CHAPTER XXIII.

I HAVE SPOKEN

It was a week after Nyleptha’s visit, when I had begun to get about a

little in the middle of the day, that a message came to me from Sir

Henry to say that Sorais would be brought before them in the Queen’s

first antechamber at midday, and requesting my attendance if possible.

Accordingly, greatly drawn by curiosity to see this unhappy woman once

more, I made shift, with the help of that kind little fellow Alphonse,

who is a perfect treasure to me, and that of another waiting-man, to

reach the antechamber. I got there, indeed, before anybody else, except

a few of the great Court officials who had been bidden to be present,

but I had scarcely seated myself before Sorais was brought in by a

party of guards, looking as beautiful and defiant as ever, but with a

worn expression on her proud face. She was, as usual, dressed in her

royal “kaf”, emblazoned with the emblem of the Sun, and in her right

hand she still held the toy spear of silver. A pang of admiration and

pity went through me as I looked at her, and struggling to my feet I

bowed deeply, at the same time expressing my sorrow that I was not

able, owing to my condition, to remain standing before her.

She coloured a little and then laughed bitterly. “Thou dost forget,

Macumazahn,” she said, “I am no more a Queen, save in blood; I am an

outcast and a prisoner, one whom all men should scorn, and none show

deference to.”

“At least,” I replied, “thou art still a lady, and therefore one to

whom deference is due. Also, thou art in an evil case, and therefore it

is doubly due.”

“Ah!” she answered, with a little laugh, “thou dost forget that I would

have wrapped thee in a sheet of gold and hung thee to the angel’s

trumpet at the topmost pinnacle of the Temple.”

“No,” I answered, “I assure thee that I forgot it not; indeed, I often

thought of it when it seemed to me that the battle of the Pass was

turning against us; but the trumpet is there, and I am still here,

though perchance not for long, so why talk of it now?”

“Ah!” she went on, “the battle! the battle! Oh, would that I were once

more a Queen, if only for one little hour, and I would take such a

vengeance on those accursed jackals who deserted me in my need; that it

should only be spoken of in whispers; those women, those pigeon-hearted

half-breeds who suffered themselves to be overcome!” and she choked in

her wrath.

“Ay, and that little coward beside thee,” she went on, pointing at

Alphonse with the silver spear, whereat he looked very uncomfortable;

“he escaped and betrayed my plans. I tried to make a general of him,

telling the soldiers it was Bougwan, and to scourge valour into him”

(here Alphonse shivered at some unhappy recollection), “but it was of

no avail. He hid beneath a banner in my tent and thus overheard my

plans. I would that I had slain him, but, alas! I held my hand.

“And thou, Macumazahn, I have heard of what thou didst; thou art brave,

and hast a loyal heart. And the black one too, ah, he was _a man_. I

would fain have seen him hurl Nasta from the stairway.”

“Thou art a strange woman, Sorais,” I said; “I pray thee now plead with

the Queen Nyleptha, that perchance she may show mercy unto thee.”

She laughed out loud. “_I_ plead for mercy!” she said and at that

moment the Queen entered, accompanied by Sir Henry and Good, and took

her seat with an impassive face. As for poor Good, he looked intensely

ill at ease.

“Greeting, Sorais!” said Nyleptha, after a short pause. “Thou hast rent

the kingdom like a rag, thou hast put thousands of my people to the

sword, thou hast twice basely plotted to destroy my life by murder,

thou hast sworn to slay my lord and his companions and to hurl me from

the Stairway. What hast thou to say why thou shouldst not die? Speak, O

Sorais!”

“Methinks my sister the Queen hath forgotten the chief count of the

indictment,” answered Sorais in her slow musical tones. “It runs thus:

‘Thou didst strive to win the love of my lord Incubu.’ It is for this

crime that my sister will slay me, not because I levied war. It is

perchance happy for thee, Nyleptha, that I fixed my mind upon his love

too late.

“Listen,” she went on, raising her voice. “I have nought to say save

that I would I had won instead of lost. Do thou with me even as thou

wilt, O Queen, and let my lord the King there” (pointing to Sir

Henry)—“for now will he be King—carry out the sentence, as it is meet

he should, for as he is the beginning of the evil, let him also be the

end.” And she drew herself up and shot one angry glance at him from her

deep fringed eyes, and then began to toy with her spear.

Sir Henry bent towards Nyleptha and whispered something that I could

not catch, and then the Queen spoke.

