CHAPTER I

THE VENGEANCE OF KURRI

The Wanderer and Pharaoh’s Queen stood face to face in the twilight of the chamber.  They stood in silence, while bitter anger and burning shame poured into his heart and shone from his eyes.  But the face of Meriamun was cold as the dead, and on it was a smile such as the carven sphinxes wear.  Only her breast heaved tumultuously as though in triumph, and her limbs quivered like a shaken reed.  At length she spoke.

“Why lookest thou so strangely on me, my Lord and Love; and why hast thou girded thy harness on thy back?  Scarcely doth glorious Ra creep from the breast of Nout, and wouldest thou leave thy bridal bed, Odysseus?”

Still he spoke no word, but looked on her with burning eyes.  Then she stretched out her arms and came towards him lover-like.  And now he found his tongue again.

“Get thee from me!” he said, in a voice low and terrible to hear; “get thee from me.  Dare not to touch me, thou, who art a harlot and a witch, lest I forget my manhood and strike thee dead before me.”

“That thou canst not do, Odysseus,” she answered soft, “for whatever else I be I am thy wife, and thou art bound to me for ever.  What was the oath which thou didst swear not five short hours ago?”

“I swore an oath indeed, but not to thee, Meriamun.  I swore an oath to Argive Helen, whom I love, and I wake to find thee sleeping at my side, thee whom I hate.”

“Nay,” she said, “to me thou didst swear the oath, Odysseus, for thou, of men the most guileful, hast at length been over-mastered in guile.  To me, ‘Woman or Immortal,’ thou didst swear ’for now and for ever, for here and hereafter, in whatever shape thou goest on the earth, by whatever name thou art known among men.’  Oh, be not wroth, my lord, but hearken.  What matters the shape in which thou seest me?  At the least am I not fair?  And what is beauty but a casket that hides the gem within?  ’Tis my love which thou hast won, my love that is immortal, and not the flesh that perishes.  For I have loved thee, ay, and thou hast loved me from of old and in other lives than this, and I tell thee that we shall love again and yet again when thou art no more Odysseus of Ithaca, and when I am no more Meriamun, a Queen of Khem, but while we walk in other forms upon the world and are named by other names.  I am thy doom, thou Wanderer, and wherever thou dost wander through the fields of Life and Death I shall be at thy side.  For I am She of whom thou art, and thou art He of whom I am, and though the Gods have severed us, yet must we float together down the river of our lives till we find that sea of which the Spirit knows.  Therefore put me not from thee and raise not my wrath against thee, for if I used my magic to bring thee to my arms, yet they are thy home.”  And once more she came towards him.

Now the Wanderer drew an arrow from his quiver, and set the notch against his breast and the keen barb towards the breast of Meriamun.

“Draw on,” he said.  “Thus will I take thee to my arms again.  Hearken, Meriamun the witch ­Meriamun the harlot:  Pharaoh’s wife and Queen of Khem.  To thee I swore an oath indeed, and perchance because I suffered thy guile to overcome my wisdom, because I swore upon That which circles thee about, and not by the Red Star which gleams upon the Helen’s breast, it may be that I shall lose her whom I love.  So indeed the Queen of Heaven told me, yonder in sea-girt Ithaca, though to my sorrow I forgot her words.  But if I lose her or if I win, know this, that I love her and her only, and I hate thee like the gates of hell.  For thou hast tricked me with thy magic, thou hast stolen the shape of Beauty’s self and dared to wear it, thou hast drawn a dreadful oath from me, and I have taken thee to wife.  And more, thou art the Queen of Khem, thou art Pharaoh’s wife, whom I swore to guard; but thou hast brought the last shame upon me, for now I am a man dishonoured, and I have sinned against the hospitable hearth, and the God of guests and hosts.  And therefore I will do this.  I will call together the guard of which I am chief, and tell them all thy shame, ay, and all my sorrow.  I will shout it in the streets, I will publish it from the temple tops, and when Pharaoh comes again I will call it into his ear, till he and all who live in Khem know thee for what thou art, and see thee in thy naked shame.”

She hearkened, and her face grew terrible to see.  A moment she stood as though in thought, one hand pressed to her brow and one upon her breast.  Then she spoke.

“Is that thy last word, Wanderer?”

“It is my last word, Queen,” he answered, and turned to go.

Then with the hand that rested on her breast she rent her night robes and tore her perfumed hair.  Past him she rushed towards the door, and as she ran sent scream on scream echoing up the painted walls.

The curtains shook, the doors were burst asunder, and through them poured guards, eunuchs, and waiting-women.

“Help,” she cried, pointing to the Wanderer.  “Help, help! oh, save mine honour from this evil man, this foreign thief whom Pharaoh set to guard me, and who guards me thus.  This coward who dares to creep upon me ­the Queen of Khem ­even as I slept in Pharaoh’s bed!” and she cast herself upon the floor and threw her hair about her, and lay there groaning and weeping as though in the last agony of shame.

Now when the guards saw how the thing was, a great cry of rage and shame went up from them, and they rushed upon the Wanderer like wolves upon a stag at bay.  But he leapt backwards to the side of the bed, and even as he leapt he set the arrow in his hand upon the string of the great black bow.  Then he drew it to his ear.  The bow-string sang, the arrow rushed forth, and he who stood before it got his death.  Again the bow-string sang, again the arrow rushed, and lo! another man was sped.  A third time he drew the bow and the soul of a third went down the ways of hell.  Now they rolled back from him as the waters roll from a rock, for none dares face the shafts of death.  They shot at him with spears and arrows from behind the shelter of the pillars, but none of these might harm him, for some fell from his mail and some he caught upon his buckler.

Now among those who had run thither at the sound of the cries of Meriamun was that same Kurri, the miserable captain of the Sidonians, whose life the Wanderer had spared, and whom he had given to the Queen to be her jeweller.  And when Kurri saw the Wanderer’s plight, he thought in his greedy heart of those treasures that he had lost, and of how he who had been a captain and a rich merchant of Sidon was now nothing but a slave.

Then a great desire came upon him to work the Wanderer ill, if so he might.  Now all round the edge of the chamber were shadows, for the light was yet faint, and Kurri crept into the shadows, carrying a long spear in his hand, and that spear was hafted into the bronze point which had stood in the Wanderer’s helm.  Little did the Wanderer glance his way, for he watched the lances and arrows that flew towards him from the portal, so the end of it was that the Sidonian passed round the chamber unseen and climbed into the golden bed of Pharaoh on the further side of the bed.  Now the Wanderer stood with his back to the bed and a spear’s length from it, and in the silken hangings were fixed spears and arrows.  Kurri’s first thought was to stab him in the back, but this he did not; first, because he feared lest he should fail to pierce the golden harness and the Wanderer should turn and slay him; and again because he hoped that the Wanderer would be put to death by torment, and he was fain to have a hand in it, for after the fashion of the Sidonians he was skilled in the tormenting of men.  Therefore he waited till presently the Wanderer let fall his buckler and drew the bow.  But ere the arrow reached his ear Kurri had stretched out his spear from between the hangings and touched the string with the keen bronze, so that it burst asunder and the grey shaft fell upon the marble floor.  Then, as the Wanderer cast down the bow and turned with a cry to spring on him who had cut the cord, for his eye had caught the sheen of the outstretched spear, Kurri lifted the covering of the purple web which lay upon the bed and deftly cast it over the hero’s head so that he was inmeshed.  Thereon the soldiers and the eunuchs took heart, seeing what had been done, and ere ever the Wanderer could clear himself from the covering and draw his sword, they rushed upon him.  Cumbered as he was, they might not easily overcome him, but in the end they bore him down and held him fast, so that he could not stir so much as a finger.  Then one cried aloud to Meriamun: 

“The Lion is trapped, O Queen!  Say, shall we slay him?”

But Meriamun, who had watched the fray through cover of her hands, shuddered and made answer: 

“Nay, but lock his tongue with a gag, strip his armour from him, and bind him with fetters of bronze, and make him fast to the dungeon walls with great chains of bronze.  There shall he bide till Pharaoh come again; for against Pharaoh’s honour he hath sinned and shamefully broken that oath he swore to him, and therefore shall Pharaoh make him die in such fashion as seems good to him.”

Now when Kurri heard these words, and saw the Wanderer’s sorry plight, he bent over him and said: 

“It was I, Kurri the Sidonian, who cut the cord of thy great bow, Eperitus; with the spear-point that thou gavest back to me I cut it, I, whose folk thou didst slay and madest me a slave.  And I will crave this boon of Pharaoh, that mine shall be the hand to torment thee night and day till at last thou diest, cursing the day that thou wast born.”

The Wanderer looked upon him and answered:  “There thou liest, thou Sidonian dog, for this is written in thy face, that thou thyself shalt die within an hour and that strangely.”

Then Kurri shrank back scowling.  But no more words might Odysseus speak, for at once they forced his jaws apart and gagged him with a gag of iron; and thereafter, stripping his harness from him, they bound him with fetters as the Queen had commanded.

Now while they dealt thus with the Wanderer, Meriamun passed into another chamber and swiftly threw robes upon her to hide her disarray, clasping them round her with the golden girdle which now she must always wear.  But her long hair she left unbound, nor did she wash the stain of tears from her face, for she was minded to seem shamed and woe-begone in the eyes of all men till Pharaoh came again.

Rei and the Golden Helen passed through the streets of the city till they came to the Palace gates.  And here they must wait till the dawn, for Rei, thinking to come thither with the Wanderer, who was Captain of the Guard, had not learned the word of entry.

“Easy would it be for me to win my way through those great gates,” said the Helen to Rei at her side, “but it is my counsel that we wait awhile.  Perchance he whom we seek will come forth.”

So they entered the porch of the Temple of Osiris that looked towards the gates, and there they waited till the dawn gathered in the eastern sky.  The Helen spoke no word, but Rei, watching her, knew that she was troubled at heart, though he might not see her face because of the veil she wore; for from time to time she sighed and the Red Star rose and fell upon her breast.

At length the first arrow of the dawn fell upon the temple porch and she spoke.

“Now let us enter,” she said; “my heart forebodes evil indeed; but much of evil I have known, and where the Gods drive me there I must go.”

They came to the gates, and the man who watched them opened to the priest Rei and the veiled woman who went with him, though he marvelled at the beauty of the woman’s shape.

“Where are thy fellow-guards?” Rei asked of the soldier.

“I know not,” he answered, “but anon a great tumult rose in the Palace, and the Captain of the Gate went thither, leaving me only to guard the gate.”

“Hast thou seen the Lord Eperitus?” Rei asked again.

“Nay, I have not seen him since supper-time last night, nor has he visited the guard as is his wont.”

Rei passed on wondering, and with him went Helen.  As they trod the Palace they saw folk flying towards the hall of banquets that is near the Queen’s chambers.  Some bore arms in their hands and some bore none, but all fled east towards the hall of banquets, whence came a sound of shouting.  Now they drew near the hall, and there at the further end, where the doors are that lead to the Queen’s chambers, a great crowd was gathered.

“Hide thee, lady ­hide thee,” said Rei to her who went with him, “for methinks that death is afoot here.  See, here hangs a curtain, stand thou behind it while I learn what this tumult means.”

She stepped behind the curtain that hung between the pillars as Rei bade her, for now Helen’s gentle breast was full of fears, and she was as one dazed.  Even as she stepped one came flying down the hall who was of the servants of Rei the Priest.

“Stay thou,” Rei cried to him, “and tell me what happens yonder.”

“Ill deeds, Lord,” said the servant.  “Eperitus the Wanderer, whom Pharaoh made Captain of his Guard when he went forth to slay the rebel Apura ­Eperitus hath laid hands on the Queen whom he was set to guard.  But she fled from him, and her cries awoke the guard, and they fell upon him in Pharaoh’s very chamber.  Some he slew with shafts from the great black bow, but Kurri the Sidonian cut the string of the bow, and the Wanderer was borne down by many men.  Now they have bound him and drag him to the dungeons, there to await judgment from the lips of Pharaoh.  See, they bring him.  I must begone on my errand to the keeper of the dungeons.”

The Golden Helen heard the shameful tale, and such sorrow took her that had she been mortal she had surely died.  This then was the man whom she had chosen to love, this was he whom last night she should have wed.  Once more the Gods had made a mock of her.  So had it ever been, so should it ever be.  Loveless she had lived all her life days, now she had learned to love once and for ever ­and this was the fruit of it!  She clasped the curtain lest she should sink to the earth, and hearing a sound looked forth.  A multitude of men came down the hall.  Before them walked ten soldiers bearing a litter on their shoulders.  In the litter lay a man gagged and fettered with fetters of bronze so that he might not stir, and they bore him as men bear a stag from the chase or a wild bull to the sacrifice.  It was the Wanderer’s self, the Wanderer overcome at last, and he seemed so mighty even in his bonds, and his eyes shone with so fierce a light, that the crowd shrank from him as though in fear.  Thus did Helen see her Love and Lord again as they bore him dishonoured to his dungeon cell.  She saw, and a moan and a cry burst from her heart.  A moan for her own woe and a cry for the shame and faithlessness of him whom she must love.

“Oh, how fallen art thou, Odysseus, who wast of men the very first,” she cried.

He heard it and knew the voice of her who cried, and he gazed around.  The great veins swelled upon his neck and forehead, and he struggled so fiercely that he fell from the litter to the ground.  But he might not rise because of the fetters, nor speak because of the gag, so they lifted him again and bore him thence.

And after him went all the multitude save Rei alone.  For Rei was fallen in shame and grief because of the tale that he had heard and of the deed of darkness that the man he loved had done.  For not yet did he remember and learn to doubt.  So he stood hiding his eyes in his hand, and as he stood Helen came forth and touched him on the shoulder, saying: 

“Lead me hence, old man.  Lead me back to my temple.  My Love is lost indeed, but there where I found it I will abide till the Gods make their will clear to me.”

He bowed, saying no word, and following Helen stepped into the centre of the hall.  There he stopped, indeed, for down it came the Queen, her hair streaming, all her robes disordered, and her face stained with tears.  She was alone save for Kurri the Sidonian, who followed her, and she walked wildly as one distraught who knows not where she goes nor why.  Helen saw her also.

“Who is this royal lady that draws near?” she asked of Rei.

“It is Meriamun the Queen; she whom the Wanderer hath brought to shame.”

“Stay then, I would speak with her.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Rei.  “She loves thee not, Lady, and will slay thee.”

“That cannot be,” Helen answered.

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF PHARAOH

Presently, as she walked, Meriamun saw Rei the Priest and the veiled woman at his side, and she saw on the woman’s breast a red jewel that burnt and glowed like a heart of fire.  Then like fire burned the heart of Meriamun, for she knew that this was Argive Helen who stood before her, Helen whose shape she had stolen like a thief and with the mind of a thief.

“Say,” she cried to Rei, who bowed before her, “say, who is this woman?”

