Chapter IV: Part 4

The next day there was a solemn meeting of the sisters in the great audience hall of St. Euthymius. Sister Seraphita had heard the music. She had awakened the others, who, in their turn, awakened the Mother Superior. Never had their unworldly ears heard sounds like these. They plunged them into an alien world, where they trembled. They troubled their minds with the tone-pictures they flashed upon the senses. The music concealed a persistent suggestion that there are nobler things than a life of prayer and penance. It brought back memories of forgotten days. It touched their arid hearts to strange tremors. It sent a-flutter insistent voices as the sea sends abroad upon the wind the story of its secret longing. It gave transient energy to dead instincts. It set vibrating thoughts inimical to convent life. The stupidest among them felt this, and they agreed that it must be stopped.

In addition, it had been whispered that it sounded as if two lutes were being played, instead of one. Of course, they knew that that was impossible. No one could gain entrance to the convent. If they did hear two lutes, who was it who played the other one?

A look of awful comprehension brightened their dull old eyes. It was marvelous playing, too. They remembered that. Even the Superior said that she had not heard its equal. No mortal fingers swept that other lute. No mortal fingers could so fill the castle with resonance. There _were_ two lutes! Who played the other? It was Satan who did it--Satan and none other!

Then the Superior recalled what she had heard of the music and dancing madness that had taken possession of the nuns of the south of France in the early years of the church. How it had been proved to be the work of Satan and how the evil spirit had been exorcised. Abbé X---- had written a book about it. After discussing the subject, Elsbeth was sent for.

“My dear daughter,” began the Superior, “it grieved me to learn of your disobedience. I, together with the sisters, have decided that forfeiture of the lute is a just punishment. Sister Seraphita may now bring it to my room and hang it upon the wall. As for you, my daughter, I recommend the prayers for the penitent.” Then she rose, signifying that the session was at an end.

Elsbeth said nothing. Her mind was so filled by the occurrences of the past days that the meaning barely reached her.

That night the melody floated up to where she stood waiting, just as the sickle of the moon swung to a level with the black tree-tops.

How could she answer now? Hastily she unfastened the window. Then she remembered a lace handkerchief belonging to her mother, which she picked up the day they took her away. It was filmy and light. It would float upon the water. He would see it fluttering down. In one corner was embroidered, in the colored needlework of the day, the crest of the house of Radknothy.

The changed music that came told her that he had caught the handkerchief. He understood the message. In the answering tones there was something deferential.

Then he played the melody of the first night, modulating it masterfully, and using the theme as the basic idea for many a sweetly extemporized caprice. As she stood alone in the dim cell listening, while the warm spring night caressed the short, bright curls upon her head, it thrilled her with a joy that was akin to pain. It was like the memory of something that had vanished--a tragic past that had swept her away upon billows of flame. It was the sense-memory of a past whose incidents she could not recall, but whose fervor flashed upon her.

The sisters heard the music. One by one, softly, they crept to the Mother Superior’s door to see if she were awake. There she sat, a terrified, trembling old figure, her eyes staring at the lute upon the wall, while her pale lips murmured a prayer. One by one they peered in to make sure that the lute was really there, hanging motionless upon the wall. Yet its music echoed down the long corridors and floated in at the windows. A ghastly procession they made! Shrunken and hollow of cheek, toothless, yellow and wrinkled of face! The candles silhouetted sharply and distorted their bald and trembling heads.

Yes, there was the lute, motionless, just where Sister Seraphita had hung it. Yet they could hear its music. What a horrible thing! To listen to music made by a lute hung out of reach upon a wall! Their shrunken chins and toothless lips trembled. Their knees knocked together. It was all their old, weak hands could do to hold the candles.

Here was proof of the work of the evil spirit. Every sister in the convent was a witness. Perhaps it was Satan himself who swept the strings. In addition, they had heard that the coming of an evil spirit is accompanied by a breath of cool air or a freshening breeze. Whenever the wind came stronger, the music was noticeably louder. That was another proof.

