just then there came a light tap at his door. he opened it,—and zaroba stood before him. no repentance for her fault of disobedience and betrayal of trust clouded that withered old face of hers,—her deep-set dark eyes glittered with triumph, and her whole aspect was one of commanding, and almost imperious, dignity. in fact, she made such an ostentatious show of her own self-importance in her look and manner that el-râmi stared at her for a moment in haughty amazement at what he considered her effrontery in thus boldly facing him after her direct violation of his commands. he eyed her up and down—she returned him glance for glance unquailingly.
“let me come in—” she said in her strong harsh voice—“i make no doubt but that the poor lad féraz has told you his story—now, as god liveth, you must hear mine.”
el-râmi turned upon his heel with a contemptuous movement, and went back to his own chair by the writing-table. zaroba, paying no heed to the wrath conveyed by this mute action, stalked in also, and, shutting the door after her, came and stood close beside him.
“write down what you think of me—” she said, pointing with her yellow forefinger at the pens and paper—“write the worst. i have betrayed my trust. that is true. i have disobeyed your commands after keeping them for six long years. true again. what else?”
el-râmi fixed his eyes upon her, a world of indignation and reproach in their brilliant depths, and snatching up a pencil he wrote on a slip of paper rapidly—
“nothing else—nothing more than treachery! you are unworthy of your sacred task—you are false to your sworn fidelity.”
zaroba read the lines as quickly as he wrote them, but when she came to the last words she made a swift gesture of denial, and drew herself up haughtily.
“no—not false!” she said passionately—“not false to you, el-râmi, i swear! i would slay myself rather than do you wrong. you saved my life, though my life was not worth saving, and for that gentle deed i would pour out every drop of my blood to requite you. no, no! zaroba is not false—she is true!”
she tossed up her arms wildly,—then suddenly folding them tight across her chest, she dropped her voice to a gentler and more appealing tone.
“hear me, el-râmi!—hear me, wise man and master of the magic of the east!—i have done well for you;—well! i have disobeyed you for your own sake,—i have betrayed my trust that you may discover how and where you may find your best reward. i have sinned with the resolved intent to make you happy,—as god liveth, i speak truth from my heart and soul!”
el-râmi turned towards her, his face expressing curiosity in spite of himself. he was very pale, and outwardly he was calm enough—but his nerves were on the rack of suspense—he wondered what sudden frenzied idea had possessed this woman that she should comport herself as though she held some strange secret of which the very utterance might move heaven and earth to wonderment. controlling his feelings with an effort he wrote again—
“there exists no reason for disloyalty. your excuses avail nothing—let me hear no more of them. tell me of lilith—what news?”
“news!” repeated zaroba scornfully—“what news should there be? she breathes and sleeps as she has breathed and slept always—she has not stirred. there is no harm done by my bidding féraz look on her,—no change is wrought except in you, el-râmi!—except in you!”
half springing from his chair he confronted her—then recollecting her deafness, he bit his lips angrily and sank back again with an assumed air of indifference.
“you have heard féraz—” pursued zaroba, with that indescribable triumph of hers lighting up her strong old face—“you must now hear me. i thank the gods that my ears are closed to the sound of human voices, and that neither reproach nor curse can move me to dismay. and i am ignorant of your magic, el-râmi,—the magic that chills the blood and sends the spirit flitting through the land of dreams,—the only magic i know is the magic of the heart—of the passions,—a natural witchcraft that conquers the world!”
she waved her arms to and fro—then crossing them on her bosom, she made a profound half-mocking salutation.
“wise el-râmi zarânos!” she said. “proud ruler of the arts and sciences that govern nature,—have you ever, with all your learning, taken the measure of your own passions, and slain them so utterly that they shall never rise up again? they sleep at times, like the serpents of the desert, coiled up in many a secret place,—but at the touch of some unwary heel, some casual falling pebble, they unwind their lengths—they raise their glittering heads, and sting! i, zaroba, have felt them here”—and she pressed her hands more closely on her breast—“i have felt their poison in my blood—sweet poison, sweeter than life!—their stings have given me all the joy my days have ever known. but it is not of myself that i should speak—it is of you—of you, whose life is lonely, and for whom the coming years hold forth no prospect of delight. when i lay dying in the desert and you restored me to strength again, i swore to serve you with fidelity. as god liveth, el-râmi, i have kept my vow,—and in return for the life you gave me i bid you take what is yours to claim—the love of lilith!”
el-râmi rose out of his chair, white to the lips, and his hand shook. if he could have concentrated his inward forces at that moment, he would have struck zaroba dumb by one effort of his will, and so put an end to her undesired eloquence,—but something, he knew not what, disturbed the centre of his self-control, and his thoughts were in a whirl. he despised himself for the unusual emotion which seized him—inwardly he was furious with the garrulous old woman,—but outwardly he could only make her an angry imperative sign to be silent.
