with recollections of the kindness of the man.

“Come back! come back!” she cried. “I believe thee! I love thee!”

But there was no answer, save the lapping of the waves on the shore.

EPILOGUE.

I, Xenophilos, physician and philosopher, having wandered forth to meditate by the sea, found Daphne in a swoon. For many years she lived affected by what appeared to be a curious madness, but before her death she seemed to recover somewhat, and out of her narrative I have, with difficulty, pieced together this history.

I will only add that the body of a man, like one of the Egyptian merchants, was afterwards washed ashore. Near the spot, and many years after, some divers found the remains of a curious, unintelligible mechanical contrivance, partly destroyed by the sea.

APPENDIX.

(_The last chapter of ‘Thoth’ as originally written in 1876. See Preface._)

Philetos lay dreaming—dreaming that he was still hunting the lion. And it seemed to him that after slaying numbers of inferior animals, he lighted on one of an immense size, which, as soon as he came into view, fled to the mountains. He chased it through mighty forests, followed it across foaming torrents, and at last on a lofty barren table-land, he appeared to be fast approaching it. But the lion, roaring terribly, suddenly rushed away, and in the distance he could see it like an insect on the grass. Bravely and persistently he followed, however, and at last saw that the lion was standing on the edge of a precipice, or rather precipitous incline, at the base of which was a deep black lake; and it seemed to be in doubt whether to turn and try and rend its pursuer, or to yield to fear and rush blindly over the abyss. On Philetos rushed, with spear ready to his hand, and he was now within a few yards of the beast, when suddenly it sprang down the mountain-side, as if panic-struck. In its course it loosened immense rocks, which formed an avalanche, following close on its track. Philetos, with straining eyes and ears expecting the shock of the rocks falling on the water, stood at the edge of the abyss. At length the lion fell into the lake, and in a moment the terrific splash of the avalanche was heard. Then Philetos awoke, and springing up from his couch, stood up, with the noise still roaring in his ears. But on awakening he had entirely forgotten the lion, and he thought that he had surely heard the fall of immense rocks into water. He looked on the sunlight that streamed through his chamber windows, and tried to shake off his terror; for he thought that the Egyptian had broken faith, and that the end of humanity was near at hand. Breathlessly he waited to hear if a second noise would follow; for he knew that now, at least, he was fully awake, and that if he should again hear what he had heard, or dreamed he had heard, his fears would be realised. Nothing seemed to break the silence but the sighing of a gentle wind in the sombre trees, and the cries of animals in the distant forests; yet still he stood breathless, and scarcely able to stand with excitement. Never in his life before had he been thus moved: in a multitude of perils by land and sea, his cheek had not blanched; without fear he had fought alone with beasts in the midst of the forest, with only the moonlight to direct his blows; without fear he had found himself in the pathless desert deprived of food or water; and without fear he had attended to the wants of men struck with the plague. Never before had he feared for his life; but now he thought that all his fellows—men who, even at first sight, had loved him, and showered on him gifts and favours; whom he had loved as much in return; amongst whom he had no enemies, save the Egyptian priest; and by whom he had been worshipped almost as a god, save by him,—he thought that humanity was now to feel the revenge of that terrible intellect, and man, woman, and child in a few hours or days to lie writhing in mortal anguish, or withering under the breath of the plague. And this it was that filled him with terror. Not now did he seem like Apollo, clothed with immortal strength and beauty, but rather like Niobe, expecting her offspring to be struck down by the darts of the far-shooter.