Rei looked at the Queen with terrified eyes, and spake in a voice of warning.

“This is that Goddess who dwells in the Temple of Hathor,” he said.  “Let her pass in peace, O Queen.”

“In peace she shall pass indeed,” answered Meriamun.  “What saidest thou, old dotard?  That Goddess!  Nay, no Goddess have we here, but an evil-working witch, who hath brought woes unnumbered upon Khem.  Because of her, men die month by month till the vaults of the Temple of Hathor are full of her slain.  Because of her it was that curse upon curse fell on the land ­the curse of water turned to blood, of hail and of terrible darkness, ay, and the curse of the death of the firstborn among whom my own son died.  And thou hast dared, Rei, to bring this witch here to my Palace halls!  By Amen if I had not loved thee always thy life should pay the price.  And thou,” and she stretched her hand towards the Helen, “thou hast dared to come.  It is well, no more shalt thou bring evil upon Khem.  Hearken, slave,” and she turned to Kurri the Sidonian; “draw that knife of thine and plunge it to the hilt in the breast of yonder woman.  So shalt thou win freedom and all thy goods shall be given thee again.”

Then for the first time Helen spake: 

“I charge thee, Lady,” she said in slow soft tones, “bid not thy servant do this deed, for though I have little will to bring evil upon men, yet I may not lightly be affronted.”

Now Kurri hung back doubtfully fingering his dagger.

“Draw, knave, draw!” cried Meriamun, “and do my bidding, or presently thou shalt be slain with this same knife.”

When the Sidonian heard these words he cried aloud with fear, for he well knew that as the Queen said so it would be done to him.  Instantly he drew the great knife and rushed upon the veiled woman.  But as he came, Helen lifted her veil so that her eyes fell upon his eyes, and the brightness of their beauty was revealed to him; and when he saw her loveliness he stopped suddenly as one who is transfixed of a spear.  Then madness came upon him, and with a cry he lifted the knife, and plunging it, not into her heart, but into his own, fell down dead.

This then was the miserable end of Kurri the Sidonian, slain by the sight of the Beauty.

“Thou seest, Lady,” said Helen, turning from the dead Sidonian, “no man may harm me.”

For a moment the Queen stood astonished, while Rei the Priest muttered prayers to the protecting Gods.  Then she cried: 

“Begone, thou living curse, begone!  Wherefore art thou come here to work more woe in this house of woe and death?”

“Fear not,” answered the Helen, “presently I will begone and trouble thee no more.  Thou askest why I am come hither.  I came to see him who was my love, and whom but last night I should have wed, but whom the Gods have brought to shame unspeakable, Odysseus of Ithaca, Odysseus, Laertes’ son.  For this cause I came, and I have stayed to look upon the face of her whose beauty had power to drive the thought of me from the heart of Odysseus, and bring him, who of all men was the greatest hero and the foremost left alive, to do a dastard deed and make his mighty name a byword and a scorn.  Knowest thou, Meriamun, that I find the matter strange, since if all else be false, yet is this true, that among women the fairest are the most strong.  Thou art fair indeed, Meriamun, but judge if thou art more fair than Argive Helen,” and she drew the veil from her face so that the splendour of her beauty shone out upon the Queen’s dark loveliness.  Thus for awhile they stood each facing each, and to Rei it seemed as though the spirits of Death and Life looked one on another, as though the darkness and the daylight stood in woman’s shape before him.

“Thou art fair indeed,” said the Queen, “but in this, witch, has thy beauty failed to hold him whom thou wouldst wed from the most shameless sin.  Little methinks can that man have loved thee who crept upon me like a thief to snatch my honour from me.”

Then Helen bethought her of what Rei had said, that Meriamun loved the Wanderer, and she spoke again: 

“Now it comes into my heart, Egyptian, that true and false are mixed in this tale of thine.  Hard it is to believe that Odysseus of Ithaca could work such a coward deed as this, or, unbidden, seek to clasp thee to his heart.  Moreover, I read in thine eyes that thou thyself dost love the man whom thou namest dastard.  Nay, hold thy peace, look not so wildly on me whom thou canst not harm, but hearken.  Whether thy tale be true or false I know not, who use no magic and learn those things only that the Gods reveal to me.  But this at the least is true, that Odysseus, whom I should have wed, has looked on thee with eyes of love, even in that hour when I waited to be made his wife.  Therefore the love that but two days agone bloomed in my heart, dies and withers; or if it does not, at least I cast it from me and tread its flowers beneath my feet.  For this doom the Gods have laid upon me, who am of all women the most hapless, to live beloved but loveless through many years, and at the last to love and be betrayed.  And now I go hence back to my temple shrine; but fear not, Meriamun, not for long shall I trouble thee or Khem, and men shall die no more because of my beauty, for I shall presently pass hence whither the Gods appoint; and this I say to thee ­deal gently with that man who has betrayed my faith, for whatever he did was done for the love of thee.  It is no mean thing to have won the heart of Odysseus of Ithaca out of the hand of Argive Helen.  Fare thee well, Meriamun, who wouldst have slain me.  May the Gods grant thee better days and more of joy than is given to Helen, who would look upon thy face no more.”

Thus she spake, and letting her veil fall turned to go.  For awhile the Queen stood shamed to silence by these gentle words, that fell like dew upon the fires of her hate.  But ere Helen had passed the length of a spear her fury burned up again.  What, should she let this strange woman go ­this woman who alone of all that breathed was more beautiful than she, by the aid of whose stolen beauty she alone had won her love, and for whose sake she had endured such bitter words of scorn?  Nay, while Helen yet lived she could find not joy nor sleep.  But were Helen dead, then perchance all might yet be well, and the Wanderer yet be hers, for when the best is gone men turn them to the better.

“Close the gates and bar them,” she cried to the men, who now streamed back into the hall; and they ran to do her bidding, so that before Helen reached the Palace doors, they had been shut and the gates of bronze beyond had clashed like the shields of men.

Now Helen drew near the doors.

“Stay yon witch,” cried the Queen to those who guarded them, and in wonder they poised their spears to bar the way to Helen.  But she only lifted her veil and looked upon them.  Then their arms fell from their hands and they stood amazed at the sight of beauty.

“Open, I beseech you,” said the Helen gently, and straightway they opened the doors and she passed through, followed by those who guarded them, by the Queen, and by Rei.  But one man there was who did not see her beauty, and he strove in vain to hold back the doors and to clasp Helen as she passed.

Now she drew near to the gates ­

“Shoot the witch!” cried Meriamun the Queen; “if she pass the gates, by my royal word I swear that ye shall die every man of you.  Shoot her with arrows.”

Then three men drew their bows mightily.  The string of the bow of one burst, and the bow was shattered, and the arrow of the second slipped as he drew it, and passing downwards pierced his foot; and the shaft of the third swerved ere it struck the breast of Helen, and sunk into the heart of that soldier who was next to the Queen, so that he fell down dead.  It was the same man who had striven to hold to the doors and clasp the Helen.

Then Helen turned and spoke: 

“Bid not thy guard to shoot again, Meriamun, lest the arrow find thy heart, for, know this, no man may harm me;” and once more she lifted her veil, and speaking to those at the gates said:  “Open, I beseech you, and let the Hathor pass.”

Now their weapons fell from their hands, and they looked upon her beauty, and they too made haste to open the gates.  The great gates clanged upon their sockets and rolled back.  She passed through them, and all who were there followed after her.  But when they looked, lo! she had mingled with the people who went to and fro and was gone.

Then Meriamun grew white with rage because Helen whom she hated had escaped her, and turning to those men who had opened the doors and those who had given passage of the gates, who yet stood looking on each other with dazed eyes, she doomed them to die.

But Rei, kneeling before her, prayed for their lives: 

“Ill will come of it, O Queen!” he said, “as ill came to yonder Sidonian and to the soldier at thy feet, for none may work evil on this Goddess, or those who befriended the Goddess.  Slay them not, O Queen, lest ill tidings follow on the deed!”

Then the Queen turned on him madly: 

“Hearken thou, Rei!” she said; “speak thus again, and though I have loved thee and thou hast been the chief of the servants of Pharaoh, this I swear, that thou shalt die the first.  Already the count is long between thee and me, for it was thou who didst bring yon accursed witch to my Palace.  Now thou hast heard, and of this be sure, as I have spoken so I will do.  Get thee gone ­get thee from my sight, I say, lest I slay thee now.  I take back thy honours, I strip thee of thy offices, I gather thy wealth into my treasury.  Go forth a beggar, and let me see thy face no more!”

Then Rei held his peace and fled, for it were better to stand before a lioness robbed of her whelps than before Meriamun in her rage.  Thereon the gates were shut again, and the captain of the gates was dragged before the place where the Queen stood, and asking no mercy and taking little heed, for still his soul was filled with the beauty of Helen as a cup with wine, he suffered death, for his head was straightway smitten from him.

Rei, watching from afar, groaned aloud, then turned and left the Palace, but the Queen called to the soldiers to slay on.  Even as she called there came a cry of woe without the Palace gates.  Men looked each on each.  Again the cry rose and a voice without called, “Pharaoh is come again!  Pharaoh is come again!” and there rose a sound of knocking at the gates.

Now for that while Meriamun thought no more of slaying the men, but bade them open the gates.  They opened, and a man entered clad in raiment stained with travel.  His eyes were wild, his hair was dishevelled, and scarce could his face be known for the face of Pharaoh Meneptah, it was so marred with grief and fear.

Pharaoh looked on the Queen ­he looked upon the dead who lay at her feet, then laughed aloud: 

“What!” he cried, “more dead!  Is there then no end to Death and the number of his slain?  Nay, here he doth work but feebly.  Perchance his arm grows weary.  Come, where are thy dead, Queen?  Bring forth thy dead!”

“What hath chanced, Meneptah, that thou speakest thus madly?” asked the Queen.  “She whom they name the Hathor hath passed here, and these, and another who lies yonder, do but mark her path.  Speak!”

“Ay, I will speak, Queen.  I have a merry tale to tell.  Thou sayest that the Hathor hath passed here and these mark her footsteps.  Well, I can cap thy story.  He whom the Apura name Jahveh hath passed yonder by the Sea of Weeds, and there lie many, lie to mark His footsteps.”

“Thy host!  Where is thy host?” cried the Queen.  “At the least some are left.”

“Yes, Queen, all are left ­all ­all ­save myself alone.  They drift to and fro in the Sea of Weeds ­they lie by tens of thousands on its banks; the gulls tear their eyes, the lion of the desert rends their flesh; they lie unburied, their breath sighs in the sea gales, their blood sinks into the salt sands, and Osiris numbers them in the hosts of hell.  Hearken!  I came upon the tribes of the Apura by the banks of the Sea of Weeds.  I came at eve, but I might not fall upon them because of a veil of darkness that spread between my armies and the hosts of the Apura.  All night long through the veil of darkness, and through the shrieking of a great gale, I heard a sound as of the passing of a mighty people ­the clangour of their arms, the voices of captains, the stamp of beasts, and the grinding of wheels.  The morning came, and lo! before me the waters of the sea were built up as a wall on the right hand and the left, and between the walls of water was dry land, and the Apura passed between the walls.  Then I cried to my captains to arise and follow swiftly, and they did my bidding.  But the chariot wheels drew heavily in the sand, so that before all my host had entered between the waters, the Apura had passed the sea.  Then of a sudden, as last of all I passed down into the path of the ocean bed, the great wind ceased, and as it ceased, lo! the walls of water that were on either side of the sea path fell together with noise like the noise of thunder.  I turned my chariot wheels, and fled back, but my soldiers, my chariots, and my horses were swallowed; once more they were seen again on the crest of the black waves like a gleam of light upon a cloud, once a great cry arose to the heaven; then all was done and all was still, and of my hosts I alone was left alive of men.”

So Pharaoh spoke, and a great groan rose from those who hearkened.  Only Meriamun spoke: 

“So shall things go with us while that False Hathor dwells in Khem.”

Now as she spoke thus, again there came a sound of knocking at the gates and a cry of “Open ­a messenger! a messenger!”

“Open!” said Meriamun, “though his tidings be ill, scarce can they match these that have been told.”

The gates were opened, and one came through them.  His eyes stared wide in fear, so dry was his throat with haste and with the sand, that he stood speechless before them all.

“Give him wine,” cried Meriamun, and wine was brought.  Then he drank, and he fell upon his knees before the Queen, for he knew not Pharaoh.

“Thy tidings!” she cried.  “Be swift with thy tidings.”

“Let the Queen pardon me,” he said.  “Let her not be wrath.  These are my tidings.  A mighty host marches towards the city of On, a host gathered from all lands of the peoples of the North, from the lands of the Tulisha, of the Shakalishu, of the Liku, and of the Shairdana.  They march swiftly and raven, they lay the country waste, naught is left behind them save the smoke of burning towns, the flight of vultures, and the corpses of men.”

“Hast done?” said Meriamun.

“Nay, O Queen!  A great fleet sails with them up the eastern mouth of Sihor, and in it are twelve thousand chosen warriors of the Aquaiusha, the sons of those men who sacked Troy town.”

And now a great groan went up to heaven from the lips of those who hearkened.  Only Meriamun spoke thus: 

“And yet the Apura are gone, for whose sake, ye say, came the plagues.  They are fled, but the curse remains, and so shall things ever be with us while yon False Hathor dwells in Khem.”

CHAPTER III

THE BED OF TORMENT

It was nightfall, and Pharaoh sat at meat and Meriamun sat by him.  The heart of Pharaoh was very heavy.  He thought of that great army which now washed to and fro on the waters of the Sea of Weeds, of whose number he alone had lived to tell the tale.  He thought also of the host of the Apura, who made a mock of him in the desert.  But most of all he brooded on the tidings that the messenger had brought, tidings of the march of the barbarians and of the fleet of the Aquaiusha that sailed on the eastern stream of Sihor.  All that day he had sat in his council chamber, and sent forth messengers east and north and south, bidding them gather the mercenaries from every town and in every city, men to make war against the foe, for here, in his white-walled city of Tanis, there were left but five thousand soldiers.  And now, wearied with toil and war, he sat at meat, and as he sat bethought him of the man whom he had left to guard the Queen.

“Where, then, is that great Wanderer, he who wore the golden harness?” he asked presently.

“I have a tale to tell thee of the man,” Meriamun answered slowly, “a tale which I have not told because of all the evil tidings that beat about our ears like sand in a desert wind.”

“Tell on,” said Pharaoh.

Then she bent towards him, whispering in his ear.

As she whispered, the face of Pharaoh grew black as the night, and ere all the tale was done he sprang to his feet.

“By Amen and by Ptah!” he cried, “here at least we have a foe whom we may conquer.  Thou and I, Meriamun, my sister and my queen, are set as far each from each as the sky is set from the temple top, and little of love is there between us.  Yet I will wipe away this blot upon thy honour, which also is a blot upon my own.  Sleepless shall this Wanderer lie to-night, and sorry shall he go to-morrow, but to-morrow night he shall sleep indeed.”

