“The soil out of which such men
as he are made
is good to be born on, good to live on,
good to die for, and to be buried in.-Lowell.
Leonie lay motionless on the stained
stone before the altar; her hair, pulled back clear
from her neck, swept behind her head like a cascade
of rust-coloured water to the floor; her hands were
clasped between her breasts, and her great unfathomable
eyes stared up into those of the stone woman who looked
down at her and seemed to laugh with joy at her long
coveted prize.
In every corner black shapes danced;
advancing, retreating, springing towards the roof
and vanishing utterly. The place seemed infested
with goblins, or devils, things of untold evilness
and vice, although, in reality, they were but the
shadows thrown by the little lights which were like
tongues licking the lips of darkness in sensuous anticipation
of the coming feast of blood.
The old priest stood looking up at
his god with perplexity in his sunken eyes.
Arrayed in snow-white garment, with
long hair hanging down, he held the knife of sacrifice
in one hand, and in the other the sacred roomal.
The terrible picture shone softly
in the light of the full moon which struck straight
down upon the altar through a hole in the ruined roof.
“Tell thy servant thy pleasure,
O Black One!” prayed the priest, swaying slightly
to and fro. “Make him understand it the
roomal shall be knotted about the neck of this
white sacrifice, or if the knife shall draw a necklace
of red about the white neck and upon the white breast.
Give me an answer, O Mother, that I may right the
wrong of many moons ago. A sign, a sign, O Mother!”
As he spoke; and for no apparent reason,
Leonie’s hands unclasped, her arms opened and
fell towards her sides, leaving the beautiful breast
bare with the jewel in shape and colour of a cat’s
eye winking craftily with the cunning and knowledge
of the sins of all ages, just above the heart.
The priest shouted in worship, and
his words, caught, echoed and re-echoed from the dome,
drowned the sound of footsteps running at high speed
across the flower-strewn floor.
Madhu Krishnaghar, naked save for
the turban which bound his handsome head and the loin
cloth which girt the slender middle, sped like the
wind to the rescue of his beloved.
In the black shades of the jungle,
understanding at last that for him there could be
no life outside the life of the white woman he loved,
and no happiness outside her happiness, he had raced
Time down the jungle path, through the outer gates
and temple door, pausing not for the fraction of a
second; realising, as he ran, that upon his speed
alone depended the life of his beloved. And even
as the priest flung back his arm with a scream of
ecstasy, the knife was wrenched out of his hand from
behind.
O Madhu, you splendid heathen, who
defied the anger of your strange gods for the love
in your noble heart.
“Ha!” said the old man
as he swung round in fury; then he smiled and opened
wide his arms. “Thou! O my son! thou!
Thou wouldst offer the great sacrifice thyself to
our most gentle mother. And art thou not in
the right? Thine has been the task and the toil,
therefore is it meet that thou shouldst have the reward.”
He laid his hands upon the shoulders
of the youth, who straightway gripped the veined old
wrists and raised the withered arms high up above
their heads, while their eyes met in a sudden-born,
subconscious enmity, and the knife lay glittering
along the wrinkled brown skin.
Only for an instant, and Madhu let
go his hold, and turning, stood looking down upon
the jewel above the woman’s heart. As he
looked, the thing, catching the reflections of the
lights, shone strangely bright upon the snow-white
skin, and the lust of blood swept him from head to
foot.
He longed to drive the dagger through
the breast above the shining jewel; he craved to see
the whiteness of the skin stained with red, to throw
himself upon the still form and shut the dead mouth
with kisses.
He was mad with passion, intoxicated
with the heavy perfumed air, drunk with the atmosphere
of his surroundings, and his slim body shook as he
ran the needle-point of the dagger into his own breast.
He closed his eyes in the ecstasy
of that pain which is twin to the ecstasy of desire
fulfilled, and in their closing woke suddenly to the
purity of his strange love. He turned with a
snarl and hit up the old man’s hand as it almost
touched the nape of his neck, and stretching wide
his arms made a shield of his body between Leonie and
the intent he read in the priest’s eyes, just
as a brick fell and split to pieces at their feet.
“Linger not, my son,”
said the old priest fiercely. “Behold!
the rites have been performed, the chants sung, and
the offerings made. Drive the knife home, and
give drink to thy mother of that which she loves.
Hasten! for she is angry at thy slowness, and the very
earth trembles at her wrath.”
But Madhu Krishnaghar looked straight
back into the fierce, suspicious old eyes, and moved
quickly towards the priest who, taken by surprise,
retreated hurriedly.
“Father!” came the words
in the musical, steady voice. “O servant
of the Black One, I cannot, nay, I will not, for I
love yon white woman with a love passing all understanding.
Nay, hearken! A sacrifice there must be this
night, and there shall be one. Even me, O my
Father. Let it suffice, for behold is my love
so great, that she, the slender white flower, seems
but one with me. Let her go, let her go, and
lay me on the stone, warm with the life of her dear
body, and drive the knife through my heart, that through
my love peace may be made with thy god and my god!”
The whole world seemed bound in a
great terrible silence as the two men stood staring
at each other in the soft silver light of the moon;
then the old man smiled gently, with the cunning of
all time in his eyes, and creeping close to his pupil
spoke in the merest whisper; tempting, as have always
tempted, those who desire to gain their own ends, and
who justify all means as long as that end is gained.