The next day and the next were given over to prayer. But each night the same dreadful thing occurred, the same luxurious and sinful melody came floating on the midnight. The aged sisters were distracted. They were grieved, too. No scandal had ever touched St. Euthymius.

On the fourth day they met in solemn council, to which Elsbeth was summoned, in order to be questioned. She said that each night, in accordance with the Superior’s orders, she had gone early to bed after repeating thrice the prayers for the penitent. Quickly she fell asleep. Then she dreamed--but so vividly that the following day she was unable to tell the dream from reality--that the Mother Superior came to her door, knocked softly, opened it and held out the lute. She took it and improvised upon it the rest of the night. Softly then again the knocking came, the Superior opened the door, took the lute and went away. Each night she dreamed the same dream. And each morning she found her door as she had left it.

On hearing this the good sisters were more puzzled than ever. One thing, however, was certain. Elsbeth was the medium through which the evil spirit gained entrance. Through her he was trying to draw the Mother Superior into his toils, and thus work the ruin of the convent.

After sifting conflicting opinions, they decided that she should be confined within her room for a month. During that time she was not to see nor hold converse with any one. Food and drink would be placed at her door at regular intervals.

The first days of confinement were lonely. The lute was gone. There was nothing for company. Nor did the first week of confinement have any effect upon exorcising the demon. Each night the trembling old women gathered in the Superior’s room to watch with terrified eyes while the motionless lute made music.

Elsbeth’s only amusement was to stand on tiptoe and look out through the swinging square of the window. It was so high that she could not see anything immediately below. One day while she was standing on tiptoe peering out, her knees, trembling with the strain, struck a projection of the grooved wood, and she felt the wall yield as if a door were there.

Getting down on her knees, she scrutinized every curve of the decorative wood to see if a spring could be found. She knew the room had belonged to the old Baron who built the castle, and that it was unlike the others. Since the hidden spring--if such an one there were--did not disclose itself to the eye, she determined to follow with her fingers every scroll of the panel, pressing evenly upon each in turn.

About half-way up to the lower edge of the window, at about the height where her knees had been, a whorl of polished wood slipped from sight. The panel swung out and the level lake lay before her. Leaning out, she found that the stairway which she had seen from the edge of the water was within reach. This was the old Baron’s place of secret exit.

That night, when the unknown serenader touched his lute, she opened the door, swung lightly to the stair top and motioned silence. The listening sisters, who heard the music begin, then cease abruptly, were filled with thankfulness. After waiting an hour and hearing no recurrent sound, they crept back to their beds, secure in the thought that the exorcising of the demon had begun.

In a little boat at the foot of the stairs sat a man holding a jeweled lute. It seemed to Elsbeth that she had always known him. He looked just like the men with whom she had been acquainted for years in her dreams. Like them, he was dark and young. Like them, too, he was handsome and had come to fetch her in a boat. He wore the costume of an Hungarian nobleman of the middle of the sixteenth century: a light blue mantle fancifully braided, of Polish cut, thrown coquettishly over one shoulder, called in those days _kabodion_; black velvet breeches, a round-topped hat and a tight-fitting dress coat, such as were worn by men of birth, called _mente_. Years of silence had thrown her so completely upon herself for companionship that it had become difficult to tell the real from the unreal. The one who waited in the boat was merely a proof of the reality of dreams.

He, on his part, saw a girl-woman of magnificent proportions coming swiftly down the steps. Upon her head a halo of little curls shone in the light. Her face was very white, but in her eyes there was the look with which La Fiorita had gone to meet her lovers. So familiarly did she hasten to him that he felt himself drawn within the magic circle of her day dreams, where nothing was impossible, and held out his hands impulsively to help her to a seat.

Yet, how can any one tell in what other life we have met, how close the tie that bound us, whose fibers vibrate on in this!

“Where shall we go?” he asked, admiration shining in his eyes.

“Down there, around the bend of the lake, where the sisters cannot hear our voices.”

He bent to the oars, and a silver furrow stretched behind them. Meanwhile Elsbeth looked attentively at her companion. His youth pleased her. He was the only one she had met who was young like herself.