Suddenly the noise which he had heard in his dreams was repeated; now there could be no doubt. He heard distinctly the masses of stone striking the waters, and the rush of the waters over them. He knew for a certainty that the barrier of the temple, which was to fall and give access to the light of the sun only on the day when mankind was doomed to be exterminated, had fallen. What his dream had pictured as the plunge of the lion, had been the fall of the outer barrier; and now he had heard the innermost wall—the dreadful veil, the fall of which was to reveal the most terrible spectacle ever enacted on this earth—fall irrevocably into the poisonous lake. In a moment, he thought, the awful ceremony will commence: even now the dead are raised and eagerly expecting the consummation of their hatred; the music is breathing out the solemn, gentle strains, that will soon swell into maddening peals, and rouse the fury of the haters of men from its slumber of ten thousand years. It is no longer a thought: he can hear the weird sounds, which welcome the dead to life, and form a fitting prelude to the awful catastrophe. What can he do? Even now, though the Egyptian should have his hand on the key of the gates of death, Philetos imagines that could he see him face to face, he would forego his revenge, and dare to disobey and dishonour his ancestors. He is certain that this is the work of the priest, and still believes the Egyptian to be his friend. There is one chance still: if he can gain access to the temple he will plead the cause of men, and perchance save them. He rushes from his chamber, and nothing hinders his advance down the dreary corridor that leads to the temple gate. Fleeter than the deer he passes along; the roof re-echoes the tread of his feet, and the hollow clang seems like the shriek of despair; the fitful light of the few flickering lamps is pallid and ghastly, and seems to fall with the greatest intensity on the bas-reliefs, which he knows represent the final sufferings of man. The thick humid air seems to fan him like a wind, so fleetly does he run. In so brief a space has he accomplished the entire length, that hardly could the priest have turned to bar the gate of the temple, even if he had been aware of the object of Philetos. But so engrossed were both he and the Egyptian, that they heard not the advancing steps, and he passed the door, and was already advancing along the central aisle, before he was perceived. On opening the massive gate, a spectacle so terrible met his gaze, that nothing but the lofty purpose with which he was animated could give him strength and courage to pass through the temple.

Only once before had he passed through the massive entrance, and then a single lamp, carried in the hand, had afforded him glimpses only of the architecture of the place, where the Egyptians, wrapt in their everlasting robes, were waiting for the time when it should be permitted them to link together again the broken chain of life, and end their existence with a moment of delirious joy—of joy so intense as to compensate for all their life-long toil, and a voluntary entombment of a thousand years. Even then, when a thousandth part was not revealed to him, what he had seen had caused him to tremble. The pillars by which the roof was supported seemed of adamantine strength; but this was relieved by no graceful capital, nor was the surface smooth and polished. On the contrary, deeply engraven on the stone were unintelligible signs, and exact images of the loathliest animals and most noxious plants.

There were sculptured groups in abundance; but hate and destruction in their most horrible garbs formed the only theme. Here was a serpent enveloping a deer in its scaly folds; the deer had been designed with the most graceful form, but the marble of which it was carved seemed shivering with horror. There, again, was a man of unshapely form, but evidently of immense strength, with a brow that denoted the highest intelligence, and features that expressed the intensest cruelty, strangling a being of the most perfect stature and beauty. There were pictures, too, and in one of these, at first glance, he had missed the prevailing emotion. A number of maidens were bathing, as careless, unconscious, and graceful as water-lilies hardly moved by the breeze; but when he looked again he saw beneath the water a monster that seemed half alligator, half serpent, and yet altogether human.

These glimpses had filled him with horror on his first visit, but now the light of an African sun fully revealed the minutest details. The pillars with their engraven loathliness, the paintings and sculptures almost innumerable, seemed as if they had been suddenly endowed with life by the heat and glare of the sun. But they formed only an appropriate setting to the rest of the picture.