“Thou lovest her, my son.
The infidel white woman, the sacrifice long dedicated
to thy god. And why not, for thou are marked
even with the mark which shows between the breasts
like lotus buds. But thinkest thou, O son of
princes, O descendant of the great, that thou art fit
to mate with her. She is white, a daughter of
the all-conquering race; thou-thou art
black-a pariah-a dog-thou
wouldst be whipped from her presence, thou high-born
son of India.”
The old man never moved his eyes from
the young face, and neither the one nor the other
saw the great striped terrified beast which slunk
past them and disappeared into the shadows, seeking
protection in its terror.
“But why shouldst thou let this
woman, whom thou lovest, go? Why not make sacrifice
of love as well as life to the great one? Behold
is she soft and white and all-pleasing! Why,
therefore, should she not come unto thy intent neath
the eyes of the Sweet One, while I make offerings
in the shadows towards thy well doing; so that the
Black One will be twice pleased.”
Of all the horrible temptations in
that place of horror! And where in the name
of all the gods did the native, unshackled by convention
or code, find the strength to resist?
For while the priest whispered the
young face was swept by a flood of conflicting emotions-which
passed-leaving it as pure, as soul-stirring
as the Taj Mahal at dawn.
“No! O Holy One!
I will not-I love her-I love
her-I will not!”
The words were firm and the young
mouth like steel, and the eyes looked steadily back
into those of the priest as the latter rushed upon
him in mighty, inhuman wrath.
“And I say that thou shalt,
thou begotten son of evil. I say that thou shalt
encompass this woman with thy might, and then offer
her in sacrifice to Kali, the Goddess of Death.
I say that thou shalt.”
It was a case of will pitted against
will, for the old man knew that the younger would
not dare raise hand against him for fear of everlasting
damnation.
And Madhu Krishnaghar girded himself
for the battle by putting his love for the white woman
in the forefront of his mind.
And as they fought, desperately, with
one last terrific pull which caused the hide to cut
down to the wrist bone, Jan Cuxson wrenched the ring
he had loosened from the wall, and stood swaying, sick
with pain. Sweat poured down his face and bare
chest, and blood flowed from his wrists while his
burst finger-tips fumbled clumsily with the deep embedded
thongs.
“I did it-I did it,”
he kept on repeating savagely, as his knees trembled
and his body turned cold in agony. “I did
it-I did it-God grant I am in
time-in time.”
Free at last, smothered in blood,
dragging his heavily booted feet with difficulty,
he sought and found the broken blade, staggered across
the floor, stooped, and entered the passage of the
gods where the imprint of his beloved’s bare
feet marked the dust of ages.
And Leonie lay quite still; to all
appearance dead, with her open eyes turned back beneath
the lids and her mouth half open showing her even
teeth.
Not a word passed between the two
men as they fought for her, one for her life, the
other for her death. This way and that they moved;
the one trying to escape from the direct range of
the relentless will-power, and yet keep himself between
the girl and the religious fanatic; the other striving
to press his opponent back even to the altar stone.
Like iron to a magnet Madhu’s
hand was closed about the dagger hilt, and try as
he would he could not relax the grasp nor fling the
knife far back into the shadows; neither could he
keep his footing, for strive as he would the priest’s
magnetic power, developed and trained through years
and years of study and practice, drove him back inch
by inch towards the god who looked down upon them
with her fish-shaped eyes.
A glint of triumph shone in the eyes
of the priest, and twisted the corner of his mouth
as the heel of his enemy thudded against the stone
upon which lay the white girl; and he concentrated
every ounce of his strength for the last moment when,
by sheer force of his will, the knife should be lifted
and driven down, deep, even to the hilt. And
the white man hastened as best he could, reeling at
every step, with blood streaming from his wrists and
spattering upon the stones beneath the leering eyes
of the gods. Not one of the three heeded the
low moaning of the wind as it swept past the temple
and through the trees, to die away into a great, uncanny,
unnatural silence, unbroken by sound of beast or bird.
Fate feeling for her shears, and peevish
through want of sleep maybe, or mayhap irritated by
their obstreperous behaviour, jerked the strings which
bound those marionettes called humans to her palsied
old fingers.
The old priest, misjudging the pull
given to his string, in what he mistook to be his
triumph, laughed.
It is better to laugh last indeed,
but oft-times it is best not to laugh at all, for
who can foresee the particle of dust which may enter
your indecently and injudiciously wide open mouth to
choke you in your ill-timed mirth.
Only for an instant did he triumph
above his enemy, but for just that instant he loosened
his will power; and Madhu Krishnaghar, sensing the
relief, and whipped by the laugh to one final desperate
effort of his failing powers, raised his hand and
flung the knife far back to fall with a clatter in
some distant corner.
It was done.
Youth had mocked at experience, life
at death, love at opposition, as it has done since
the beginning of time, and will do, let us hope, until
the end.
For as the knife hurtled into the
shadows, Madhu bent swiftly and lifted Leonie into
his arms, holding her in this his last moment of heaven
upon earth, tenderly and firmly, as he glared defiance
over her head at the priest.
And he, understanding at last that
he had failed, cast himself at the feet of his god
who, in her fury, stamped with both her blood-stained
feet.