Prince Ràkoczi was about twenty-eight. He had been married some years to an Italian woman many years his senior. The Princess--known as the Princess of the Bloody Heart, because of a heart of rubies which she invariably wore--was descended from the Italian house of Montanelli. The head of this house was known throughout Europe for the making of skillful and artistic instruments of torture. It was due to her father, Alonzo Montanelli, that in that age murder had reached the dignity of a fine art, and was accompanied by the exquisite decorative setting that befits a fête. The name, Montanelli, was password to every torture chamber of Europe.

Once around the bend, she said: “Where are we going?”

“To my chapel yonder.”

“Shall we be alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“Then I will play upon your lute.”

“You shall have another like it for yourself,” he said, handing it toward her, while the moon found the heart of a crimson stone and flashed red light upon his hand.

At sight of the richly lighted chapel, her eyes shone like a little child’s at sight of a Christmas tree. So great was her capacity for happiness that she forgot the past in the pleasure of a moment.

He led her into the chapel. “You cannot imagine what I thought when I first saw you. I thought that you were the original of a picture that hangs here. That Magdalene is not a painter’s dream. It is the portrait of the woman whom my father loved. During my mother’s life the picture was not hung. It was only after I came into possession of the estate that it was taken from its place of concealment. It is La Fiorita, a dancing girl whom my father knew in Venice in his youth.” Looking up, Elsbeth saw a voluptuous Venetian beauty, whose face stirred vague memories.

When they rowed back to the convent, the moon was low in the sky. The lake was dull and tarnished. In the tops of the trees a crisp wind shivered that told of dawn.

During the days that followed, Elsbeth was glad of her imprisonment. She escaped the sisters’ prying eyes. They who live in solitude are skilled in reading the heart.

Each night the Prince came for her, and they drifted down the lake, explored its recesses, improvised upon their lutes within the chapel, or reclined upon the steps to talk of love. In this way a month passed away.

To the good sisters of St. Euthymius the month had brought comfort. The evil spirit was controlled and put to flight. They could sleep in peace, their timid old hearts untroubled by fear. Now the lute hung silent upon the wall. There had been no recurrence of the melody. The prayerful penance of Elsbeth had exorcised the demon.

The Superior called a council. It was agreed that Elsbeth should spend another month in prayer and silence. When the word was brought to her, she received it humbly. The Superior’s heart was filled with gratitude. Her patience was bearing fruit.

One night, after the beginning of the second month, when Elsbeth and Prince Ràkoczi entered the chapel, he rushed to fasten the door that communicated with the castle.

“Why do you do that?” inquired Elsbeth.

“The Princess has arrived. Of course there is little danger of her coming here. Yet it is best to be safe.”

Then they forgot about her in their love and joy in each other, and set about perfecting plans for Elsbeth’s escape from the convent.

“Listen, little one,” the Prince continued, drawing her to him, while the candles struck rich colors from his braided _kabodion_ and accented the pallor of his face. “It is arranged for to-morrow night. A larger boat and two oarsmen will come for us here. They will row us to the end of the lake. There an old servant will await us with a carriage. He will take you to a hunting lodge of mine, to the east of here, near the Bohemian Forest. There, as soon as I can make arrangements, I will join you, and together we will go to Italy. I have a present for you for to-morrow night, too--a dress and a jewel, brought all the way from Stamboul. You shall put it on, and we will celebrate our marriage here at the altar--”

“What was that--a knock?”

“Yes.”

“The Princess?”

“It must be. No one else would come. We must be quick. I will get into that chest there, beneath the picture. Turn the jeweled fruit to the right. That locks it. Then go to the altar and say your prayers. If she questions you, your quick wits must frame an answer.”

When Elsbeth unbolted the door, a tall, gaunt woman approaching middle age swept in. She wore a long, dark, cloaklike garment of _morit_, and a violet-colored _kazabajka_, while her hair was partially hidden beneath a white _csepesz_. Suspended from her neck was a ruby heart. She had narrow, side-glancing eyes, a long oval face, and thin lips. Her expression indicated cruelty.