“Sorais, ever have I been a good sister to thee. When our father died,

and there was much talk in the land as to whether thou shouldst sit

upon the throne with me, I being the elder, I gave my voice for thee

and said, ‘Nay, let her sit. She is twin with me; we were born at a

birth; wherefore should the one be preferred before the other?’ And so

has it ever been “twixt thee and me, my sister. But now thou knowest in

what sort thou hast repaid me, but I have prevailed, and thy life is

forfeit, Sorais. And yet art thou my sister, born at a birth with me,

and we played together when we were little and loved each other much,

and at night we slept in the same cot with our arms each around the

other’s neck, and therefore even now does my heart go out to thee,

Sorais.

“But not for that would I spare thy life, for thy offence has been too

heavy; it doth drag down the wide wings of my mercy even to the ground.

Also, while thou dost live the land will never be at peace.

“Yet shalt thou not die, Sorais, because my dear lord here hath begged

thy life of me as a boon; therefore as a boon and as a marriage gift

give I it to him, to do with even as he wills, knowing that, though

thou dost love him, he loves thee not, Sorais, for all thy beauty. Nay,

though thou art lovely as the night in all her stars, O Lady of the

Night, yet it is me his wife whom he loves, and not thee, and therefore

do I give thy life to him.”

Sorais flushed up to her eyes and said nothing, and I do not think that

I ever saw a man look more miserable than did Sir Henry at that moment.

Somehow, Nyleptha’s way of putting the thing, though true and forcible

enough, was not altogether pleasant.

“I understood,” stammered Curtis, looking at Good, “I understood that

you were attached—eh—attached to—to the Queen Sorais. I am—eh—not aware

what the—in short, the state of your feelings may be just now; but if

they happened to be that way inclined, it has struck me that—in short,

it might put a satisfactory end to an unpleasant business. The lady

also has ample private estates, where I am sure she would be at liberty

to live unmolested as far as we are concerned, eh, Nyleptha? Of course,

I only suggest.”

“So far as I am concerned,” said Good, colouring up, “I am quite

willing to forget the past; and if the Lady of the Night thinks me

worth the taking I will marry her tomorrow, or when she likes, and try

to make her a good husband.”

All eyes were now turned to Sorais, who stood with that same slow smile

upon her beautiful face which I had noticed the first time that I ever

saw her. She paused a little while, and cleared her throat, and then

thrice she curtseyed low, once to Nyleptha, once to Curtis, and once to

Good, and began to speak in measured tones.

“I thank thee, most gracious Queen and royal sister, for the

loving-kindness thou hast shown me from my youth up, and especially in

that thou hast been pleased to give my person and my fate as a gift to

the Lord Incubu—the King that is to be. May prosperity, peace and

plenty deck the life-path of one so merciful and so tender, even as

flowers do. Long mayst thou reign, O great and glorious Queen, and hold

thy husband’s love in both thy hands, and many be the sons and

daughters of thy beauty. And I thank thee, my Lord Incubu—the King that

is to be—I thank thee a thousand times in that thou hast been pleased

to accept that gracious gift, and to pass it on to thy comrade in arms

and in adventure, the Lord Bougwan. Surely the act is worthy of thy

greatness, my Lord Incubu. And now, lastly, I thank thee also, my Lord

Bougwan, who in thy turn hast deigned to accept me and my poor beauty.

I thank thee a thousand times, and I will add that thou art a good and

honest man, and I put my hand upon my heart and swear that I would that

I could say thee ‘yea’. And now that I have rendered thanks to all in

turn”—and again she smiled—“I will add one short word.

“Little can you understand of me, Queen Nyleptha and my lords, if ye

know not that for me there is no middle path; that I scorn your pity

and hate you for it; that I cast off your forgiveness as though it were

a serpent’s sting; and that standing here, betrayed, deserted,

insulted, and alone, I yet triumph over you, mock you, and defy you,

one and all, and _thus_ I answer ye.” And then, of a sudden, before

anybody guessed what she intended to do, she drove the little silver

spear she carried in her hand into her side with such a strong and

steady aim that the keen point projected through her back, and she fell

prone upon the pavement.

Nyleptha shrieked, and poor Good almost fainted at the sight, while the

rest of us rushed towards her. But Sorais of the Night lifted herself

upon her hand, and for a moment fixed her glorious eyes intently on

Curtis’ face, as though there were some message in the glance, then

dropped her head and sighed, and with a sob her dark but splendid

spirit passed.

Well, they gave her a royal funeral, and there was an end of her.

It was a month after the last act of the Sorais tragedy that a great

ceremony was held in the Flower Temple, and Curtis was formally

declared King-Consort of Zu-Vendis. I was too ill to go myself; and

indeed, I hate all that sort of thing, with the crowds and the

trumpet-blowing and banner-waving; but Good, who was there (in his

full-dress uniform), came back much impressed, and told me that

Nyleptha had looked lovely, and Curtis had borne himself in a right

royal fashion, and had been received with acclamations that left no

doubt as to his popularity. Also he told me that when the horse

Daylight was led along in the procession, the populace had shouted

“_Macumazahn, Macumazahn!_” till they were hoarse, and would only be

appeased when he, Good, rose in his chariot and told them that I was

too ill to be present.