The robes which had hitherto completely covered the bodies of the Egyptians, had now fallen to their feet, and they were standing in the garb of life. Not even a face-cloth obscured their visages. They seemed as if they had just been struck dead in the performance of some religious ceremony; but, in reality, the reverse had taken place. A closer examination would have shown that they were just aroused from their sleep, for their eyes were open; and though they moved neither hand nor foot, nor seemed to draw breath, the look of the eyes seemed not altogether as of the dead. There they stood in close array, all in the same attitude, steadfastly gazing at the upper part of the temple—seeming only to wait for some signal to open their mouths and speak, and rush tumultuously towards the day—where, arrayed in gorgeous robes, stood the friend of Philetos, bearing in his hand two keys—the keys[1] of life and death; they seemed as if gazing on the sky, in expectation of the signal of life, on which they would open their mouth and speak, and rush tumultuously forward. But as men looking to the gods for aught receive what they desire, or in some sort what they desire, at the hands of men, so the entry of Philetos seemed to loosen their frozen bodies as the expected signal from heaven. Yet they moved not, for the newly given life was snatched away by a dreadful apprehension. But as he passed through their midst, a thousand eyes darted on him looks of fear, hatred, and surprise. In a moment, too, voices faint and low, as voices in a deep cave hardly heard by the persons above, assailed him on all sides; fierce and vehement words reached him, but they seemed as large stones hurled from too great a distance, which gently roll up to the feet of him they were intended to crush. He heeded them not, even heard them not distinctly, but with rapid steps advanced to his friend.

[1] The mystery of these keys had been explained in an earlier chapter. The plagues were supposed to be locked up like the winds in the cave of Æolus, and by turning the key of death they would be blown about the world, whilst by turning the key of life they would be rendered harmless.

The priest, who at first had seemed thunderstruck, and too much astonished to say or do aught, now poising his javelin, hurled it at Philetos with a fierce curse. But wrath or fear misdirected the aim, and the javelin struck the sculpture of the wrestlers, and broke off the hand of the ideal of intellect and cruelty. The Egyptian himself seemed a prey to the most violent agitation; at one time he looked to his ancestors, and at another to Philetos, seeming in doubt which to obey. Yet he drew not his sword, nor made any effort to kill his friend, as in similar circumstances he had done before. On his visage, usually, even in the most perilous and exciting circumstances, as cold and immovable as marble, was depicted a most terrible struggle of emotion. On the one hand, the friendship for which he had already sacrificed so much, and which year by year had been growing in intensity, urged him in one direction; but on the other, the purpose of his life, and the lives of his ancestors—the tremendous weight that accrued to this purpose by the already accomplished resurrection, the vividness with which he saw his hereditary object before him, and in addition his sombre religion, which had never ceased to have the greatest sway over him—urged him to kill Philetos. At length, as men driven this way and that by doubts at last appeal to chance, and then become firm in one resolution by the upshot of a most trivial event, so the Egyptian, when he saw the priest raise his javelin, did not attempt to hinder him, but seemed to decide to act according to the javelin;—if it struck Philetos ever so slightly, to slay him at once—and if it failed, to renounce his ancestors. Accordingly, when not only did it not strike Philetos, but ominously released the fair statue from the grasp of its destroyer, he grasped Philetos by the hand, but remained silent through emotion. But the priest, whom this act seemed to render furious, thinking that the fate of the world and his revered masters depended on him alone, drew his sword and rushed at Philetos. But he, for the first time in his life enraged with a fellow-man, avoiding the blow, caught the priest and hurled him into the lake. Still the Egyptian spoke not, nor raised a hand against him. Then arose a faint cry, yet a cry which seemed in its purpose naturally strong enough to have shaken the temple to the ground, from the multitude who filled the temple. Yet they moved not, but with all their efforts could only look their hatred, and mutter faintly. Then followed a deep silence, for Philetos, after slaying the priest, seemed struck with deep sorrow, for never before had he slain a man. At length the father of all these haters of men, in a tremulous voice, thus spoke, and as he spoke, not one of his descendants, nor Philetos, moved ever so slightly, but in the deepest silence all gave heed to him:—