“My fair nun, how came you here--and at this hour?”

“Most gracious Princess,” replied Elsbeth, bending in salutation, “last night I had a dream in which I saw The Virgin of the Red Girdle poise in the air above the Ràkoczi chapel. That, as the gracious Princess knows, bodes ill. I made a vow to avert the ill by prayerful intercession at the altar.”

“And you chose night, good sister, for your beneficent purpose?”

“By day, most gracious Princess, I am occupied with convent duties. Therefore I sacrifice to it the hours of sleep.”

“But the Prince--does he help you? Where is he?”

“The Prince? Your Highness will see that I am at my prayers alone, and with your gracious permission I will return to them.”

The Princess made a signal of dismissal, and Elsbeth knelt with her rosary at the altar.

Princess Ràkoczi was too astute and too well versed in the intrigues of that subtle age to take the nun’s smoothly spoken words at their face value. She saw, too, that the nun was a woman of great beauty. The disfiguring garb could not hide that. She made a tour of the chapel. Around the outer edge, at the base of the walls, were placed coffers in which the church silver, the relics, and the priestly vestments were stored. From time to time, as she made this tour of inspection, she glanced sharply at Elsbeth, to see if she were intent upon her beads. When she had completed the circuit, she paused at Elsbeth’s right and bent to look at the gem-decorated carving of the chest that stood beneath the picture of La Fiorita. As she bent down, she heard a sharp sound. Looking up, she saw that the rosary had dropped upon the marble altar and that the nun’s hands were trembling.

“I have found him!” she thought. “What a lesson I will teach them!” Jealous rage pinched her pale features to a cruel thinness. Aloud she said: “Good sister, I thank you for your unselfish watchfulness.”

Elsbeth rose and remained bowing while the Princess passed out. When she had been gone a sufficient time for safety, the nun bolted the door and released the Prince.

“You shall not have another experience like this!” he said, clasping her in his arms.

“But to-morrow night?”

“She would not spy upon us two nights in succession.”

On the way across the lake, the sparkles of light upon the water were not more numerous than the words of love which he lavished upon Elsbeth. They erased from her mind the disagreeable occurrence. She thought only of the morrow, of escape--and of the gorgeous gown and the jewel that had come from Stamboul.

As soon as they left the chapel, the Princess had the door unbolted, and entered, followed by two men bearing a chest identical in size and design with the one that stood beneath the picture. In obedience to her command they exchanged them, and took the former chest back to the castle.

The next night found Elsbeth on the stairs waiting eagerly. When Prince Ràkoczi came, she took the package he gave her and ran back to her room. When again she came out, she wore a short white satin princess dress, heavily embroidered in seed pearls. It was cut low and square at the neck, and flared at the bottom. It resembled in style and cut the votive robes made for statues of the Virgin. About her neck was a cross of diamonds. The convent cloak was thrown over her arm, to be used in case of need.

No sooner had they entered the chapel and seen to the safe bolting of the door, than with kisses and caresses he led her to the picture of La Fiorita. Moving a few steps away, he paused and looked at her.

“You cannot imagine how greatly you resemble that picture. In certain ways the faces are identical. The difference is that you have not lived so much. That is the woman my father loved. This is the woman whom I love. As she was the grief of his life, you will be the happiness of mine--” An imperative knock interrupted him.

Elsbeth donned the cloak and hood, drawing it carefully over the whiteness of her gown. Then she unbolted the door. Graciously the Princess entered.

“My good sister, I am going to take you from your prayerful duties for a few moments to-night to gratify a curiosity of mine.”

“I shall be most happy to serve you, Gracious Princess,” murmured Elsbeth.

