She
step or two.
“What is it, my Kallikrates?” she said, and her voice—what was
the matter with those deep and thrilling notes? They were quite
high and cracked.
“Why, what is it—what is it?” she said confusedly. “I feel dazed.
Surely the quality of the fire hath not altered. Can the
principle of Life alter? Tell me, Kallikrates, is there aught
wrong with my eyes? I see not clear,” and she put her hand to her
head and touched her hair—and oh, _horror of horrors!_—it all
fell upon the floor.
“Oh, _look!—look!—look!_” shrieked Job, in a shrill falsetto of
terror, his eyes nearly dropping out of his head, and foam upon
his lips. “_Look!—look!—look!_ she’s shrivelling up! she’s
turning into a monkey!” and down he fell upon the ground, foaming
and gnashing in a fit.
True enough—I faint even as I write it in the living presence of
that terrible recollection—she _was_ shrivelling up; the golden
snake that had encircled her gracious form slipped over her hips
and to the ground; smaller and smaller she grew; her skin changed
colour, and in place of the perfect whiteness of its lustre it
turned dirty brown and yellow, like an old piece of withered
parchment. She felt at her head: the delicate hand was nothing
but a claw now, a human talon like that of a badly-preserved
Egyptian mummy, and then she seemed to realise what kind of
change was passing over her, and she shrieked—ah, she
shrieked!—she rolled upon the floor and shrieked!
Smaller she grew, and smaller yet, till she was no larger than a
monkey. Now the skin was puckered into a million wrinkles, and on
the shapeless face was the stamp of unutterable age. I never saw
anything like it; nobody ever saw anything like the frightful age
that was graven on that fearful countenance, no bigger now than
that of a two-months’ child, though the skull remained the same
size, or nearly so, and let all men pray they never may, if they
wish to keep their reason.
At last she lay still, or only feebly moving. She, who but two
minutes before had gazed upon us the loveliest, noblest, most
splendid woman the world has ever seen, she lay still before us,
near the masses of her own dark hair, no larger than a big
monkey, and hideous—ah, too hideous for words. And yet, think of
this—at that very moment I thought of it—it was the _same_ woman!
She was dying: we saw it, and thanked God—for while she lived she
could feel, and what must she have felt? She raised herself upon
her bony hands, and blindly gazed around her, swaying her head
slowly from side to side as a tortoise does. She could not see,
for her whitish eyes were covered with a horny film. Oh, the
horrible pathos of the sight! But she could still speak.
“Kallikrates,” she said in husky, trembling notes. “Forget me
not, Kallikrates. Have pity on my shame; I shall come again, and
shall once more be beautiful, I swear it—it is true! _Oh—h—h—_”
and she fell upon her face, and was still.
On the very spot where more than twenty centuries before she had
slain Kallikrates the priest, she herself fell down and died.
I know not how long we remained thus. Many hours, I suppose. When
at last I opened my eyes, the other two were still outstretched
upon the floor. The rosy light yet beamed like a celestial dawn,
and the thunder-wheels of the Spirit of Life yet rolled upon
their accustomed track, for as I awoke the great pillar was
passing away. There, too, lay the hideous little monkey frame,
covered with crinkled yellow parchment, that once had been the
glorious _She_. Alas! it was no hideous dream—it was an awful and
unparalleled fact!
What had happened to bring this shocking change about? Had the
nature of the life-giving Fire changed? Did it, perhaps, from
time to time send forth an essence of Death instead of an essence
of Life? Or was it that the frame once charged with its
marvellous virtue could bear no more, so that were the process
repeated—it mattered not at what lapse of time—the two
impregnations neutralised each other, and left the body on which
they acted as it was before it ever came into contact with the
very essence of Life? This, and this alone, would account for the
sudden and terrible ageing of Ayesha, as the whole length of her
two thousand years took effect upon her. I have not the slightest
doubt myself but that the frame now lying before me was just what
the frame of a woman would be if by any extraordinary means life
could be preserved in her till she at length died at the age of
two-and-twenty centuries.
But who can tell what had happened? There was the fact. Often
since that awful hour I have reflected that it requires no great
imagination to see the finger of Providence in the matter. Ayesha
locked up in her living tomb waiting from age to age for the
coming of her lover worked but a small change in the order of the
World. But Ayesha strong and happy in her love, clothed in
immortal youth and goddess beauty, and the wisdom of the
centuries, would have revolutionised society, and even perchance
have changed the destiny of Mankind. Thus she opposed herself
against the eternal law, and, strong though she was, by it was
swept back to nothingness—swept back with shame and hideous
mockery!