Thereupon he clapped his hands, summoning the guard, and bade them pass to the dungeon where the Wanderer lay, and lead him thence to the place of punishment.  He bade them also call the tormentors to make ready the instruments of their craft, and await him in the place of punishment.

Then he sat for awhile, drinking sullenly, till one came to tell him that all was prepared.  Then Pharaoh rose.

“Comest thou with me?” he asked.

“Nay,” said Meriamun, “I would not look upon the man again; and this I charge thee.  Go not down to him this night.  Let him be found upon the bed of torment, and let the tormentors give him food and wine, for so he shall die more hardly.  Then let them light the fires at his head and at his feet and leave him till the dawn alone in the place of torment.  So he shall die a hundred deaths ere ever his death begins.”

“As thou wilt,” answered Pharaoh.  “Mete out thine own punishment.  To-morrow when I have slept I will look upon his torment.”  And he spoke to his servants as she desired.

The Wanderer lay on the bed of torment in the place of torment.  They had taken the gag from his mouth, and given him food and wine as Pharaoh commanded.  He ate and drank and his strength came back to him.  Then they made fast his fetters, lit the braziers at his head and foot, and left him with mocking words.

He lay upon the bed of stone and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.  Here then was the end of his wanderings, and this was the breast of the Golden Helen in whose arms Aphrodite had sworn that he should lie.  Oh, that he were free again and stood face to face with his foes, his harness on his back!  Nay, it might not be, no mortal strength could burst these fetters, not even the strength of Odysseus, Laertes’ son.  Where now were those Gods whom he had served?  Should he never again hear the clarion cry of Pallas?  Why then had he turned him from Pallas and worshipped at the shrine of the false Idalian Queen?  Thus it was that she kept her oaths; thus she repaid her votary.

So he thought in the bitterness of his heart as he lay with closed eyes upon the bed of torment whence there was no escape, and groaned:  “Would, Aphrodite, that I had never served thee, even for one little hour, then had my lot gone otherwise.”

Now he opened his eyes, and lo! a great glory rolled about the place of torment, and as he wondered at the glory, a voice spoke from its midst ­the voice of the Idalian Aphrodite: 

“Blame me not, Odysseus,” said the heavenly voice; “blame me not because thou art come to this pass.  Thyself, son of Laertes, art to blame.  What did I tell thee?  Was it not that thou shouldst know the Golden Helen by the Red Star on her breast, the jewel whence fall the red drops fast, and by the Star alone?  And did she not tell thee, also, that thou shouldst know her by the Star?  Yet when one came to thee wearing no Star but girdled with a Snake, my words were all forgotten, thy desires led thee whither thou wouldst not go.  Thou wast blinded by desire and couldst not discern the False from the True.  Beauty has many shapes, now it is that of Helen, now that of Meriamun, each sees it as he desires it.  But the Star is yet the Star, and the Snake is yet the Snake, and he who, bewildered of his lusts, swears by the Snake when he should have sworn by the Star, shall have the Snake for guerdon.”

She ceased, and the Wanderer spoke, groaning bitterly: 

“I have sinned, O Queen!” he said.  “Is there then no forgiveness for my sin?”

“Yea, there is forgiveness, Odysseus, but first there is punishment.  This is thy fate.  Never now, in this space of life, shalt thou be the lord of the Golden Helen.  For thou hast sworn by the Snake, and his thou art, nor mayest thou reach the Star.  Yet it still shines on.  Through the mists of death it shall shine for thee, and when thou wakest again, behold, thine eyes shall see it fitfully.

“And now, this for thy comfort.  Here thou shalt not die, nor by torment, for thy death shall come to thee from the water as the dead seer foretold, but ere thou diest, once more thou shalt look upon the Golden Helen, and hear her words of love and know her kiss, though thine she shall not be.  And learn that a great host marches upon the land of Khem, and with it sails a fleet of thine own people, the Achaeans.  Go down and meet them and take what comes, where the swords shine that smote Troy.  And this fate is laid upon thee, that thou shalt do battle against thy own people, even against the sons of them by whose side thou didst fight beneath the walls of Ilios, and in that battle thou shalt find thy death, and in thy death, thou Wanderer, thou shalt find that which all men seek, the breast of the immortal Helen.  For though here on earth she seems to live eternally, it is but the shadow of her beauty that men see ­each as he desires it.  In the halls of Death she dwells, and in the garden of Queen Persephone, and there she shall be won, for there no more is beauty guarded of Those that stand between men and joy, and there no more shall the Snake seem as the Star, and Sin have power to sever those that are one.  Now make thy heart strong, Odysseus, and so do as thy wisdom tells thee.  Farewell!”

Thus the Goddess spoke from the cloud of glory, and lo! she was gone.  But the heart of the Wanderer was filled with joy because he knew that the Helen was not lost to him for ever, and he no more feared the death of shame.

Now it was midnight, and Pharaoh slept.  But Meriamun the Queen slept not.  She rose from her bed, she wrapped herself in a dark cloak that hid her face, and taking a lamp in her hand, glided through the empty halls till she came to a secret stair down which she passed.  There was a gate at the foot of the stair, and a guard slept by it.  She pushed him with her foot.

He awoke and sprang towards her, but she held a signet before his eyes, an old ring of great Queen Taia, whereon a Hathor worshipped the sun.  Then he bowed and opened the gate.  She swept on through many passages, deep into the bowels of the earth, till she came to the door of a little chamber where a light shone.  Men talked in the chamber, and she listened to their talk.  They spoke much and laughed gleefully.  Then she entered the doorway and looked upon them.  They were six in number, evil-eyed men of Ethiopia, and seated in a circle.  In the centre of the circle lay the waxen image of a man, and they were cutting it with knives and searing it with needles of iron and pincers made red-hot, and many instruments strange and dreadful to look upon.  For these were the tormentors, and they spoke of those pains that to-morrow they should wreak upon the Wanderer, and practised them.

But Meriamun, who loved him, shivered as she looked, and muttered thus beneath her breath: 

“This I promise you, black ministers of death, that in the same fashion ye shall die ere another night be sped.”

Then she passed into the chamber, holding the signet on high, and the tormentors fell upon their faces before her majesty.  She passed between them, and as she went she stamped with her sandalled foot upon the waxen image and brake it.  On the further side of the chamber was another passage, and this she followed till she reached a door of stone that stood ajar.  Here she paused awhile, for from within the chamber there came a sound of singing, and the voice was the Wanderer’s voice, and thus he sang: 

     “Endure, my heart:  not long shalt thou endure
        The shame, the smart;
     The good and ill are done; the end is sure;
        Endure, my heart! 
     There stand two vessels by the golden throne
        Of Zeus on high,
     From these he scatters mirth and scatters moan,
        To men that die. 
     And thou of many joys hast had thy share,
        Thy perfect part;
     Battle and love, and evil things and fair;
        Endure, my heart! 
     Fight one last greatest battle under shield,
        Wage that war well: 
     Then seek thy fellows in the shadowy field
        Of asphodel,
     There is the knightly Hector; there the men
        Who fought for Troy;
     Shall we not fight our battles o’er again? 
        Were that not joy? 
     Though no sun shines beyond the dusky west,
        Thy perfect part
     There shalt thou have of the unbroken rest;
        Endure, my heart!”

Meriamun heard and wondered at this man’s hardihood, and the greatness of his heart who could sing thus as he lay upon the bed of torment.  Now she pushed the door open silently and passed in.  The place where she stood was dreadful.  It was shaped as a lofty vault, and all the walls were painted with the torments of those who pass down to Set after living wickedly on earth.  In the walls were great rings of bronze, and chains and fetters of bronze, wherein the bones of men yet hung.  In the centre of the vault there was a bed of stone on which the Wanderer was fastened with fetters.  He was naked, save only for a waistcloth, and at his head and feet burned polished braziers that gave light to the vault, and shone upon the instruments of torment.  Beyond the further braziers grinned the gate of Sekhet, that is shaped like a woman, and the chains wherein the victim is set for the last torment by fire, were hanging from the roof.

Meriamun passed stealthily behind the head of the Wanderer, who might not see her because of the straitness of his bonds.  Yet it seemed to her that he heard somewhat, for he ceased from singing and turned his ear to hearken.  She stood awhile in silence looking on him she loved, who of all living men was the goodliest by far.  Then at length he spoke craftily: 

“Who art thou?” he said.  “If thou art of the number of the tormentors, begin thy work.  I fear thee not, and no groan shall thy worst torture wring from these lips of mine.  But I tell thee this, that ere I be three days dead, the Gods shall avenge me terribly, both on thee and those who sent thee.  With fire and with sword they shall avenge me, for a great host gathers and draws nigh, a host of many nations gathered out of all lands, ay, and a fleet manned with the sons of my own people, of the Achaeans terrible in war.  They rush on like ravening wolves, and the land is black before them, but the land shall be stamped red behind their feet.  Soon they shall give this city to the flames, the smoke of it shall go up to heaven, and the fires shall be quenched at last in the blood of its children ­ay, in thy blood, thou who dost look on me.”

Hearing these words Meriamun bent forward to look on the face of the speaker and to see what was written there; and as she moved, her cloak slipped apart, showing the Snake’s head with the eyes of flame that was set about her as a girdle.  Fiercely they gleamed, and the semblance of them was shown faintly on the polished surface of the brazier wherein the fire burned at the Wanderer’s feet.  He saw it, and now he knew who stood behind him.

“Say, Meriamun the Queen ­Pharaoh’s dishonoured wife,” he said, “say, wherefore art thou come to look upon thy work?  Nay, stand not behind me, stand where I may see thee.  Fear not, I am strongly bound, nor may I lift a hand against thee.”

Then Meriamun, still speaking no word, but wondering much because he knew her ere his eyes fell upon her, passed round the bed of torment, and throwing down her cloak stood before him in her dark and royal loveliness.

He looked upon her beauty, then spoke again: 

“Say, wherefore art thou come hither, Meriamun?  Surely, with my ears I heard thee swear that I had wronged thee.  Wouldst thou then look on him who wronged thee, or art thou come, perchance, to watch my torments, while thy slaves tear limb from limb, and quench yon fires with my blood?  Oh, thou evil woman, thou hast worked woe on me indeed, and perchance canst work more woe now that I lie helpless here.  But this I tell thee, that thy torments shall outnumber mine as the stars outnumber the earth.  For here, and hereafter, thou shalt be parched with such a thirst of love as never may be quenched, and in many another land, and in many another time, thou shalt endure thine agony afresh.  Again, and yet again, thou shalt clasp and conquer; again, and yet again, thou shalt let slip, and in the moment of triumph lose.  By the Snake’s head I swore my troth to thee, I, who should have sworn by the Star; and this I tell thee, Meriamun, that as the Star shall shine and be my beacon through the ages, so through the ages shall the Snake encircle thee and be thy doom!”

“Hold!” said Meriamun, “pour no more bitter words upon me, who am distraught of love, and was maddened by thy scorn.  Wouldst thou know then why I am come hither?  For this cause I am come, to save thee from thy doom.  Hearken, the time is short.  It is true ­though how thou knowest it I may not guess ­it is true that the barbarians march on Khem, and with them sails a fleet laden with the warriors of thine own people.  This also is true, Pharaoh has returned alone:  and all his host is swallowed in the Sea of Weeds.  And I, foolish that I am, I would save thee, Odysseus, thus:  I will put it in the heart of Pharaoh to pardon thy great offence, and send thee forward against the foe; yes, I can do it.  But this thou shalt swear to me, to be true to Pharaoh, and smite the barbarian host.”

“That I will swear,” said the Wanderer, “ay, and keep the oath, though it is hard to do battle on my kin.  Is that all thy message, Meriamun?”

“Not all, Odysseus.  One more thing must thou swear, or if thou swearest it not, here thou shalt surely die.  Know this, she who in Khem is named the Hathor, but who perchance has other names, hath put thee from her because last night thou wast wed to me.”

“It may well be so,” said the Wanderer.

“She hath put thee from her, and thou ­thou art bound to me by that which cannot be undone, and by an oath that may not be broken; in whatever shape I walk, or by whatever name I am known among men, still thou art bound to me, as I am bound to thee.  This then thou shalt swear, that thou wilt tell naught of last night’s tale to Pharaoh.”

“That I swear,” said the Wanderer.

“Also that if Pharaoh be gathered to Osiris, and it should chance that she who is named the Hathor pass with him to the Underworld, then that thou, Odysseus, wilt wed me, Meriamun, and be faithful to me for thy life days.”

Now the crafty Odysseus took counsel with his heart, and bethought him of the words of the Goddess.  He saw that it was in the mind of Meriamun to slay Pharaoh and the Helen.  But he cared nothing for the fate of Pharaoh, and knew well that Helen might not be harmed, and that though she change eternally, wearing now this shape, and now that, yet she dies only when the race of men is dead ­then to be gathered to the number of the Gods.  This he knew also, that now he must go forth on his last wandering, for Death should come upon him from the water.  Therefore he answered readily: 

“That oath I swear also, Meriamun, and if I break it may I perish in shame and for ever.”

Now Meriamun heard, and knelt beside him, looking upon him with eyes of love.

“It is well, Odysseus:  perchance ere long I shall claim thy oath.  Oh, think not so ill of me:  if I have sinned, I have sinned from love of thee.  Long years ago, Odysseus, thy shadow fell upon my heart and I clasped its emptiness.  Now thou art come, and I, who pursued a shadow from sleep to sleep and dream to dream, saw thee a living man, and loved thee to my ruin.  Then I tamed my pride and came to win thee to my heart, and the Gods set another shape upon me ­so thou sayest ­and in that shape, the shape of her thou seekest, thou didst make me wife to thee.  Perchance she and I are one, Odysseus.  At the least, not so readily had I forsaken thee.  Oh, when thou didst stand in thy might holding those dogs at bay till the Sidonian knave cut thy bowstring ­”

“What of him?  Tell me, what of Kurri?  This would I ask thee, Queen, that he be laid where I lie, and die the death to which I am doomed.”

“Gladly would I give thee the boon,” she answered, “but thou askest too late.  The False Hathor looked upon him, and he slew himself.  Now I will away ­the night wanes and Pharaoh must dream dreams ere dawn.  Fare thee well, Odysseus.  Thy bed is hard to-night, but soft is the couch of kings that waits thee,” and she went forth from him.

“Ay, Meriamun,” said the Wanderer, looking after her.  “Hard is my bed to-night, and soft is the couch of the kings of Men that waits me in the realms of Queen Persephone.  But it is not thou who shalt share it.  Hard is my bed to-night, harder shall thine be through all the nights of death that are to come when the Erinnyes work their will on folk forsworn.”