“I have heard,” she continued, “that beneath the fingers of a pure woman the opal loses its angry fire and becomes white like a pearl. It is my wish to find out if that is true. Now on that chest there--the one beneath the repentant Magdalene--opals are set. You, of course, having had no occasion to observe the chest, have not seen them. I will make the test in the light of this candle, if you will come. Now observe the decoration on the chest front, a procession of wise men bearing offerings to the infant Christ. It was designed and made by Maestro Benedetto da Majano and is well-nigh priceless. Notice the rich softness of the wood--its depth of color. Do you see how it poises between the shades of brown and red? Look at that kneeling figure there, holding up a plate filled with fruit. The fruit in the center of the plate is made of opals. Now place your finger upon the central one, the apple. It represents, I fancy, the forbidden fruit of the tree of life.

“That’s right. That’s right. Remarkable! Remarkable! It has grown pale--see! So have you, good nun. Why is that? Why does your hand tremble? Hold it more firmly, that I may see. There!--there!--Now press your fingers on that central stone.”

Elsbeth obeyed. As she did so, a shriek rang out, so heartrending, so horrible, it curdled the blood. Again a shriek of mortal anguish--then silence.

Above her, stern and erect, Princess Ràkoczi towered, her thin face illumined by the pointed candle. Without a word she gathered up her rustling robe and walked away.

When she had gone, Elsbeth lifted the chest lid. “Merciful God!” she cried. “Help! Help! Help!” Again and again she called, until her throat felt numb and weary.

When she pressed her finger to the opal, she had touched a spring that released round, needle-like darts of steel, which had been concealed beneath the satin lining. The body within was shredded into ribbons. In the space of a moment it had become an unrecognizable mass of pulp. Across it lay a silver heart, shining dimly, and beside it two tiny marble Cupids held chains of roses, which were dotted with blood.

Madly she grasped the steels, attempting to tear them away. But she succeeded only in making deep wounds in the palms of her hands. She ran to the castle door, determined to have revenge. The door was fastened on the other side. When she beat upon it and tried to call for help, she found she could not speak. Her throat was paralyzed. She was dumb.

The next morning, when the sisters of St. Euthymius came to tell her that they had decided to release her from her confinement, they found her lying upon her bed, robed in white satin and pearls, a cross of diamonds upon her breast. When they spoke to her in their astonishment at the sight that met their eyes, and asked for an explanation, she pointed to her mouth. They understood. She had taken the vow of eternal silence. Then she held up her hands. The palms were dotted with spots of red. They fell upon their knees in reverence and adoration, crying: “A miracle! _The stigmata! The stigmata!_” They saw, too, that her face was changed, and that her hair was streaked with white.

For the remainder of her life, which lasted twenty-five years, Saint Elsbeth was never known to break her vow of silence.

The white robe and the diamond cross which came down from heaven when she was made the bride of Christ possessed greater healing efficacy than any relics in Hungary. Their power was oftenest called into service by maidens and young lovers, until Saint Elsbeth became the patron saint of the heart. Through these relics Saint Euthymius became the richest convent in all Hungary and the most widely known for the piety of its inmates.

There are certain days of midsummer when the convent is gratuitously open to the public. Then the room with its tiny window overlooking the lake is shown, where the miracle was wrought, and the white satin robe and diamond cross came down from heaven to honor Saint Elsbeth, who was the bride of Christ.

THE OPAL ISLES

_Vivere ardendo é non sentire il malo!_[9]

GASPARA STAMPA.

(To live intensely, to be impervious to wrong!)

We were sitting over our after-dinner cigars, my host, Gustav Berençy, and myself, when the conversation touched on love. Without pausing to consider the effect of the question or its evident infringement of guest-right, I boyishly asked him why he had never married.

Gustav Berençy had been the friend of my grandfather. They had known each other in Paris in their youth. I remembered hearing my grandfather say that Berençy was not only the handsomest, but the most distinguished man he had met. Looking out upon the luxurious park-setting of his seaside home, I could not help wondering why he had always lived alone.

As I asked the question, I saw that the eyes looking into mine were dimmed for a moment, as if by a veil of grief.

“I _am_ married,” he replied; “not by the law of man, but by something more sacred--the law of the heart, which is God’s law.”