For some minutes I lay faintly turning these terrors over in my
mind, while my physical strength came back to me, which it
quickly did in that buoyant atmosphere. Then I bethought me of
the others, and staggered to my feet, to see if I could arouse
them. But first I took up Ayesha’s kirtle and the gauzy scarf
with which she had been wont to hide her dazzling loveliness from
the eyes of men, and, averting my head so that I might not look
upon it, covered up that dreadful relic of the glorious dead,
that shocking epitome of human beauty and human life. I did this
hurriedly, fearing lest Leo should recover, and see it again.
Then, stepping over the perfumed masses of dark hair that lay
upon the sand, I stooped down by Job, who was lying upon his
face, and turned him over. As I did so his arm fell back in a way
that I did not like, and which sent a chill through me, and I
glanced sharply at him. One look was enough. Our old and faithful
servant was dead. His nerves, already shattered by all he had
seen and undergone, had utterly broken down beneath this last
dire sight, and he had died of terror, or in a fit brought on by
terror. I had only to look at his face to see it.
It was another blow; but perhaps it may help people to understand
how overwhelmingly awful was the experience through which we had
passed—we did not feel it much at the time. It seemed quite
natural that the poor fellow should be dead. When Leo came to
himself, which he did with a groan and trembling of the limbs
about ten minutes afterwards, and I told him that Job was dead,
he merely said, “_Oh!_” And, mind you, this was from no
heartlessness, for he and Job were much attached to each other;
and he often talks of him now with the deepest regret and
affection. It was only that his nerves would bear no more. A harp
can give out but a certain quantity of sound, however heavily it
is smitten.
Well, I set myself to recovering Leo, who, to my infinite relief,
I found was not dead, but only fainting, and in the end I
succeeded, as I have said, and he sat up; and then I saw another
dreadful thing. When we entered that awful place his curling hair
had been of the ruddiest gold, now it was turning grey, and by
the time we reached the outer air it was snow white. Besides, he
looked twenty years older.
“What is to be done, old fellow?” he said in a hollow, dead sort
of voice, when his mind had cleared a little, and a recollection
of what had happened forced itself upon it.
“Try and get out, I suppose,” I answered; “that is, unless you
would like to go in there,” and I pointed to the column of fire
that was once more rolling by.
“I would go in if I were sure that it would kill me,” he said
with a little laugh. “It was my cursed hesitation that did this.
If I had not been doubtful she might never have tried to show me
the road. But I am not sure. The fire might have the opposite
effect upon me. It might make me immortal; and, old fellow, I
have not the patience to wait a couple of thousand years for her
to come back again as she did for me. I had rather die when my
hour comes—and I should fancy that it isn’t far off either—and go
my ways to look for her. Do you go in if you like.”
But I merely shook my head, my excitement was as dead as
ditch-water, and my distaste for the prolongation of my mortal
span had come back upon me more strongly than ever. Besides, we
neither of us knew what the effects of the fire might be. The
result upon _She_ had not been of an encouraging nature, and of
the exact causes that produced that result we were, of course,
ignorant.
“Well, my boy,” I said, “we cannot stop here till we go the way
of those two,” and I pointed to the little heap under the white
garment and to the stiffening corpse of poor Job. “If we are
going we had better go. But, by the way, I expect that the lamps
have burnt out,” and I took one up and looked at it, and sure
enough it had.
“There is some more oil in the vase,” said Leo indifferently—“if
it is not broken, at least.”
I examined the vessel in question—it was intact. With a trembling
hand I filled the lamps—luckily there was still some of the linen
wick unburnt. Then I lit them with one of our wax matches. While
I did so we heard the pillar of fire approaching once more as it
went on its never-ending journey, if, indeed, it was the same
pillar that passed and repassed in a circle.
“Let’s see it come once more,” said Leo; “we shall never look
upon its like again in this world.”
It seemed a bit of idle curiosity, but somehow I shared it, and
so we waited till, turning slowly round upon its own axis, it had
flamed and thundered by; and I remember wondering for how many
thousands of years this same phenomenon had been taking place in
the bowels of the earth, and for how many more thousands it would
continue to take place. I wondered also if any mortal eyes would
ever again mark its passage, or any mortal ears be thrilled and
fascinated by the swelling volume of its majestic sound. I do not
think that they will. I believe that we are the last human beings
who will ever see that unearthly sight. Presently it had gone,
and we too turned to go.
But before we did so we each took Job’s cold hand in ours and
shook it. It was a rather ghastly ceremony, but it was the only
means in our power of showing our respect to the faithful dead
and of celebrating his obsequies. The heap beneath the white
garment we did not uncover. We had no wish to look upon that