CHAPTER IV

PHARAOH’S DREAM

Pharaoh slept heavily in his place, for he was wearied with grief and toil.  But Meriamun passed into the chamber, and standing at the foot of the golden bed, lifted up her hands and by her art called visions down on Pharaoh, false dreams through the Ivory Gate.  So Pharaoh dreamed, and thus his vision went: ­

He dreamed that he slept in his bed, and that the statue of Ptah, the Creator, descended from the pedestal by the temple gate and came to him, towering over him like a giant.  Then he dreamed that he awoke, and prostrating himself before the God, asked the meaning of his coming.  Thereon the God spoke to him: ­

“Meneptah, my son, whom I love, hearken unto me.  The Nine-bow barbarians overrun the ancient land of Khem; nine nations march up against Khem and lay it waste.  Hearken unto me, my son, and I will give thee victory.  Awake, awake from sloth, and I will give thee victory.  Thou shalt hew down the Nine-bow barbarians as a countryman hews a rotting palm; they shall fall, and thou shalt spoil them.  But hearken unto me, my son, thou shalt not thyself go up against them.  Low in thy dungeon there lies a mighty chief, skilled in the warfare of the barbarians, a Wanderer who hath wandered far.  Thou shalt release him from his bonds and set him over thy armies, and of the sin that he has sinned thou shalt take no heed.  Awake, awake, Meneptah; with this bow which I give thee shalt thou smite the Nine-bow barbarians.”

Then Meriamun laid the bow of the Wanderer, even the black bow of Eurytus, on the bed beside Pharaoh, and passed thence to her own chamber, and the deceitful dream too passed away.

Early in the morning, a waiting-woman came to the Queen saying that Pharaoh would speak with her.  She went into the ante-chamber and found him there, and in his hand was the black bow of Eurytus.

“Dost thou know this weapon?” he asked.

“Yea, I know it,” she answered; “and thou shouldst know it also, for surely it saved us from the fury of the people on the night of the death of the first-born.  It is the bow of the Wanderer, who lies in the place of torment, and waits his doom because of the wrong he would have wrought upon me.”

“If he hath wronged thee, yet it is he who shall save Khem from the barbarians,” said Pharaoh.  “Listen now to the dream that I have dreamed,” and he told her all the vision.

“It is indeed evil that he who would have wrought such wickedness upon me should go forth honoured, the first of the host of Pharaoh,” quoth Meriamun.  “Yet as the God hath spoken, so let it be.  Send now and bid them loose the man from the place of torment, and put his armour on him and bring him before thee.”

So Pharaoh went out, and the Wanderer was loosed from his bed of stone and clothed again in his golden harness, and came forth glorious to see, and stood before Pharaoh.  But no arms were given him.  Then Pharaoh told him all his dream, and why he caused him to be released from the grip of the tormentors.  The Wanderer hearkened in silence, saying no word.

“Now choose, thou Wanderer,” said Pharaoh:  “choose if thou wilt be borne back to the bed of torment, there to die beneath the hands of the tormentors, or if thou wilt go forth as the captain of my host to do battle with the Nine-bow barbarians who waste the land of Khem.  It seems there is little faith in thine oaths, therefore I ask no more oaths from thee.  But this I swear, that if thou art false to my trust, I will yet find means to bring thee back to that chamber whence thou wast led but now.”

Then the Wanderer spoke: ­

“Of that charge, Pharaoh, which is laid against me I will say nothing, though perchance if I stood upon my trial for the sin that is laid against me, I might find words to say.  Thou askest no oath from me, and no oath I swear, yet I tell thee that if thou givest me ten thousand soldiers and a hundred chariots, I will smite these foes of thine so that they shall come no more to Khem, ay, though they be of my own people, yet will I smite them, and if I fail, then may those who go with me slay me and send me down to Hades.”

Thus he spoke, and as he spoke he searched the hall with his eyes.  For he desired to see Rei the Priest, and charge him with a message to Helen.  But he sought him in vain, for Rei had fled, and was in hiding from the anger of Meriamun.

Then Pharaoh bade his officers take the Wanderer, and set him in a chariot and bear him to the city of On, where Pharaoh’s host was gathering.  Their charge was to watch him night and day with uplifted swords, and if he so much as turned his face from the foe towards Tanis, then they should slay him.  But when the host of Pharaoh marched from On to do battle on the foe, then they should give the Wanderer his own sword and the great black bow, and obey him in everything.  But if he turned his back upon the foe, then they should slay him; or if the host of Pharaoh were driven back by the foe, then they should slay him.

The Wanderer heard, and smiled as a wolf smiles, but spoke no word.  Thereon the great officers of Pharaoh took him and led him forth.  They set him in a chariot, and with the chariot went a thousand horsemen; and soon Meriamun, watching from the walls of Tanis, saw the long line of desert dust that marked the passing of the Wanderer from the city which he should see no more.

The Wanderer also looked back on Tanis with a heavy heart.  There, far away, he could see the shrine of Hathor gleaming like crystal above the tawny flood of waters.  And he must go down to death, leaving no word for Her who sat in the shrine and deemed him faithless and forsworn.  Evil was the lot that the Gods had laid upon him, and bitter was his guerdon.

His thoughts were sad enough while the chariot rolled towards the city of On, where the host of Pharaoh was gathering, and the thunder of the feet of horses echoed in his ears, when, as he pondered, it chanced that he looked up.  There, on a knoll of sand before him, a bow-shot from the chariot, stood a camel, and on the camel a man sat as though he waited the coming of the host.  Idly the Wanderer wondered who this might be, and, as he wondered, the man urged the camel towards the chariot, and, halting before it cried “Hold!” in a loud voice.

“Who art thou?” cried the captain of the chariot, “who darest cry ‘hold’ to the host of Pharaoh?”

“I am one who have tidings of the barbarians,” the man made answer from the camel.

The Wanderer looked on him.  He was wondrous little, withered and old; moreover, his skin was black as though with the heat of the sun, and his clothing was as a beggar’s rags, though the trappings of the camel were of purple leather and bossed with silver.  Again the Wanderer looked; he knew him not, and yet there was that in his face which seemed familiar.

Now the captain of the chariot bade the driver halt the horses, and cried, “Draw near and tell thy tidings.”

“To none will I tell my tidings save to him who shall lead the host of Pharaoh.  Let him come down from the chariot and speak with me.”

“That may not be,” said the captain, for he was charged that the Wanderer should have speech with none.

“As thou wilt,” answered the aged man upon the camel; “go then, go to thy doom! thou art not the first who hath turned aside a messenger from the Gods.”

“I am minded to bid the soldiers shoot thee with arrows,” cried the captain in anger.

“So shall my wisdom sink in the sand with my blood, and be lost with my breath.  Shoot on, thou fool.”

Now the captain was perplexed, for from the aspect of the man he deemed that he was sent by the Gods.  He looked at the Wanderer, who took but little heed, or so it seemed.  But in his crafty heart he knew that this was the best way to win speech with the man upon the camel.  Then the captain took counsel with the captain of the horsemen, and in the end they said to the Wanderer: 

“Descend from the chariot, lord, and walk twelve paces forward, and there hold speech with the man.  But if thou go one pace further, then we will shoot thee and the man with arrows.”  And this he cried out also to him who sat upon the camel.

Then the man on the camel descended and walked twelve paces forward, and the Wanderer descended also from the chariot and walked twelve paces forward, but as one who heeds little what he does.  Now the two stood face to face, but out of earshot of the host, who watched them with arrows set upon the strings.

“Greetings, Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,” he said who was clothed in the beggar’s weeds.

The Wanderer looked upon him hard, and knew him through his disguise.

“Greeting, Rei the Priest, Commander of the Legion of Amen, Chief of the Treasury of Amen.”

“Rei the Priest I am indeed,” he answered, “the rest I am no more, for Meriamun the Queen has stripped me of my wealth and offices, because of thee, thou Wanderer, and the Immortal whose love thou hast won, and by whom thou hast dealt so ill.  Hearken!  I learned by arts known to me of the dream of Pharaoh, and of thy sending forth to do battle with the barbarians.  Then I disguised myself as thou seest, and took the swiftest camel in Tanis, and am come hither by another way to meet thee.  Now I would ask thee one thing.  How came it that thou didst play the Immortal false that night?  Knowest thou that she waited for thee there by the pylon gate?  Ay, there I found her and led her to the Palace, and for that I am stripped of my rank and goods by Meriamun, and now the Lady of Beauty is returned to her shrine, grieving bitterly for thy faithlessness; though how she passed thither I know not.”

“Methought I heard her voice as those knaves bore me to my dungeon,” said the Wanderer.  “And she deemed me faithless!  Say, Rei, dost thou know the magic of Meriamun?  Dost thou know how she won me to herself in the shape of Argive Helen?”

And then, in as few words as might be, he told Rei how he had been led away by the magic of Meriamun, how he who should have sworn by the Star had sworn by the Snake.

When Rei heard that the Wanderer had sworn by the Snake, he shuddered.  “Now I know all,” he said.  “Fear not, thou Wanderer, not on thee shall all the evil fall, nor on that Immortal whom thou dost love; the Snake that beguiled thee shall avenge thee also.”

“Rei,” the Wanderer said, “one thing I charge thee.  I know that I go down to my death.  Therefore I pray thee seek out her whom thou namest the Hathor and tell her all the tale of how I was betrayed.  So shall I die happily.  Tell her also that I crave her forgiveness and that I love her and her only.”

“This I will do if I may,” Rei answered.  “And now the soldiers murmur and I must be gone.  Listen, the might of the Nine-bow barbarians rolls up the eastern branch of Sihor.  But one day’s march from On the mountains run down to the edge of the river, and those mountains are pierced by a rocky pass through which the foe will surely come.  Set thou thy ambush there, Wanderer, there at Prosopis ­so shalt thou smite them.  Farewell.  I will seek out the Hathor if in any way I can come at her, and tell her all.  But of this I warn thee, the hour is big with Fate, and soon will spawn a monstrous birth.  Strange visions of doom and death passed before mine eyes as I slept last night.  Farewell!”

Then he went back to the camel and climbed it, and passing round the army vanished swiftly in a cloud of dust.

The Wanderer also went back to the host, where the captains murmured because of the halt, and mounted his chariot.  But he would tell nothing of what the man had said to him, save that he was surely a messenger from the Under-world to instruct him in the waging of the war.

Then the chariot and the horsemen passed on again, till they came to the city of On, and found the host of Pharaoh gathering in the great walled space that is before the Temple of Ra.  And there they pitched their camp hard by the great obelisks that stand at the inner gate, which Rei the architect fashioned by Thebes, and the divine Rameses Miamun set up to the glory of Ra for ever.

CHAPTER V

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD

When Meriamun the Queen had watched the chariot of the Wanderer till it was lost in the dust of the desert, she passed down from the Palace roof to the solitude of her chamber.

Here she sat in her chamber till the darkness gathered, as the evil thoughts gathered in her heart, that was rent with love of him whom she had won but to lose.  Things had gone ill with her, to little purpose she had sinned after such a fashion as may not be forgiven.  Yet there was hope.  He had sworn that he would wed her when Pharaoh was dead, and when Argive Helen had followed Pharaoh to the Shades.  Should she shrink then from the deed of blood?  Nay, from evil to evil she would go.  She laid her hand upon the double-headed snake that wound her about, and spake into the gloom: 

“Osiris waits thee, Meneptah ­Osiris waits thee!  The Shades of those who have died for thy love, Helen, are gathering at the gates.  It shall be done.  Pharaoh, thou diest to-night.  To-morrow night, thou Goddess Helen, shall all thy tale be told. Man may not harm thee indeed, but shall fire refuse to kiss thy loveliness?  Are there no women’s hands to light thy funeral pile?”

Then she rose, and calling her ladies, was attired in her most splendid robes, and caused the uraeus crown to be set upon her head, the snake circlet of power on her brow, the snake girdle of wisdom at her heart.  And now she hid somewhat in her breast, and passed to the ante-chamber, where the Princes gathered for the feast.

Pharaoh looked up and saw her loveliness.  So glorious she seemed in her royal beauty that his heart forgot its woes, and once again he loved her as he had done in years gone by, when she conquered him at the Game of Pieces, and he had cast his arms about her and she stabbed him.

She saw the look of love grow on his heavy face, and all her gathered hate rose in her breast, though she smiled gently with her lips and spake him fair.

They sat at the feast and Pharaoh drank.  And ever as he drank she smiled upon him with her dark eyes and spake him words of gentlest meaning, till at length there was nothing he desired more than that they should be at one again.

Now the feast was done.  They sat in the ante-chamber, for all were gone save Meneptah and Meriamun.  Then he came to her and took her hand, looking into her eyes, nor did she say him nay.

There was a lute lying on a golden table, and there too, as it chanced, was a board for the Game of Pieces, with the dice, and the pieces themselves wrought in gold.

Pharaoh took up the gold king from the board and toyed with it in his hand.  “Meriamun,” he said, “for these five years we have been apart, thou and I. Thy love I have lost, as a game is lost for one false move, or one throw of the dice; and our child is dead and our armies are scattered, and the barbarians come like flies when Sihor stirs within his banks.  Love only is left to us, Meriamun.”

She looked at him not unkindly, as if sorrow and wrong had softened her heart also, but she did not speak.

“Can dead Love waken, Meriamun, and can angry Love forgive?”

She had lifted the lute and her fingers touched listlessly on the cords.

“Nay, I know not,” she said; “who knows?  How did Pentaur sing of Love’s renewal, Pentaur the glorious minstrel of our father, Rameses Miamun?”

He laid the gold king on the board, and began listlessly to cast the dice.  He threw the “Hathor” as it chanced, the lucky cast, two sixes, and a thought of better fortune came to him.

“How did the song run, Meriamun?  It is many a year since I heard thee sing.”

She touched the lute lowly and sweetly, and then she sang.  Her thoughts were of the Wanderer, but the King deemed that she thought of himself.

     O joy of Love’s renewing,
        Could Love be born again;
     Relenting for thy rueing,
        And pitying my pain: 
     O joy of Love’s awaking,
        Could Love arise from sleep,
     Forgiving our forsaking
        The fields we would not reap!

     Fleet, fleet we fly, pursuing
        The Love that fled amain,
     But will he list our wooing,
        Or call we but in vain? 
     Ah! vain is all our wooing,
        And all our prayers are vain,
     Love listeth not our suing,
        Love will not wake again.

“Will he not waken again?” said Pharaoh.  “If two pray together, will Love refuse their prayer?”

“It might be so,” she said, “if two prayed together; for if they prayed, he would have heard already!”

“Meriamun,” said the Pharaoh eagerly, for he thought her heart was moved by pity and sorrow, “once thou didst win my crown at the Pieces, wilt thou play me for thy love?”

She thought for one moment, and then she said: 

“Yes, I will play thee, my Lord, but my hand has lost its cunning, and it may well be that Meriamun shall lose again, as she has lost all.  Let me set the Pieces, and bring wine for my lord.”

She set the Pieces, and crossing the room, she lifted a great cup of wine, and put it by Pharaoh’s hand.  But he was so intent on the game that he did not drink.