“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to make reply, repenting of the ill-timed question. “I had not heard of your marriage, nor indeed,” I added, “of your wife’s death.”

“No, of course not,” was the answer, “because I do not know myself whether she is alive or dead. In all these years I have not been able to tell. She is here with me, in the great room there above,” indicating with his hand a wing of the house.

“I do not believe I understand,” I murmured awkwardly, trying to hit upon a fitting answer.

“Very likely you do not, because I do not.” Grief like a shadow flitted across his face. For the moment it looked aged and strangely weary.

“Of course you do not understand, because I do not. For fifty years she has been there--in that room. For fifty years my heart has not wavered in its allegiance to her, and yet I do not know, as I have told you, whether she is alive or dead.”

We sat in silence, while my host looked reminiscently out across the sea, as if somewhere in its spaces he sought the mystery’s solving. A sensation of fear swept over me, which, however, I controlled upon the instant. I was ashamed of my folly. This genial, courtly gentleman was not mad. In the eyes that looked into mine there was none of the maniac’s frenzy. On the contrary, they were gently meditative, and pregnant with thought and grief.

“No,” he said, reminiscently, lighting a fresh cigar, whose white smoke in the gentle evening floated up and blended aureole-like with the thick whiteness of his hair, “no, I do not mind telling you why I have never married, as the world puts it. It is a strange story. I doubt if you will believe it. But you are leaving on the morrow, and I shall never see you again. Besides, I am old, you know. I am eighty.”

With a sad smile he waved aside my polite demurrer. “Fifty years is long enough to keep a secret, is it not?” he continued. “And it might be well in after years for some one to know the truth. It might help her.”

Involuntarily my thoughts flew to the great silent room above, where for fifty years the woman had lain who was neither alive nor dead. Little did I guess what was housed there, as my heart beat eagerly with anticipation.

“I was born, as you know, in France,” said my host. “My mother died at my birth. My childhood was spent in a monastic school on the gloomy coast of La Bas Bretagne. There I did not see much childish merriment, as you may imagine. Shortly after graduating, when the subject was being discussed as to whether or not I, the younger son, should take holy orders--and at that time of my impressionable youth I was not greatly averse to the idea, so accustomed had I become to monastic discipline--my father and my brother died, leaving me heir to the name and fortune. Thus duty, rather than inclination, kept me in a world of which at that time I knew nothing.

“Finding the loneliness of the old home unendurable, I went to Paris. There I saw something of life. When at length dissipation palled upon me, I gave myself over to study and to art. It was then that I met your grandfather. Finally, I determined to make the _grand tour_, which in those days was _de rigueur_ for young men of wealth and position. I sauntered across Europe, pausing wherever caprice seized me, idled carelessly across Asia, dallying with my art the while, reached its eastern coast, and found myself confronted by the great Pacific. Here, not knowing what else to do, but without a definite goal in view, I took passage for a cruise among the islands of Polynesia. Some months later, when I had satisfied my curiosity in regard to the South Seas, just after leaving the Austral Isles, a typhoon struck us and we were wrecked upon an outlying coral reef. The steamer was virtually cut in two. The entire crew were drowned with the exception of the first mate, one sailor, and myself.

“We were swept by the fury of the waves upon a high white beach, where a group of natives who had seen the wreck were waiting for the storm to subside, with the intention of plundering the ship. I found that we had merely exchanged one form of death for another and a crueler one. We were seized, bound hand and foot, and thrown upon the ground to await the tribe’s decision of our fate upon the morrow. That night, while I lay awake wondering what the outcome would be, a young native woman, whose sinewy strength had caught my eye during the day, slipped up to where I lay alone at a distance from the others, and with incredible swiftness cut the thongs that bound me. Putting her finger to her lips significantly, she motioned me to follow. One fate was as bad as another, if they all meant death, and I did not hesitate.

“She went across the island, walking so swiftly that it was all that I could do to keep up. Not once did she look back, or seem to think of me. She went straight on, as if impelled by fear. I have no idea how far we walked. When at length she paused with a gesture that made me know that the journey was at an end, the day was not far off. We had crossed the island, and again the sea lay before us.