“nay, i will not cease from speaking—” said zaroba imperturbably—“for all has to be said now, or never. the love of lilith! imagine it, el-râmi!—the clinging of her young white arms—the kisses of her sweet red mouth,—the open glances of her innocent eyes—all this is yours, if you but say the word. listen! for six and more long years i have watched her,—and i have watched you. she has slept the sleep of death-in-life, for you have willed it so,—and in that sleep she has imperceptibly passed from childhood to womanhood. you—cold as a man of bronze or marble,—have made of her nothing but a ‘subject’ for your science,—and never a breath of love or longing on your part, or even admiration for her beauty, has stirred the virgin-trance in which she lies. and i have marvelled at it—i have thought—and i have prayed;—the gods have answered me, and now i know!”
she clapped her hands ecstatically, and then went on.
“the child lilith died,—but you, el-râmi, you caused her to live again. and she lives still—yes, though it may suit your fancy to declare her dead. she is a woman—you are a man;—you dare not keep her longer in that living death—you dare not doom her to perpetual darkness!—the gods would curse you for such cruelty, and who may abide their curse? i, zaroba, have sworn it—lilith shall know the joys of love!—and you, el-râmi zarânos, shall be her lover!—and for this holy end i have employed the talisman which alone sets fire to the sleeping passions...” and she craned her neck forward and almost hissed the word in his ear—“jealousy!”
el-râmi smiled—a cold derisive smile, which implied the most utter contempt for the whole of zaroba’s wild harangue. she, however, went on undismayed, and with increasing excitement—
“jealousy!” she cried—“the little asp is in your soul already, proud el-râmi zarânos, and why? because another’s eyes have looked on lilith! this was my work! it was i who led féraz into her chamber,—it was i who bade him kneel beside her as she slept,—it was i who let him touch her hand,—and though i could not hear his voice i know he called upon her to awaken. in vain!—he might as well have called the dead—i knew she would not stir for him—her very breath belongs to you. but i—i let him gaze upon her beauty and worship it,—all his young soul was in his eyes—he looked and looked again and loved what he beheld! and mark me yet further, el-râmi,—i saw her smile when féraz took her hand,—so, though she did not move, she felt; she felt a touch that was not yours,—not yours, el-râmi!—as god liveth, she is not quite so much your own as once she was!”
as she said this and laughed in that triumphant way, el-râmi advanced one step towards her with a fierce movement as though he would have thrust her from the room,—checking himself, however, he seized the pencil again and wrote—
“i have listened to you with more patience than you deserve. you are an ignorant woman and foolish—your fancies have no foundation whatever in fact. your disobedience might have ruined my life’s work,—as it is, i daresay some mischief has been done. return to your duties, and take heed how you trespass against my command in future. if you dare to speak to me on this subject again i will have you shipped back to your own land and left there, as friendless and as unprovided for as you were when i saved you from death by famine. go—and let me hear no more foolishness.”
zaroba read, and her face darkened and grew weary—but the pride and obstinacy of her own convictions remained written on every line of her features. she bowed her head resignedly, however, and said in slow even tones—
“el-râmi zarânos is wise,—el-râmi zarânos is master. but let him remember the words of zaroba. zaroba is also skilled in the ways and the arts of the east,—and the voice of fate speaks sometimes to the lowest as well as to the highest. there are the laws of life and the laws of death—but there are also the laws of love. without the laws of love, the universe would cease to be,—it is for el-râmi zarânos to prove himself stronger than the universe,—if he can!”
she made the usual obsequious “salaam” common to eastern races, and then with a swift, silent movement left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her. el-râmi stood where she had left him, idly tearing up the scraps of paper on which he had written his part of the conversation,—he was hardly conscious of thought, so great were his emotions of surprise and self-contempt.
“‘o what a rogue and peasant-slave am i!’” he muttered, quoting his favourite hamlet—“why did i not paralyse her tongue before she spoke? where had fled my force,—what became of my skill? surely i could have struck her down before me with the speed of a lightning-flash—only—she is a woman—and old. strange how these feminine animals always harp on the subject of love, as though it were the be-all and end-all of everything. the love of lilith! oh fool! the love of a corpse kept breathing by artificial means! and what of the soul of lilith? can it love? can it hate? can it even feel? surely not. it is an ethereal transparency,—a delicate film which takes upon itself the reflex of all existing things without experiencing personal emotion. such is the soul, as i believe in it—an immortal essence, in itself formless, yet capable of taking all forms,—ignorant of the joys or pains of feeling, yet reflecting all shades of sensation as a crystal reflects all colours in the prism. this, and no more.”
he paced up and down the room—and a deep involuntary sigh escaped him.
“no—” he murmured, as though answering some inward query—“no, i will not go to her now—not till the appointed time. i resolved on an absence of forty-eight hours, and forty-eight hours it shall be. then i will go,—and she will tell me all—i shall know the full extent of the mischief done. and so féraz ‘looked and looked again, and loved what he beheld!’ love! the very word seems like a desecrating blot on the virgin soul of lilith!”