He took the field, he moved, she replied, and so the game went between them, in the dark fragrant chamber where the lamp burned, and the Queen’s eyes shone in the night.  This way and that went the game, till she lost, and he swept the board.

Then in triumph he drained the poisoned cup of wine, and cried, “Pharaoh is dead!”

“Pharaoh is dead!” answered Meriamun, gazing into his eyes.

“What is that look in thine eyes, Meriamun, what is that look in thine eyes?”

And the King grew pale as the dead, for he had seen that look before ­when Meriamun slew Hataska.

“Pharaoh is dead!” she shrilled in the tone of women who wail the dirges.  “Pharaoh, great Pharaoh is dead!  Ere a man may count a hundred thy days are numbered.  Strange! but to-morrow, Meneptah, shalt thou sit where Hataska sat, dead on the knees of Death, an Osirian in the lap of the Osiris.  Die, Pharaoh, die!  But while thy diest, hearken.  There is one I love, the Wanderer who leads thy hosts.  His love I stole by arts known to me, and because I stole it he would have shamed me, and I accused him falsely in the ears of men.  But he comes again, and, so sure as thou shalt sit on the knees of Osiris, so surely shall he sit upon thy throne, Pharaoh.  For Pharaoh is dead!”

He heard.  He gathered his last strength.  He rose and staggered towards her, striking at the air.  Slowly she drew away, while he followed her, awful to see.  At length he stood still, he threw up his hands, and fell dead.

Then Meriamun drew near and looked at him strangely.

“Behold the end of Pharaoh,” she said.  “That then was a king, upon whose breath the lives of peoples hung like a poised feather.  Well, let him go!  Earth can spare him, and Death is but the richer by a weary fool.  ’Tis done, and well done!  Would that to-morrow’s task were also done ­and that Helen lay as Pharaoh lies.  So ­rinse the cup ­and now to sleep ­if sleep will come.  Ah, where hath sleep flown of late?  To-morrow they’ll find him dead.  Well, what of it?  So do kings ofttimes die.  There, I will be going; never were his eyes so large and so unlovely!”

Now the light of morning gathered again on all the temple tops, and men rose from sleep to go about their labours.  Meriamun watched it grow as she lay sleepless in her golden bed, waiting for the cry that presently should ring along the Palace walls.  Hark!  What was that?  The sound of swinging doors, the rush of running feet.  And now it came ­long and shrill it rose.

“Pharaoh is dead!  Awake!  Awake, ye sleepers!  Awake! awake! and look upon that which has come about.  Pharaoh is dead!  Pharaoh is dead!”

Then Meriamun arose, and followed by the ladies, rushed from her chamber.

“Who dreams so evilly?” she said.  “Who dreams and cries aloud in his haunted sleep?”

“O Queen, it is no dream,” said one.  “Pass into the ante-chamber and see.  There lies Pharaoh dead, and with no wound upon him to tell the manner of his end.”

Then Meriamun cried aloud with a great cry, and threw her hair about her face, while tears fell from her dark eyes.  She passed into the chamber, and there, fallen on his back and cold, lay Pharaoh in his royal robes.  Awhile the Queen looked upon him as one who is dumb with grief.  Then she lifted up her voice and cried: 

“Still is the curse heavy upon Khem and the people of Khem.  Pharaoh lies dead; yea, he is dead who has no wound, and this I say, that he is slain of the witchcraft of her whom men name the Hathor.  Oh, my Lord, my Lord!” and kneeling, she laid her hand upon his breast; “by this dead heart of thine I swear that I will wreak thy murder on her who wrought it.  Lift him up!  Lift up this poor clay, that was the first of kings.  Clothe him in the robes of death, and set him on the knees of Osiris in the Temple of Osiris.  Then go forth through the city and call out this, the Queen’s command; call it from street to street.  This is the Queen’s command, that ’every woman in Tanis who has lost son, or husband, or brother, or kin or lover, through the witchcraft of the False Hathor, or by the plagues that she hath wrought on Khem, or in the war with the Apura, whom she caused to fly from Khem, do meet me at sundown in the Temple of Osiris before the face of the God and of dead Pharaoh’s Majesty.’”

So they took Meneptah the Osirian, and wrapping him in the robes of death, bore him to the knees of Osiris, where he should sit a day and a night.  And the messengers of Meriamun went forth summoning the women of the city to meet her at sunset in the Temple of Osiris.  Moreover, Meriamun sent out slaves by tens and by twenties to the number of two thousand, bidding them gather up all the wood that was in Tanis, and all the oil and the bitumen, and bundles of reeds by hundreds such as are used for the thatching of houses, and lay them in piles and stacks in a certain courtyard near the Temple of Hathor.  This they did, and so the day wore on, while the women wailed about the streets because of the death of Pharaoh.

Now it chanced that the camel of Rei the Priest fell down from weariness as it journeyed swiftly back to Tanis.  But Rei sped forward on foot, and came to the gates of Tanis, sorely wearied, towards the evening of that day.  When he heard the wailing of the women, he asked of a passer-by what new evil had fallen upon Khem, and learned the death of Pharaoh.  Then Rei knew by whose hand Pharaoh was dead, and grieved at heart, because she whom he had served and loved ­Meriamun the moon-child ­was a murderess.  At first he was minded to go up before the Queen and put her to an open shame, and then take his death at her hands; but when he heard that Meriamun had summoned all the women of Tanis to meet her in the Temple of Osiris, he had another thought.  Hurrying to that place where he hid in the city, he ate and drank.  Then he put off his beggar’s rags, and robed himself afresh, and over all drew the garment of an aged crone, for this was told him, that no man should be suffered to enter the Temple.  Now the day was dying, and already the western sky was red, and he hurried forth and mingled with the stream of women who passed towards the Temple gates.

“Who then slew Pharaoh?” asked one; “and why does the Queen summon us to meet her?”

“Pharaoh is slain by the witchcraft of the False Hathor,” answered another; “and the Queen summons us that we may take counsel how to be rid of the Hathor.”

“Tell not of the accursed Hathor,” said a third; “my husband and my brother are dead at her hands, and my son died in the death of the first-born that she called down on Khem.  Ah, if I could but see her rent limb from limb I should seek Osiris happily.”

“Some there be,” quoth a fourth, “who say that not the Hathor, but the Gods of those Apura brought the woes on Khem, and some that Pharaoh was slain by the Queen’s own hand, because of the love she bears to that great Wanderer who came here a while ago.”

“Thou fool,” answered the first; “how can the Queen love one who would have wrought outrage on her?”

“Such things have been,” said the fourth woman; “perchance he wrought no outrage, perchance she beguiled him as women may.  Yes, yes, such things have been.  I am old, and I have seen such things.”

“Yea, thou art old,” said the first.  “Thou hast no child, no husband, no father, no lover, and no brother.  Thou hast lost none who are dear to thee through the magic of the Hathor.  Speak one more such slander on the Queen, and we will fall upon thee and tear thy lying tongue from its roots.”

“Hush,” said the second woman, “here are the Temple gates.  By Isis did any ever see such a multitude of women, and never a man to cheer them, a dreary sight, indeed!  Come, push on, push on or we shall find no place.  Yea, thou soldier ­we are women, all women, have no fear.  No need to bare our breasts, look at our eyes blind with weeping over the dead.  Push on! push on!”

So they passed by the guards and into the gates of the Temple, and with them went Rei unheeded.  Already it was well-nigh filled with women.  Although the sun was not yet dead, torches were set about to lighten the gloom, and by them Rei saw that the curtains before the Shrine were drawn.  Presently the Temple was full to overflowing, the doors were shut and barred, and a voice from behind the veil cried: 

“Silence!”

Then all the multitude of women were silent, and the light of the torches flared strangely upon their shifting upturned faces, as fires flare over the white sea-foam.  Now the curtains of the Shrine of Osiris were drawn aside slowly, and the light that burned upon the altar streamed out between them.  It fell upon the foremost ranks of women, it fell upon the polished statue of the Osiris.  On the knees of Osiris sat the body of Pharaoh Meneptah, his head resting against the breast of the God.  Pharaoh was wrapped about with winding clothes like the marble statue of the God, and in his cold hands were bound the crook, the sceptre, and the scourge, as the crook, the sceptre, and the scourge were placed in the hands of the effigy of the God.  As was the statue of the God, so was the body of Pharaoh that sat upon his knees, and cold and awful was the face of Osiris, and cold and awful was the face of Meneptah the Osirian.

At the side, and somewhat in front of the statue of the God, a throne was placed of blackest marble, and on the throne sat Meriamun the Queen.  She was glorious to look on.  She wore the royal robes of Khem, the double-crown of Khem fashioned of gold, and wreathed with the uraeus snakes, was set upon her head; in her hand was the crystal cross of Life, and between her mantle’s purple folds gleamed the eyes of her snake girdle.  She sat awhile in silence speaking no word, and all the women wondered at her glory and at dead Pharaoh’s awfulness.  Then at length she spoke, low indeed, but so clearly that every word reached the limits of the Temple hall.

“Women of Tanis, hear me, the Queen.  Let each search the face of each, and if there be any man among your multitude, let him be dragged forth and torn limb from limb, for in this matter no man may hear our counsels, lest following his madness he betray them.”

Now every woman looked upon her neighbour, and she who was next to Rei looked hard upon him so that he trembled for his life.  But he crouched into the shadow and stared back on her boldly as though he doubted if she were indeed a woman, and said no word.  When all had looked, and no man had been found, Meriamun spoke again.

“Hearken, women of Tanis, hearken to your sister and your Queen.  Woe upon woe is fallen on the head of Khem.  Plague upon plague hath smitten the ancient land.  Our first-born are dead, our slaves have spoiled us and fled away, our hosts have been swallowed in the Sea of Weeds, and barbarians swarm along our shores like locusts.  Is it not so, women of Tanis?”

“It is so, O Queen,” they answered, as with one voice.

“A strange evil hath fallen on the head of Khem.  A false Goddess is come to dwell within the land; her sorceries are great in the land.  Month by month men go up to look upon her deadly beauty, and month by month they are slain of her sorceries.  She takes the husband from his marriage bed; she draws the lover from her who waits to be a bride; the slave flies to her from the household of his lord; the priests flock to her from the altars of the Gods ­ay, the very priests of Isis flock forsworn from the altars of Isis.  All look upon her witch-beauty, and to each she shows an altered loveliness, and to all she gives one guerdon ­Death!  Is it not so, women of Tanis?”

“Alas! alas! it is so, O Queen,” answered the women as with one voice.

“Woes are fallen on you and Khem, my sisters, but on me most of all are woes fallen.  My people have been slain, my land ­the land I love ­has been laid waste with plagues; my child, the only one, is dead in the great death; hands have been laid on me, the Queen of Khem.  Think on it, ye who are women!  My slaves are fled, my armies have been swallowed in the sea; and last, O my sisters, my consort, my beloved lord, mighty Pharaoh, son of great Rameses Miamun, hath been taken from me!  Look! look! ye who are wives, look on him who was your King and my most beloved lord.  There he sits, and all my tears and all my prayers may not summon one single answering sigh from that stilled heart.  The curse hath fallen on him also.  He too hath been smitten silently with everlasting silence.  Look! look! ye who are wives, and weep with me, ye who are left widowed.”

Now the women looked, and a great groan went up from all that multitude, while Meriamun hid her face with the hollow of her hand.  Then again she spoke.

“I have besought the Gods, my sisters; I have dared to call down the majesty of the Gods, who speak through the lips of the dead, and I have learnt whence these woes come.  And this I have won by my prayers, that ye who suffer as I suffer shall learn whence they come, not from my mortal lips, indeed, but from the lips of the dead that speak with the voice of the Gods.”

Then, while the women trembled, she turned to the body of Pharaoh, which was set upon the knees of Osiris, and spoke to it.

“Dead Pharaoh! great Osirian, ruling in the Underworld, hearken to me now!  Hearken to me now, thou Osiris, Lord of the West, first of the hosts of Death.  Hearken to me, Osiris, and be manifest through the lips of him who was great on earth.  Speak through his cold lips, speak with mortal accents, that these people may hear and understand.  By the spirit that is in me, who am yet a dweller on the earth, I charge thee speak.  Who is the source of the woes of Khem?  Say, Lord of the dead, who are the living evermore?”

Now the flame on the altar died away, and dreadful silence fell upon the Temple, gloom fell upon the Shrine, and through the gloom the golden crown of Meriamun, and the cold statue of the Osiris, and the white face of dead Meneptah gleamed faint and ghost-like.

Then suddenly the flame of the altar flared as flares the summer lightning.  It flared full on the face of the dead, and lo! the lips of the dead moved, and from them came the sound of mortal speech.  They spake in awful accents, and thus they spoke: 

“She who was the curse of Achaeans, she who was the doom of Ilios; she who sits in the Temple of Hathor, the Fate of man, who may not be harmed of Man, she calls down the wrath of the Gods on Khem.  It is spoken!”

The echo of the awful words died away in the silence.  Then fear took hold of the multitude of women because of the words of the Dead, and some fell upon their faces, and some covered their eyes with their hands.

“Arise, my sisters!” cried the voice of Meriamun.  “Ye have heard not from my lips, but from the lips of the dead.  Arise, and let us forth to the Temple of the Hathor.  Ye have heard who is the fountain of our woes; let us forth and seal it at its source for ever.  Of men she may not be harmed who is the fate of men, from men we ask no help, for all men are her slaves, and for her beauty’s sake all men forsake us.  But we will play the part of men.  Our women’s milk shall freeze within our breasts, we will dip our tender hands in blood, ay, scourged by a thousand wrongs we will forget our gentleness, and tear this foul fairness from its home.  We will burn the Hathor’s Shrine with fire, her priests shall perish at the altar, and the beauty of the false Goddess shall melt like wax in the furnace of our hate.  Say, will ye follow me, my sisters, and wreak our shames upon the Shameful One, our woes upon the Spring of Woe, our dead upon their murderess?”

She ceased, and then from every woman’s throat within the great Temple there went up a cry of rage, fierce and shrill.

“We will, Meriamun, we will!” they screamed.  “To the Hathor!  Lead us to the Hathor’s Shrine!  Bring fire!  Bring fire!  Lead us to the Hathor’s Shrine!”

CHAPTER VI

THE BURNING OF THE SHRINE

Rei the Priest saw and heard.  Then turning, he stole away through the maddened throng of women and fled with what speed he might from the Temple.  His heart was filled with fear and shame, for he knew full well that Pharaoh was dead, not at the hand of Hathor, but at the hand of Meriamun the Queen, whom he had loved.  He knew well that dead Meneptah spake not with the voice of the dread Gods, but with the voice of the magic of Meriamun, who, of all women that have been since the days of Taia, was the most skilled in evil magic, the lore of the Snake.  He knew also that Meriamun would slay Helen for the same cause wherefore she had slain Pharaoh, that she might win the Wanderer to her arms.  While Helen lived he was not to be won away.