“The shore was different here. It was repellent and stern, like the coast of La Bas Bretagne which I had known in my gloomy childhood. Rocks sloped in sharp declivity to the water, which looked threatening and black.

“Going up to one of the rocky walls, she pointed to an opening beneath, and went in a little way, motioning me to follow. There I saw a stairway hewn from the living rock, and descending into the bowels of the earth. Although it seemed at first glance to be perpendicular, it sloped slightly toward the water, at whose edge we had entered, so I knew that whatever pathway lay beyond must lead beneath the sea.

“She crouched down upon the stair beside me and, stretching out one long bare arm, pointed down, down, down--once, twice, thrice--meaning that there I must go. Then she took from her back a bag-shaped basket and handed it to me. In it were food and drink.

“Like a whirr of yellow swords, the first sun-rays pierced the sky. As if frightened to see the day so soon, she bounded up the stairs and was gone. To go back meant death; to go on meant I knew not what. But the chance of a life hung in the balance, so I went on.

“The stairs led downward between smooth walls of rock. How far I do not know. I counted the steps until I could count no longer. My brain grew dizzy and refused to work. I sat down and buried my face in my hands to recover poise. I got up and went on, and again my brain refused to count the infinite steps. Again I had to give it up.

“The opening above, which for a time shed light plentifully upon me, became a distant pin-point, then vanished, and inky blackness surrounded me. I should have felt like one buried alive, had it not been for the fresh air that swept between the perpendicular walls of this canal-way.

“But what awaited me at the bottom? Was it water, black and silent and of fathomless depth--impassable, mysterious water that had never reflected the stars or the sun? Was I to find myself upon the edge of an abyss whose depth I could sense but could not estimate?

“What torturing fear and suspense did I not suffer, as I descended that frightful stairway! Suppose my foot slipped and I should fall! What then! But she, my guide of the night, had motioned that I was to follow the stairway. She had not crossed the island merely to bring about my death. It was her intention to save me. I must have faith in her. There was no other way. I summoned fresh courage and crept down the blackness.

“I lost all account of time as hours go. But judging by my weariness and hunger when I reached the level, I think I must have put in a good part of a day in descending that frightful stairway. At the bottom I found myself in a smooth and level road enclosed between walls of granite.

“But the silence and the darkness--how can I tell you what they were? Such silence drives men mad. The darkness was like velvet in its black impenetrableness. It seemed to fall upon my face and stifle me. Nothing disturbed the silence. Even the wind slipped noiselessly through this grave of granite. And it had come so far that it had freed its wings of the scents of the world of light, of the sea and of the earth. No message from the world above came here. Not a sound broke the silence. From the walls of barren rock no dust clods fell to tell of the ceaseless, weaving life of the earth. Adown their sides no water tinkled. Along the road there was not even the friendly whirr of a dried leaf blown by the wind. Nothing! Nothing!

“After I had traveled for a time and the silence had heaped its leaden weight upon me, I shrieked. I could restrain myself no longer. I cried out with all the strength of lung that I possessed, and the granite walls sent back a million, broken-voiced echoes to beat about my ears.

“For days I traveled on like this, pausing only to eat and sleep. I had lost reckoning of time, of night, of day. I heard only the measured sound of my own steps. I do not know how many days and nights had passed like this, when I found that the road was leading upward. It became narrower and steeper. I brushed the rock walls as I walked; I could scarcely squeeze between them. I did not fear. The sound of my steps had dulled my brain. Darkness had paralyzed the power to think.

“Above my head the roof lowered till I could no longer stand erect. I fell upon my knees and crept forward. The wind changed; it freshened. I thought it brought a scent of the sea. Suddenly thick leaves barred the way. I brushed through them, and the star-splendid circle of a tropic night swept into view.

“I was in the garden of a spacious residence that crowned an elevation. Below me a white city lay, and around and beyond the sea. How I drank in the air! How I rejoiced in the sleepy rustle of leaves and grass, and in the regained face of the earth!