Afterwards, too, Sir Henry, or rather the King, came to see me, looking

very tired, and vowing that he had never been so bored in his life; but

I dare say that that was a slight exaggeration. It is not in human

nature that a man should be altogether bored on such an extraordinary

occasion; and, indeed, as I pointed out to him, it was a marvellous

thing that a man, who but little more than one short year before had

entered a great country as an unknown wanderer, should today be married

to its beautiful and beloved Queen, and lifted, amidst public

rejoicings, to its throne. I even went the length to exhort him in the

future not to be carried away by the pride and pomp of absolute power,

but always to strive to remember that he was first a Christian

gentleman, and next a public servant, called by Providence to a great

and almost unprecedented trust. These remarks, which he might fairly

have resented, he was so good as to receive with patience, and even to

thank me for making them.

It was immediately after this ceremony that I caused myself to be moved

to the house where I am now writing. It is a very pleasant country

seat, situated about two miles from the Frowning City, on to which it

looks. That was five months ago, during the whole of which time I have,

being confined to a kind of couch, employed my leisure in compiling

this history of our wanderings from my journal and from our joint

memories. It is probable that it will never be read, but it does not

much matter whether it is or not; at any rate, it has served to while

away many hours of suffering, for I have suffered a deal of pain

lately. Thank God, however, there will not be much more of it.

It is a week since I wrote the above, and now I take up my pen for the

last time, for I know that the end is at hand. My brain is still clear

and I can manage to write, though with difficulty. The pain in my lung,

which has been very bad during the last week, has suddenly quite left

me, and been succeeded by a feeling of numbness of which I cannot

mistake the meaning. And just as the pain has gone, so with it all fear

of that end has departed, and I feel only as though I were going to

sink into the arms of an unutterable rest. Happily, contentedly, and

with the same sense of security with which an infant lays itself to

sleep in its mother’s arms, do I lay myself down in the arms of the

Angel Death. All the tremors, all the heart-shaking fears which have

haunted me through a life that seems long as I look back upon it, have

left me now; the storms have passed, and the Star of our Eternal Hope

shines clear and steady on the horizon that seems so far from man, and

yet is so very near to me tonight.

And so this is the end of it—a brief space of troubling, a few

restless, fevered, anguished years, and then the arms of that great

Angel Death. Many times have I been near to them, and now it is my turn

at last, and it is well. Twenty-four hours more and the world will be

gone from me, and with it all its hopes and all its fears. The air will

close in over the space that my form filled and my place know me no

more; for the dull breath of the world’s forgetfulness will first dim

the brightness of my memory, and then blot it out for ever, and of a

truth I shall be dead. So is it with us all. How many millions have

lain as I lie, and thought these thoughts and been forgotten!—thousands

upon thousands of years ago they thought them, those dying men of the

dim past; and thousands on thousands of years hence will their

descendants think them and be in their turn forgotten. “As the breath

of the oxen in winter, as the quick star that runs along the sky, as a

little shadow that loses itself at sunset,” as I once heard a Zulu

called Ignosi put it, such is the order of our life, the order that

passeth away.

Well, it is not a good world—nobody can say that it is, save those who

wilfully blind themselves to facts. How can a world be good in which

Money is the moving power, and Self-interest the guiding star? The

wonder is not that it is so bad, but that there should be any good left

in it.

Still, now that my life is over, I am glad to have lived, glad to have

known the dear breath of woman’s love, and that true friendship which

can even surpass the love of woman, glad to have heard the laughter of

little children, to have seen the sun and the moon and the stars, to

have felt the kiss of the salt sea on my face, and watched the wild

game trek down to the water in the moonlight. But I should not wish to

live again!

Everything is changing to me. The darkness draws near, and the light

departs. And yet it seems to me that through that darkness I can

already see the shining welcome of many a long-lost face. Harry is

there, and others; one above all, to my mind the sweetest and most

perfect woman that ever gladdened this grey earth. But of her I have

already written elsewhere, and at length, so why speak of her now? Why

speak of her after this long silence, now that she is again so near to

me, now that I go where she has gone?

The sinking sun is turning the golden roof of the great Temple to a

fiery flame, and my fingers tire.

So to all who have known me, or known of me, to all who can think one

kindly thought of the old hunter, I stretch out my hand from the

far-off shore and bid a long farewell.

And now into the hands of Almighty God, who sent it, do I commit my

spirit.

“I have spoken,” as the Zulus say.