Now Rei was a righteous man, loving the Gods and good, and hating evil, and his heart burned because of the wickedness of the woman that once he cherished.  This he swore that he would do, if time were left to him.  He would warn the Helen so that she might fly the fire if so she willed, ay, and would tell her all the wickedness of Meriamun her foe.

His old feet stumbled over each other as he fled till he came to the gates of the Temple of the Hathor, and knocked upon the gates.

“What wouldst thou, old crone?” asked the priest who sat in the gates.

“I would be led to the presence of the Hathor,” he answered.

“No woman hath passed up to look upon the Hathor,” said the priest.  “That women do not seek.”

Then Rei made a secret sign, and wondering greatly that a woman should have the inner wisdom, the priest let him pass.

He came to the second gates.

“What wouldst thou?” said the priest who sat in the gates.

“I would go up into the presence of the Hathor.”

“No woman hath willed to look upon the Hathor,” said the priest.

Then again Rei made the secret sign, but still the priest wavered.

“Let me pass, thou foolish warden,” said Rei.  “I am a messenger from the Gods.”

“If thou art a mortal messenger, woman, thou goest to thy doom,” said the priest.

“On my head be it,” answered Rei, and the priest let him pass wondering.

Now he stood before the doors of the Alabaster Shrine that glowed with the light within.  Still Rei paused not, only uttering a prayer that he might be saved from the unseen swords; he lifted the latch of bronze, and entered fearfully.  But none fell upon him, nor was he smitten of invisible spears.  Before him swung the curtains of Tyrian web, but no sound of singing came from behind the curtains.  All was silence in the Shrine.  He passed between the curtains and looked up the Sanctuary.  It was lit with many hanging lamps, and by their light he saw the Goddess Helen, seated between the pillars of her loom.  But she wove no more at the loom.  The web of fate was rent by the Wanderer’s hands, and lay on either side, a shining cloth of gold.  The Goddess Helen sat songless in her lonely Shrine, and on her breast gleamed the Red Star of light that wept the blood of men.  Her head rested on her hand, and her heavenly eyes of blue gazed emptily down the empty Shrine.

Rei drew near trembling, though she seemed to see him not at all, and at last flung himself upon the earth before her.  Now at length she saw him, and spoke in her voice of music.

“Who art thou that dares to break in upon my sorrow?” she said wonderingly.  “Art thou indeed a woman come to look on one who by the will of the Gods is each woman’s deadliest foe?”

Then Rei raised himself saying: 

“No woman am I, immortal Lady.  I am Rei, that aged priest who met thee two nights gone by the pylon gates, and led thee to the Palace of Pharaoh.  And I have dared to seek thy Shrine to tell thee that thou art in danger at the hands of Meriamun the Queen, and also to give thee a certain message with which I am charged by him who is named the Wanderer.”

Now Helen looked upon him wonderingly and spoke: 

“Didst thou not but now name me immortal, Rei?  How then can I be in danger, who am immortal, and not to be harmed of men?  Death hath no part in me.  Speak not to me of dangers, who, alas! can never die till everything is done; but tell me of that faithless Wanderer, whom I must love with all the womanhood that shuts my spirit in, and all my spirit that is clothed in womanhood.  For, Rei, the Gods, withholding Death, have in wrath cursed me with love to torment my deathlessness.  Oh, when I saw him standing where now thou standest, my soul knew its other part, and I learned that the curse I give to others had fallen on myself and him.”

“Yet was this Wanderer not altogether faithless to thee, Lady,” said Rei.  “Listen, and I will tell thee all.”

“Speak on,” she said.  “Oh, speak, and speak swiftly.”

Then Rei told Helen all that tale which the Wanderer had charged him to deliver in her ear, and keep no word back.  He told her how Meriamun had beguiled Eperitus in her shape; how he had fallen in the snare and sworn by the Snake, he who should have sworn by the Star.  He told her how the Wanderer had learned the truth, and learning it, had cursed the witch who wronged him; how he had been overcome by the guards and borne to the bed of torment; how he had been freed by the craft of Meriamun; and how he had gone forth to lead the host of Khem.  All this he told her swiftly, hiding naught, while she listened with eager ears.

“Truly,” she said, when all was told, “truly thou art a happy messenger.  Now I forgive him all.  Yet has he sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and because of his fault never in this space of life shall Helen call him Lord.  Yet will we follow him, Rei.  Hark! what is that?  Again it comes, that long shrill cry as of ghosts broke loose from Hades.”

“It is the Queen,” quoth Rei; “the Queen who with all women of Tanis comes hither to burn thee in thy Shrine.  She hath slain Pharaoh, and now she would slay thee also, and so win the Wanderer to her arms.  Fly, Lady!  Fly!”

“Nay, I fly not,” said Helen.  “Let her come.  But do thou, Rei, pass through the Temple gates and mingle with the crowd.  There thou shalt await my coming, and when I come, draw near, fearing nothing; and together we will pass down the path of the Wanderer in such fashion as I shall show thee.  Go! go swiftly, and bid those who minister to me pass out with thee.”

Then Rei turned and fled.  Without the doors of the Shrine many priests were gathered.

“Fly! the women of Tanis are upon you!” he cried.  “I charge ye to fly!”

“This old crone is mad,” quoth one.  “We watch the Hathor, and, come all the women of the world, we fly not.”

“Ye are mad indeed,” said Rei, and sped on.

He passed the gates, the gates clashed behind him.  He won the outer space, and hiding in the shadows of the Temple walls, looked forth.  The night was dark, but from every side a thousand lights poured down towards the Shrine.  On they came like lanterns on the waters of Sihor at the night of the feast of lanterns.  Now he could see their host.  It was the host of the women of Tanis, and every woman bore a lighted torch.  They came by tens, by hundreds, and by thousands, and before them was Meriamun, seated in a golden chariot, and with them were asses, oxen, and camels, laden with bitumen, wood, and reeds.  Now they gained the gates, and now they crashed them in with battering trees of palm.  The gates fell, the women poured through them.  At their head went Meriamun the Queen.  Bidding certain of them stay by her chariot she passed through, and standing at the inner gates called aloud to the priests to throw them wide.

“Who art thou who darest come up with fire against the holy Temple of the Hathor?” asked the guardian of the gates.

“I am Meriamun, the Queen of Khem,” she answered, “come with the women of Tanis to slay the Witch thou guardest.  Throw the gates wide, or die with the Witch.”

“If indeed thou art the Queen,” answered the priest, “here there sits a greater Queen than thou.  Go back!  Go back, Meriamun, who art not afraid to offer violence to the immortal Gods.  Go back! lest the curse smite thee.”

“Draw on! draw on! ye women,” cried Meriamun; “draw on, smite down the gates, and tear these wicked ones limb from limb.”

Then the women screamed aloud and battered on the gates with trees, so that they fell.  They fell and the women rushed in madly.  They seized the priests of Hathor and tore them limb from limb as dogs tear a wolf.  Now the Shrine stood before them.

“Touch not the doors,” cried Meriamun.  “Bring fire and burn the Shrine with her who dwells therein.  Touch not the doors, look not in the Witch’s face, but burn her where she is with fire.”

Then the women brought the reeds and the wood, and piled them around the Shrine to twice the height of a man.  They brought ladders also, and piled the fuel upon the roof of the Shrine till all was covered.  And they poured pitch over the fuel, and then at the word of Meriamun they cast torches on the pitch and drew back screaming.  For a moment the torches smouldered, then suddenly on every side great tongues of flame leapt up to heaven.  Now the Shrine was wrapped in fire, and yet they cast fuel on it till none might draw near because of the heat.  Now it burned as a furnace burns, and now the fire reached the fuel on the roof.  It caught, and the Shrine was but a sheet of raging flame that lit the white-walled city, and the broad face of the waters, as the sun lights the lands.  The alabaster walls of the Shrine turned whiter yet with heat:  they cracked and split till the fabric tottered to its fall.

“Now there is surely an end of the Witch,” cried Meriamun, and the women screamed an answer to her.

But even as they screamed a great tongue of flame shot out through the molten doors, ten fathoms length and more, it shot like a spear of fire.  Full in its path stood a group of the burners.  It struck them, it licked them up, and lo! they fell in blackened heaps upon the ground.

Rei looked down the path of the flame.  There, in the doorway whence it had issued, stood the Golden Hathor, wrapped round with fire, and the molten metal of the doors crept about her feet.  There she stood in the heart of the fire, but there was no stain of fire on her, nor on her white robes, nor on her streaming hair; and even through the glow of the furnace he saw the light of the Red Star at her breast.  The flame licked her form and face, it wrapped itself around her, and curled through the masses of her hair.  But still she stood unharmed, while the burners shrank back amazed, all save Meriamun the Queen.  And as she stood she sang wild and sweet, and the sound of her singing came through the roar of the flames and reached the ears of the women, who, forgetting their rage, clung to one another in fear.  Thus she sang ­of that Beauty which men seek in all women, and never find, and of the eternal war for her sake between the women and the men, which is the great war of the world.  And thus her song ended: 

     “Will ye bring flame to burn my Shrine
        Who am myself a flame,
     Bring death to tame this charm of mine
        That death can never tame? 
     Will ye bring fire to harm my head
        Who am myself a fire,
     Bring vengeance for your Lovers dead
        Upon the World’s Desire?

     Nay, women while the earth endures,
        Your loves are not your own. 
     They love you not, these loves of yours,
        Helen they love alone! 
     My face they seek in every face,
        Mine eyes in yours they see,
     They do but kneel to you a space,
        And rise and follow me!”

Then, still singing, she stepped forward from the Shrine, and as she went the walls fell in, and the roof crashed down upon the ruin and the flames shot up into the very sky.  Helen heeded it not.  She looked not back, but out to the gates beyond.  She glanced not at the fierce blackened faces of the women, nor on the face of Meriamun, who stood before her, but slowly passed towards the gates.  Nor did she go alone, for with her came a canopy of fire, hedging her round with flame that burned from nothing.  The women saw the wonder and fell down in their fear, covering their eyes.  Meriamun alone fell not, but she too must cover her eyes because of the glory of Helen and the fierceness of the flame that wrapped her round.

Now Helen ceased singing, but moved slowly through the courts till she came to the outer gates.  Here by the gates was the chariot of Meriamun.  Then Helen called aloud, and the Queen, who followed, heard her words: 

“Rei,” she cried, “draw nigh and have no fear.  Draw nigh that I may pass with thee down that path the Wanderer treads.  Draw nigh, and let us swiftly hence, for the hero’s last battle is at hand, and I would greet him ere he die.”

Rei heard her and drew near trembling, tearing from him the woman’s weeds he wore, and showing the priest’s garb beneath.  And as he came the fire that wrapped her glory round left her, and passed upward like a cloak of flame.  She stretched out her hand to him, saying: 

“Lead me to yonder chariot, Rei, and let us hence.”

Then he led her to the chariot, while those who stood by fled in fear.  She mounted the chariot, and he set himself beside her.  Then he grasped the reins and called to the horses, and they bounded forward and were lost in the night.

But Meriamun cried in her wrath: 

“The Witch is gone, gone with my own servant whom she hath led astray.  Bring chariots, and let horsemen come with the chariots, for where she passes there I will follow, ay, to the end of the world and the coast of Death.”

CHAPTER VII

THE LAST FIGHT OF ODYSSEUS, LAERTES’ SON

Now the host of Pharaoh marched forth from On, to do battle with the Nine-bow barbarians.  And before the host marched, the Captains came to the Wanderer, according to the command of Pharaoh, and placing their hands in his, swore to do his bidding on the march and in the battle.  They brought him the great black bow of Eurytus, and his keen sword of bronze, Euryalus’ gift, and many a sheaf of arrows, and his heart rejoiced when he saw the goodly weapon.  He took the bow and tried it, and as he drew the string, once again and for the last time it sang shrilly of death to be.  The Captains heard the Song of the Bow, though what it said the Wanderer knew alone, for to their ears it came but as a faint, keen cry, like the cry of one who drowns in the water far from the kindly earth.  But they marvelled much at the wonder, and said one to another that this man was no mortal, but a God come from the Under-world.

Then the Wanderer mounted the chariot of bronze that had been made ready for him, and gave the word to march.

All night the host marched swiftly, and at day-break they camped beneath the shelter of a long, low hill.  But at the sunrise the Wanderer left the host, climbed the hill with certain of the Captains, and looked forth.  Before him was a great pass in the mountains, ten furlongs or more in length, and through it ran the road.  The sides of the mountain sloped down to the road, and were strewn with rocks split by the sun, polished by the sand, and covered over with bush that grew sparsely, like the hair on the limbs of a man.  To the left of the mountains lay the river Sihor, but none might pass between the mountain and the river.  The Wanderer descended from the hill, and while the soldiers ate, drove swiftly in his chariot to the further end of the pass and looked forth again.  Here the river curved to the left, leaving a wide plain, and on the plain he saw the host of the Nine-bow barbarians, the mightiest host that ever his eyes had looked upon.  They were encamped by nations, and of each nation there was twenty thousand men, and beyond the glittering camp of the barbarians he saw the curved ships of the Achaeans.  They were drawn up on the beach of the great river, as many a year ago he had seen them drawn up on the shore that is by Ilios.  He looked upon plain and pass, on mountain and river, and measured the number of the foe.  Then his heart was filled with the lust of battle, and his warlike cunning awoke.  For of all leaders he was the most skilled in the craft of battle, and he desired that this, his last war, should be the greatest war of all.

Turning his horses’ heads, he galloped back to the host of Pharaoh and mustered them in battle array.  It was but a little number as against the number of the barbarians ­twelve thousand spearmen, nine thousand archers, two thousand horsemen, and three hundred chariots.  The Wanderer passed up and down their ranks, bidding them be of good courage, for this day they should sweep the barbarians from the land.

As he spoke a hawk flew down from the right, and fell on a heron, and slew it in mid-air.  The host shouted, for the hawk is the Holy Bird of Ra, and the Wanderer, too, rejoiced in the omen.  “Look, men,” he cried; “the Bird of Ra has slain the wandering thief from the waters.  And so shall ye smite the spoilers from the sea.”

Then he held counsel with Captains, and certain trusty men were sent out to the camp of the barbarians.  And they were charged to give an ill report of the host of Pharaoh, and to say that such of it as remained awaited the barbarian onset behind the shelter of the hill on the further side of the pass.

Then the Wanderer summoned the Captains of the archers, and bade them hide all their force among the rocks and thorns on either side of the mountain pass, and there to wait till he drew the hosts of the foe into the pass.  And with the archers he sent a part of the spearmen, but the chariots he hid beneath the shelter of the hill on the hither side of the pass.