“Verily thou art born in my image, and I should think thee my own son, but that a multitudinous murmuring, which only hundreds of my descendants could have uttered, has cursed thee, as I curse thee now. Think not that I, who have waited for my vengeance these thousands of years, will now stoop to entreat thee, puny weakling, to do what do thou must; for I command thee on the instant to slay this man, and unlock the gates of death. Thinkest thou because I am feeble and but half aroused from this deathly sleep, that therefore thou canst with impunity mock me thus? Nay, rather, but that Will which has kept me fixed in my resolve, and has made these hundreds keep most strictly all my laws, that Will, though now it be manifested by a feeble voice, cannot fail to force thy sickly nature as it listeth. By the wrongs I suffered from the foolish race of men, who would none of my counsel, though to every tribe I offered life and peace; by the blood which flows in thy veins, by the mighty ties of nature, by the oath I and these have sworn, I charge thee to do my bidding; tarry an instant and I curse thee with the fatal curse. Darest thou look on me, and these thy forefathers, and still let doubt divide thy mind? I charge thee, pour out on the world the measure of my hate; unlock these fatal gates, and, unworthy as thou art, look no longer on us, but cast thyself headlong, having fulfilled thine oath. My voice already fails—slay—slay—slay!”

Thus ended the father of the haters of men, and the Egyptian drawing his sword, struck fiercely at Philetos; but less violent was the stroke than that with which the grass, bent by a gentle wind, smites the earth. He muttered—

“I cannot; thrice before have I thus purposed, and thrice have I failed.”

Then arose a shriek of horror from those dying men, and the father of them all, with a low, feeble, passionate voice, broke forth—

“By the stars of heaven, by the caves of the sea, by mighty nature, mother of all things, who once articulately promised me this power over one man, I consign thee to unfathomable misery for a thousand thousand years. On the instant thou shalt die, and thy spirit herd with the loathliest animals. In murky darkness and loathsome air, now sinking in mire, with reptiles for thy pillow, now in burning sands alive with fiery serpents, thou shalt pass a miserable afterlife; more horrors than ever I could devise shall be thy portion. It is spoken! I curse thee with the fated curse!”

And from the lips of those dying men arose the cry of “We curse thee!”

They spoke no more, but with tottering steps advanced towards the two who were still in the flush of life. Then murmured the Egyptian—

“Philetos, thou seest what I have done for thee; and now I cannot have my reward in simply clasping thy hand, for then thou must share my fate.”

But Philetos, turning his back on the advancing hosts, clasped his friend by the hand, and in a ringing voice said—

“Shake off thy terror; look out on the plains beneath; seest thou not the sun smiling on the forests?—hearest thou not the cries of the wild animals? Let us away and hunt, and forget this horror; see, all nature smiles, and mocks at the curse.”

But that other answered in a melancholy voice—

“Compared with mine, thy sight is dim, and thine ears are dull; but seest thou not that black cloud arising?—hearest thou not the gathering storm?”

But Philetos answered—“Truly there is a cloud, but we shall hunt the more pleasantly; and what is rain in its season?”

“Speak no more,” answered his friend; “but if thou canst not read the meaning of the storm, look over the abyss and tell me what thou seest in the poisonous lake.”

Philetos darted to the edge of the abyss and recoiled in horror.

“I see,” he said, “a huge monster with gaping jaws, rearing his snaky folds out from the mire; and its eyes are like the eyes of men that hate, and it hisses death and misery. Let us flee—let us flee!”

“Alas!” replied the Egyptian, “thou hast clasped my hand, and thou too must die, and suffer torment with me; say thou dost not hate me—say thou wilt not curse me when we two shall be deep in horror.”

Philetos looked once more on the monster, which had now reared its slimy head above the precipice, and he read his doom in its vengeful eyes. But he quailed not, but pressing the hand of his friend, cried—

“Fear not thou! What if we must be in torment for a thousand thousand years, shall we not ever after receive homage from thousands of men whom we have saved from death?—will not the shades after these few years pay us homage?—and shall we not again and for ever hunt together and live life in life?”

Then murmured the Egyptian—“If I am ever with thee, even such misery were bliss; yet let us not die by this loathsome monster.”

So saying, he clasped Philetos, and turned the key of the gate of life! Then with a shout of triumph they hurled themselves into the abyss, and were lost in the depth of the poisonous lake.

Then arose a mighty storm, and the day was changed to night, and the temple rocked to its foundations. The haters of men fell to the earth, and with deep curses gasped out their breath. And the storm increased, and the earth trembled, till, with a shriek of despair, all the structure was buried beneath the waters.

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. ○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).