Now, when the ambush was set, and all were gone save the horsemen only, his spies came in and told him that the host of the barbarians marched from their camp, but that the Achaeans marched not, but stopped by the river to guard the camp and ships.  Then the Wanderer bade the horsemen ride through the pass and stand in the plain beyond, and there await the foe.  But when the hosts of the barbarians charged them, they must reel before the charge, and at length fly headlong down the pass as though in fear.  And he himself would lead the flight in his chariot, and where he led there they should follow.

So the horsemen rode through the pass and formed their squadrons on the plain beyond.  Now the foe drew nigh, and a glorious sight it was to see the midday sun sparkling on their countless spears.  Of horsemen they had no great number, but there were many chariots and swordsmen, and spearmen, and slingers beyond count.  They came on by nations, and in the centre of the host of each nation sat the king of the nation in a glorious chariot, with girls and eunuchs, holding fans to fan him with and awnings of silk to hide him from the sun.

Now the Wanderer hung back behind the squadrons of horsemen as though in fear.  But presently he sent messengers bidding the Captains of the squadrons to charge the first nation, and fight for a while but feebly, and then when they saw him turn his horses and gallop through the pass, to follow after him as though in doubt, but in such fashion as to draw the foe upon their heels.

This the Captains of the mercenaries did.  Once they charged and were beaten back, then they charged again, but the men made as though they feared the onset.  Now the foe came hard after them, and the Wanderer turned his chariot and fled through the pass, followed slowly by the horsemen.  And when the hosts of the barbarians saw them turn, they set up a mighty shout of laughter that rent the skies, and charged after them.

But the Wanderer looked back and laughed also.  Now he was through the pass followed by the horsemen, and after them swept the hosts of the barbarians, like a river that has burst its banks.  Still the Wanderer held his hand till the whole pass was choked with the thousands of the foe, ay, until the half of the first of the nations had passed into the narrow plain that lay between the hill and the mouth of the pass.  Then, driving apace up the hill, he stood in his chariot and gave the signal.  Lifting his golden shield on high he flashed it thrice, and all the horsemen shouted aloud.  At the first flash, behold, from behind every rock and bush of the mountain sides arose the helms of armed men.  At the second flash there came a rattling sound of shaken quivers, and at the third flash of the golden shield, the air was darkened with the flight of arrows.  As the sea-birds on a lonely isle awake at the cry of the sailor, and wheel by thousands from their lofty cliffs, so at the third flash of the Wanderer’s shield the arrows of his hidden host rushed downward on the foe, rattling like hail upon the harness.  For awhile they kept their ranks, and pressed on over the bodies of those that fell.  But soon the horses in the chariots, maddened with wounds, plunged this way and that, breaking their companies and trampling the soldiers down.  Now some strove to fly forward, and some were fain to fly back, and many an empty chariot was dragged this way and that, but ever the pitiless rain of shafts poured down, and men fell by thousands beneath the gale of death.  Now the mighty host of the Nine-bows rolled back, thinned and shattered, towards the plain, and now the Wanderer cried the word of onset to the horsemen and to the chariots that drew from behind the shelter of the hill, and following after him they charged down upon those barbarians who had passed the ambush, singing the song of Pentaur as they charged.  Among those nigh the mouth of the pass was the king of the nation of the Libu, a great man, black and terrible to see.  The Wanderer drew his bow, the arrow rushed forth and pierced the king, and he fell dead in his chariot.  Then those of his host who passed the ambush turned to fly, but the chariot of the Wanderer dashed into them, and after the chariot came the horsemen, and after the horsemen the chariots of Pharaoh.

Now all who were left of the broken host rolled back, mad with fear, while the spearmen of Pharaoh galled them as hunters gall a flying bull, and the horsemen of Pharaoh trampled them beneath their feet.  Red slaughter raged all down the pass, helms, banners, arrow-points shone and fell in the stream of the tide of war, but at length the stony way was clear save for the dead alone.  Beyond the pass the plain was black with flying men, and the fragments of the broken nations were mixed together as clay and sand are mixed of the potter.  Where now were the hosts of the Nine-bow barbarians?  Where now were their glory and their pride?

The Wanderer gathered his footmen and his chariots and set them in array again but the horsemen he sent out to smite the flying nations and wait his coming by the camp; for there were mustering those who were left of the nations, perchance twenty thousand men, and before their ships were ranged the dense ranks of the Achaeans, shield to shield, every man in his place.

The Wanderer led his host slowly across the sandy plain, till at length he halted it two bow-shots from the camp of the barbarians.  The camp was shaped like a bow, and the river Sihor formed its string, and round it was a deep ditch and beyond the ditch a wall of clay.  Moreover, within the camp and nearer to the shore there was a second ditch and wall, and behind it were the beaks of the ships and the host of Aquaiusha, even of his own dear people the Achaeans.  There were the old blazons, and the spears that had fought below Troy town.  There were the two lions of Mycenae, the Centaur of the son of Polypaetas, son of Pirithous; there were the Swan of Lacedaemon, and the Bull of the Kings of Crete, the Rose of Rhodes, the Serpent of Athens, and many another knightly bearing of old friends and kindred dear.  And now they were the blazons of foemen, and the Wanderer warred for a strange king, and for his own hand, beneath the wings of the Hawk of the Legion of Ra.

The Wanderer sent heralds forward, calling to those barbarians who swarmed behind the wall to surrender to the host of Pharaoh, but this, being entrenched by the river Sihor, they would in nowise do.  For they were mad because of their slaughtered thousands, and moreover they knew that it is better to die than to live as slaves.  This they saw also, that their host was still as strong as the host of Pharaoh, which was without the wall, and weary with the heat and stress of battle and the toil of marching through the desert sands.  Now the Captains of the host of Pharaoh came to the Wanderer, praying him that he would do no more battle on that day, because the men were weary, and the horses neighed for food and water.

But he answered them:  “I swore to Pharaoh that I would utterly smite the people of the Nine-bows and drive them down to death, so that the coasts of Khem may be free of them.  Here I may not camp the host, without food or pasture for the horses, and if I go back, the foe will gather heart and come on, and with them the fleet of the Achaeans, and no more shall we lure them into ambush, for therein they have learned a lesson.  Nay, get you to your companies.  I will go up against the camp.”

Then they bowed and went, for having seen his deeds and his skill and craft in war, they held him the first of Captains, and dared not say him nay.

So the Wanderer divided his host into three parts, set it in order of battle, and moved up against the camp.  But he himself went with the centre part against the gate of the camp, for here there was an earthen way for chariots, if but the great gates might be passed.  And at a word the threefold host rushed on to the charge.  But those within the walls shot them with spears and arrows, so that many were slain, and they were rolled back from the wall as a wave is rolled from the cliff.  Again the Wanderer bade them charge on the right and left, bearing the dead before them as shields, and hurling corpses into the ditch to fill it.  But he himself hung back awhile with the middle army, watching how the battle went, and waiting till the foe at the gate should be drawn away.

Now the mercenaries of Pharaoh forced a passage on the right and thither went many of the barbarians who watched the gate, that they might drive them back.

Then the Wanderer bade men take out the poles of chariots and follow him and beat down the gates with the poles.  This with much toil and loss they did, for the archers poured their arrows on the assailants of the gate.  Now at length the gates were down, and the Wanderer rushed through them with his chariot.  But even as he passed the mercenaries of Pharaoh were driven out from the camp on the right, and those who led the left attack fled also.  The soldiers who should have followed the Wanderer saw and wavered a little moment, and while they wavered the companies of the barbarians poured into the gateway and held it so that none might pass.  Now the Wanderer was left alone within the camp, and back he might not go.  But fear came not nigh him, nay, the joy of battle filled his mighty heart.  He cast his shield upon the brazen floor of the chariot, and cried aloud to the charioteer, as he loosened the long grey shafts in his quiver.

“Drive on, thou charioteer!  Drive on!  The jackals leave the lion in the toils.  Drive on!  Drive on! and win a glorious death, for thus should Odysseus die.”

So the charioteer, praying to his Gods, lashed the horses with his scourge, and they sprang forward madly among the foe.  And as they rushed, the great bow rang and sang the swallow string ­rung the bow and sung the string, and the lean shaft drank the blood of a leader of men.  Again the string sang, again the shaft sped forth, and a barbarian king fell from his chariot as a diver plunges into the sea, and his teeth bit the sand.

“Dive deep, thou sea-thief!” cried the Wanderer, “thou mayest find treasures there!  Drive on, thou charioteer, so should lions die while jackals watch.”

Now the barbarians looked on the Wanderer and were amazed.  For ever his chariot rushed to and fro, across the mustering ground of the camp, and ever his grey shafts carried death before them, and ever the foemen’s arrows fell blunted from his golden harness.  They looked on him amazed, they cried aloud that this was the God of War come down to do battle for Khem, that it was Sutek the Splendid, that it was Baal in his strength; they fled amain before his glory and his might.  For the Wanderer raged among them like great Rameses Miamun among the tribes of the Khita; like Monthu, the Lord of Battles, and lo! they fled before him, their knees gave way, their hearts were turned to water, he drove them as a herdsman drives the yearling calves.

But now at length a stone from a sling smote the charioteer who directed the chariot, and sunk in between his eyes, so that he fell down dead from the chariot.  Then the reins flew wide, and the horses rushed this way and that, having no master.  And now a spear pierced the heart of the horse on the right, so that he fell, and the pole of the chariot snapped in two.  Then the barbarians took heart and turned, and some of them set on to seize the body of the charioteer, and spoil his arms.  But the Wanderer leaped down and bestrode the corpse with shield up and spear aloft.

Now among the press of the barbarians there was a stir, as of one thrusting his way through them to the front.  And above the plumes of their helmets and the tossing of their shields the Wanderer saw the golden head, unhelmeted, of a man, taller than the tallest there from the shoulders upwards.  Unhelmeted he came and unshielded, with no body armour.  His flesh was very fair and white, and on it were figures pricked in blue, figures of men and horses, snakes and sea-beasts.  The skin of a white bear was buckled above his shoulder with a golden clasp, fashioned in the semblance of a boar.  His eyes were blue, fierce and shining, and in his hand he held for a weapon the trunk of a young pine-tree, in which was hafted a weighty axe-head of rough unpolished stone.

“Give way!” he cried.  “Give place, ye dusky dwarfs, and let a man see this champion!”

So the barbarians made a circle about the Wanderer and the giant, and stood silently to watch a great fight.

“Who art thou?” said the mighty man disdainfully, “and whence?  Where is thy city, and thy parents who begat thee?”

“Now I will avow that men call me Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Laertes’ son, a Prince of the Achaeans,” said the Wanderer.  “And who art thou, I pray thee, and where is thy native place, for city, I wot, thou hast none?”

Then the mighty man, swinging his great stone axe in a rhythmic motion, began to chant a rude lay, and this was the manner of the singing ­

“Laestrygons men And Cimmerians call us Born of the land Of the sunless winter, Born of the land Of the nightless summer:  Cityless, we, Beneath dark pine boughs, By the sea abiding Sail o’er the swan’s bath. Wolf am I hight, The son of Signy, Son of the were-wolf.  Southwards I sailed, Sailed with the amber, Sailed with the foam-wealth.  Among strange peoples, Winning me wave-flame, Winning me war-fame, Winning me women.  Soon shall I slay thee, Sacker of Cities!”

      Gold.

With that, and with a cry, he rushed on the Wanderer, his great axe swung aloft, to fell him at a blow.

But while the giant had been singing, the Wanderer had shifted his place a little, so that the red blaze of the setting sun was in his face.  And as the mighty man came on, the Wanderer lifted up his golden shield and caught the sunlight on it, and flashed it full in the giant’s eyes, so that he was dazzled, and could not see to strike.  Then the Wanderer smote at his naked right arm, and struck it on the joint of the elbow; with all his force he smote, and the short sword of Euryalus bit deep, and the arm fell, with the axe in the hand-grip.  But so terrible was the stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the blade was shattered from the ivory handle.

“Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?” cried Odysseus, jeering, for he knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a wanderer from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and devoured his men ­the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the Man-eaters.

But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the severed right arm still clinging to it.  And he gnawed on the handle of the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips foamed, for a fury came upon him.  Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at the Wanderer’s head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him.  But his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was the holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena’s day.  He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a fallen statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a forgotten God.  With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose, it was a weight of a chariot’s burden, and poising it, he hurled it straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling his axe, before he smote another blow.  But ere ever the stroke fell, the huge stone struck him full and broke in his breast bone, and he staggered long, and fell like a tree, and the black blood came up through his bearded lips, and his life left him.

Then the multitude of the barbarians that stood gazing at the fray drew yet further back in fear, and the Wanderer laughed like a God at that old score paid, and at the last great stroke of the hands of the City-sacker, Odysseus.

CHAPTER VIII

“TILL ODYSSEUS COMES!”

The Wanderer laughed like a God, though he deemed that the end was near, and the foes within the camp and the friends without looked on him and wondered.

“Slay him!” cried the foes within, speaking in many tongues.  “Slay him!” they cried, and yet they feared the task, but circled round like hounds about a mighty boar at bay.

“Spare him!” shouted the host of the Achaeans, watching the fray from far, as they stood behind their inner wall, for as yet they had not mingled in the battle but stayed by their ships to guard them.

“Rescue!” cried the Captains of Pharaoh without, but none came on to force the way.

Then of a sudden, as Fate hung upon the turn, a great cry of fear and wonder rose from the ranks of Pharaoh’s host beyond the wall.  It swelled and swelled till at length the cry took the sound of a name ­the sound of the name of Hathor.

“The Hathor! the Hathor!  See, the Hathor comes!”

The Wanderer turned his head and looked swiftly.  A golden chariot sped down the slope of sand towards the gate of the camp.  The milk-white horses were stained with sweat and splashed with blood.  They thundered on towards the gate down the way that was red with blood, as the horses of the dawn rush through the blood-red sky.  A little man, withered and old, drove the chariot, leaning forward as he drove, and by his side stood the Golden Helen.  The Red Star blazed upon her breast, her hair and filmy robes floated on the wind.

She looked up and forth.  Now she saw him, Odysseus of Ithaca, her love, alone, beset with foes, and a cry broke from her.  She tore away the veil that hid her face, and her beauty flashed out upon the sight of men as the moon flashes from the evening mists.  She pointed to the gate, she stretched out her arms towards the host of Pharaoh, bidding them look upon her and follow her.  Then a shout went up from the host, and they rushed onwards in the path of the chariot, for where the Helen leads there men must follow through Life to Death through War to Peace.

On the chariot rushed to the camp, and after it the host of Pharaoh followed.  The holders of the gate saw the beauty of her who rode in the chariot; they cried aloud in many tongues that the Goddess of Love had come to save the God of War.  They fled this way and that, or stood drunken with the sight of beauty, and were dashed down by the horses and crushed of the chariot wheels.  Now she had passed the gates, and after her poured the host of Pharaoh.  Now Rei reined up the horses by the broken chariot of the Wanderer, and now the Wanderer, with a shout of joy, had sprung into the chariot of Helen.

“And art thou come to be with me in my last battle?” he whispered in her ear.  “Art thou indeed that Argive Helen whom I love, or am I drunk with the blood of men and blind with the sheen of spears, and is this the vision of a man doomed to die?”

“It is no vision, Odysseus, for I am Helen’s self,” she answered gently.  “I have learned all the truth, and knowing thy fault, count it but a little thing.  Yet because thou didst forget the words of the immortal Goddess, who, being my foe now and for ever, set this cunning snare for thee, the doom is on thee, that Helen shall not be thine in this space of life.  For thou fightest in thy last battle, Odysseus.  On! see thy hosts clamour to be led, and there the foe hangs black as storm and shoots out the lightning of his spears.  On, Odysseus, on! that the doom may be accomplished, and the word of the Ghost fulfilled!”

Then the Wanderer turned and called to the Captains, and the Captains called to the soldiers and set them in array, and following the blood-red Star they rolled down upon the gathered foe as the tide rolls upon the rocks when the breath of the gale is strong; and as the waters leap and gather till the rocks are lost in the surge, so the host of Pharaoh leapt upon the foe and swallowed them up.  And ever in the forefront of the war blazed the Red Star on Helen’s breast, and ever the sound of her singing pierced the din of death.

Now the host of the Nine-bow barbarians was utterly destroyed, and the host of Pharaoh came up against the wall that was set about the camp of the Achaeans to guard their ships, and at its head came the golden chariot wherein were the Wanderer and Helen.  The Captains of the Achaeans looked wondering from their wall, watching the slaughter of their allies.

“Now, who is this?” cried a Captain, “who is this clad in golden armour fashioned like our own, who leads the host of Pharaoh to victory?”

Then a certain aged leader of men looked forth and answered: 

“Such armour I have known indeed, and such a man once wore it.  The armour is fashioned like the armour of Paris, Priam’s son ­Paris of Ilios; but Paris hath long been dead.”

“And who is she,” cried the Captain, “she on whose breast a Red Star burns, who rides in the chariot of him with the golden armour, whose shape is the shape of Beauty, and who sings aloud while men go down to death?”

Then the aged leader of men looked forth again and answered: 

“Such a one have I known, indeed; so she was wont to sing, and hers was such a shape of beauty, and such a Star shone ever on her breast.  Helen of Ilios ­Argive Helen it was who wore it ­Helen, because of whose loveliness the world grew dark with death; but long is Helen dead.”

Now the Wanderer glanced from his chariot and saw the crests of the Achaeans and the devices on the shields of men with whose fathers he had fought beneath the walls of Ilios.  He saw and his heart was stirred within him, so that he wept there in the chariot.

“Alas! for the fate that is on me,” he cried, “that I must make my last battle in the service of a stranger against my own people and the children of my own dear friends.”

“Weep not, Odysseus,” said Helen, “for Fate drives thee on ­Fate that is cruel and changeless, and heeds not the loves or hates of men.  Weep not, Odysseys, but go on up against the Achaeans, for from among them thy death comes.”

So the Wanderer went on, sick at heart, shooting no shafts and striking no blow, and after him came the remnant of the host of Pharaoh.  Then he halted the host, and at his bidding Rei drove slowly down the wall seeking a place to storm it, and as he drove they shot at the chariot from the wall with spears and slings and arrows.  But not yet was the Wanderer doomed.  He took no hurt, nor did any hurt come to Rei nor to the horses that drew the chariot, and as for Helen, the shafts of Death knew her and turned aside.  Now while they drove thus Rei told the Wanderer of the death of Pharaoh, of the burning of the Temple of Hathor, and of the flight of Helen.  The Wanderer hearkened and said but one thing, for in all this he saw the hand of Fate.

“It is time to make an end, Rei, for soon will Meriamun be seeking us, and methinks that I have left a trail that she can follow,” and he nodded at the piled-up dead that stretched further than the eye could reach.

Now they were come over against that spot in the wall where stood the aged Captain of the Achaeans, who had likened the armour of the Wanderer to the armour of Paris, and the beauty of her at his side to the beauty of Argive Helen.

The Captain loosed his bow at the chariot, and leaning forward watched the flight of the shaft.  It rushed straight at Helen’s breast, then of a sudden turned aside, harming her not.  And as he marvelled she lifted her face and looked towards him.  Then he saw and knew her for that Helen whom he had seen while he served with Cretan Idomeneus in the Argive ships, when the leaguer was done and the smoke went up from burning Ilios.

Again he looked, and lo! on the Wanderer’s golden shield he saw the White Bull, the device of Paris, son of Priam, as ofttimes he had seen it glitter on the walls of Troy.  Then great fear took him, and he lifted up his hands and cried aloud: 

“Fly, ye Achaeans!  Fly!  Back to your curved ships and away from this accursed land.  For yonder in the chariot stands Argive Helen, who is long dead, and with her Paris, son of Priam, come to wreak the woes of Ilios on the sons of those who wasted her.  Fly, ere the curse smite you.”

Then a great cry of fear rose from the host of the Achaeans, as company called to company that the ghosts of Paris of Ilios and Argive Helen led the armies of Pharaoh on to victory.  A moment they gazed as frightened sheep gaze upon the creeping wolves, then turning from the wall, they rushed headlong to their ships.

Behind them came the soldiers of Pharaoh, storming the walls and tearing at their flanks as wolves tear the flying sheep.  Then the Achaeans turned at bay, and a mighty fray raged round the ships, and the knees of many were loosened.  And of the ships, some were burned and some were left upon the bank.  But a remnant of them were pushed off into the deep water, and hung there on their oars waiting for the end of the fray.

Now the sun was gone down, so that men could scarce see to slay each other.  The Wanderer stood his chariot on the bank, watching the battle, for he was weary, and had little mind to swell the slaughter of the people of his own land.

Now the last ship was pushed off, and at length the great battle was done.  But among those on the ship was a man still young, and the goodliest and mightiest among all the host of the Achaeans.  By his own strength and valour he had held the Egyptians back while his comrades ran the curved ship down the beach, and the Wanderer, looking on him, deemed him their hardiest warrior and most worthy of the Achaeans.

He stood upon the poop of the ship, and saw the light from the burning vessels gleam on the Wanderer’s golden helm.  Then of a sudden he drew a mighty bow and loosed an arrow charged with death.

“This gift to the Ghost of Paris from Telegonus, son of Circe and of Odysseus, who was Paris’ foe,” he cried with a loud voice.

And as he cried it, and as the fateful words struck on the ears of Odysseus and the ears of Helen, the shaft, pointed by the Gods, rushed on.  It rushed on, it smote the Wanderer with a deadly wound where the golden body-plate of his harness joined the taslets, and pierced him through.  Then he knew that his fate was accomplished, and that death came upon him from the water, as the ghost of Tiresias in Hades had foretold.  In his pain, for the last time of all, he let fall his shield and the black bow of Eurytus.  With one hand he clasped the rail of the chariot and the other he threw about the neck of the Golden Helen, who bent beneath his weight like a lily before the storm.  Then he also cried aloud in answer: 

“Oh, Telegonus, son of Circe, what wickedness hast thou wrought before the awful Gods that this curse should have been laid upon thee to slay him who begat thee?  Hearken, thou son of Circe, I am not Paris, I am Odysseus of Ithaca, who begat thee, and thou hast brought my death upon me from the water, as the Ghost foretold.”

When Telegonus heard these words, and knew that he had slain his father, the famed Odysseus, whom he had sought the whole world through, he would have cast himself into the river, there to drown, but those with him held him by strength, and the stream took the curved ship and floated it away.  And thus for the first and last time did the Gods give it to Telegonus to look upon the face and hear the voice of his father, Odysseus.

But when the Achaeans knew that it was the lost Odysseus who had led the host of Pharaoh against the armies of the Nine Nations, they wondered no more at the skill of the ambush and the greatness of the victory of Pharaoh.

Now the chariots of Meriamun were pursuing, and they splashed through the blood of men in the pass, and rolled over the bodies of men in the plain beyond the pass.  They came to the camps and found them peopled with dead, and lit with the lamps of the blazing ships of the Aquaiusha.  Then Meriamun cried aloud: 

“Surely Pharaoh grew wise before he died, for there is but one man on the earth who with so small a force could have won so great a fray.  He hath saved the crown of Khem, and by Osiris he shall wear it.”

Now the chariots of Meriamun had passed the camp of the barbarians, and were come to the inner camp of the Achaeans, and the soldiers shouted as she came driving furiously.

The Wanderer lay dying on the ground, there by the river-bank, and the light of the burning ships flamed on his golden armour, and on the Star at Helen’s breast.

“Why do the soldiers shout?” he asked, lifting his head from Helen’s breast.

“They shout because Meriamun the Queen is come,” Rei answered.

“Let her come,” said the Wanderer.

Now Meriamun sprang from her chariot and walked, through the soldiers who made way, bowing before her royalty, to where the Wanderer lay, and stood speechless looking on him.

But the Wanderer lifting his head spake faintly: 

“Hail!  O Queen!” he said, “I have accomplished the charge that Pharaoh laid upon me.  The host of the Nine-bow barbarians is utterly destroyed, the fleet of the Aquaiusha is burned, or fled, the land of Khem is free from foes.  Where is Pharaoh, that I may make report to him ere I die?”

“Pharaoh is dead, Odysseus,” she answered.  “Oh, live on! live on! and thyself thou shalt be Pharaoh.”

“Ay, Meriamun the Queen,” answered the Wanderer, “I know all.  The Pharaoh is dead!  Thou didst slay Pharaoh, thinking thus to win me for thy Lord, me, who am won of Death.  Heavily shall the blood of Pharaoh lie upon thee in that land whither I go, Meriamun, and whither thou must follow swiftly.  Thou didst slay Pharaoh, and Helen, who through thy guile is lost to me, thou wouldst have slain also, but thou couldst not harm her immortality.  And now I die, and this is the end of all these Loves and Wars and Wanderings.  My death has come upon me from the water.”

Meriamun stood speechless, for her heart was torn in two, so that in her grief she forgot even her rage against Helen and Rei the Priest.

Then Helen spoke.  “Thou diest indeed, Odysseus, yet it is but for a little time, for thou shalt come again and find me waiting.”

“Ay, Odysseus,” said the Queen, “and I also will come again, and thou shalt love me then.  Oh, now the future opens, and I know the things that are to be.  Beneath the Wings of Truth shall we meet again, Odysseus.”

“There shall we meet again, Odysseus, and there thou shalt draw the Veil of Truth,” said the Helen.

“Yea,” quoth the dying Wanderer; “there or otherwhere shall we meet again, and there and otherwhere love and hate shall lose and win, and die to arise again.  But not yet is the struggle ended that began in other worlds than this, and shall endure till evil is lost in good, and darkness swallowed up in light.  Bethink thee, Meriamun, of that vision of thy bridal night, and read its riddle.  Lo!  I will answer it with my last breath as the Gods have given me wisdom.  When we three are once more twain, then shall our sin be purged and peace be won, and the veil be drawn from the face of Truth.  Oh, Helen, fare thee well!  I have sinned against thee, I have sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and therefore I have lost thee.”

“Thou hast but lost to find again beyond the Gateways of the West,” she answered low.

Then she bent down, and taking him in her arms, kissed him, whispering in his ear, and the blood of men that fell ever from the Star upon her breast, dropped like dew upon his brow, and vanished as it dropped.

And as she whispered of joy to be, and things too holy to be written, the face of the Wanderer grew bright, like the face of a God.

Then suddenly his head fell back, and he was dead, dead upon the heart of the World’s Desire.  For thus was fulfilled the oath of Idalian Aphrodite, and thus at the last did Odysseus lie in the arms of the Golden Helen.

Now Meriamun clasped her breast, and her lips turned white with pain.  But Helen rose, and standing at the Wanderer’s head looked on Meriamun, who stood at his feet.

“My sister,” said Helen to the Queen; “see now the end of all.  He whom we loved is lost to us, and what hast thou gained?  Nay, look not so fiercely on me.  I may not be harmed of thee, as thou hast seen, and thou mayest not be harmed of me, who would harm none, though ever thou wilt hate me who hate thee not, and till thou learnest to love me, Sin shall be thy portion and Bitterness thy comfort.”

But Meriamun spoke no word.

Then Helen beckoned to Rei and spake to him, and Rei went weeping to do her bidding.

Presently he returned again, and with him were soldiers bearing torches.  The soldiers lifted up the body of the Wanderer, and bore it to a mighty pyre that was built up of the wealth of the barbarians, of chariots, spears, and the oars of ships, of wondrous fabrics, and costly furniture.  And they laid the Wanderer on the pyre, and on his breast they laid the black bow of Eurytus.

Then Helen spoke to Rei once more, and Rei took a torch and fired the pyre so that smoke and flame burst from it.  And all the while Meriamun stood by as one who dreams.

Now the great pyre was a mass of flame, and the golden armour of the Wanderer shone through the flame, and the black bow twisted and crumbled in the heat.  Then of a sudden Meriamun gave a great cry, and tearing the snake girdle from her middle hurled it on the flames.

“From fire thou camest, thou Ancient Evil,” she said in a dead tongue; “to fire get thee back again, false counsellor.”

But Rei the Priest called aloud in the same tongue: 

“An ill deed thou hast done, O Queen, for thou hast taken the Snake to thy bosom, and where the Snake passes there thou must follow.”

Even as he spoke the face of Meriamun grew fixed, and she was drawn slowly towards the fire, as though by invisible hands.  Now she stood on its very brink, and now with one loud wail she plunged into it and cast herself at length on the body of the Wanderer.

And as she lay there on the body, behold the Snake awoke in the fire.  It awoke, it grew, it twined itself about the body of Meriamun and the body of the Wanderer, and lifting its head, it laughed.

Then the fire fell in, and the Wanderer and Meriamun the Queen, and the Snake that wrapped them round, vanished in the heart of the flames.

For awhile the Golden Helen stood still, looking on the dying fire.  Then she let her veil fall, and turning, wandered forth into the desert and the night, singing as she passed.

And so she goes, wandering, wandering, till Odysseus comes again.

Now this is the tale that I, Rei the Priest, have been bidden to set forth before I lay me down to sleep in my splendid tomb that I have made ready by Thebes.  Let every man read it as he will, and every woman as the Gods have given her wit.

PALINODE

Thou that of old didst blind Stesichorus, If e’er, sweet Helen, such a thing befell, We pray thee of thy grace, be good to us, Though little in our tale accordeth well With that thine ancient minstrel had to tell, Who saw, with sightless eyes grown luminous, These Ilian sorrows, and who heard the swell Of ocean round the world ring thunderous, And thy voice break when knightly Hector fell!

And thou who all these many years hast borne To see the great webs of the weaving torn By puny hands of dull, o’er-learned men, Homer, forgive us that thy hero’s star Once more above sea waves and waves of war, Must rise, must triumph, and must set again!