“The city which presented itself to my eyes was arranged in the form of a wheel, whose hub was the dwelling in the garden where I stood. From the dwelling the streets radiated like spokes, and at the end of each, terminating at the island’s edge, shone the sea. Around the eminence spread a circular park of considerable breadth, adorned with flowers and statues. Around this lay a smooth wide road, bordered at regular intervals with slender palms, whose leaves in the windless night were motionless. Opposite, the city streets began, and each was headed by a building of great beauty, so that beyond the park and the roadway rose a circular sweep of noble buildings. At regular distances from the central starting-point, each street was interrupted by a small circular space of greensward, and these, uniting, made a driveway around the city.

“I chose at random one of the paths that intersected the garden and followed it. Since I was the toy of chance, I determined to resign myself bravely. After a detour the path led toward the dwelling, blended with one of its marble walks, and ended at the foot of a staircase. I climbed the stairs and entered an uncovered corridor of white marble. After walking to the end, I found it closed by a smooth and rounded stone. I touched it. It swung open, enfolding and sweeping me within its circle, and then closed silently behind me. Impenetrable draperies of silk hung in front of me, brushing my face. I parted them and entered the strangest room I ever saw.

“It was long and of unusual height. The top was uncovered and let in the tropic night. Around the edge of the top of the walls a rim of opal glass projected, upon which a glass ceiling was folded back, to be used in case of need. There were no pictures in the room, nor were there decorations or adornment of any kind. The four walls were hung uniformly in curtains of heavy white silk, which fell in straight folds to the floor.

“There was no air moving. Indeed, I remembered the night outside to have been singularly windless. Yet these white curtains shivered and swayed with a sibilant and silken murmur. Across their surface gold lines and figures swept. An endless chain of golden phantoms girdled the spacious chamber. From the walls bright forms leaped with a burst of light, and then faded back to whiteness. Round and round swept a glittering, changing pageant, impalpable and soundless. Sometimes the gold within the witch-wrought silk blazed forth until the air gleamed with yellow light that dimmed the stars. Anon it paled to such a vague misty radiance as engirdles a winter moon. But always there was change and light and motion and the rustle of swayed silk. If I examined the curtains closely, if I took them up in my hands, I found that they were colorless and uniformly white. But if I let them fall again, and stepped a foot away to look at them, gold light and flashing form leaped out to startle me.

“There were times when the gold wall-light faded and a dim brilliancy took its place. Occasionally, too, a silver light inspirited the restless curtains, pallid frost-shine filled the room, and horizontal lines of silver swept round the walls. When the silver lines grouped themselves into form and being, it was as if lustrous spirits danced airily a ghost dance of joy, now flashing for an instant into vivid life, now paling and fading into silver mist that still retained their gracious contours.

“There was no furniture save a long, narrow, bed-like pedestal or support of ivory, which stood in the center of the room. Upon this rested a mammoth sickle likewise of ivory, formed like the new moon, and within its hollow curve there lay--how shall I tell you!--was it a woman wrapped in lustrous gauze, or was it a mammoth opal that bore a woman’s form? Standing beside the figure and looking down, I could not tell. Beneath the pallid surface colors glowed like tint of flesh with jewels upon it. Again, they seemed to be only the fiery flash of an opal’s heart, and the surface became icily cold.

“I discovered plainly once or twice the long, noble lines of a figure relaxed as if in sleep. Within the white stone floated the gracious semblance of a woman, yet far away and insubstantial, like colors seen in a dream. Sometimes I thought the figure breathed, but by the light of those moving curtains I could not tell. They kept up such a tremor of shifting brightness that my own body became unreal and no longer seemed to belong to me. They dazzled my senses and broke my chain of reasoned thinking. I was adrift with nothing to guide me. When at length I turned from contemplation of the mysterious figure to find again, if possible, the place of exit, in the wall-labyrinth of weaving light, some power which I could not but obey compelled me to pause on a sudden and look back.

“There, standing upright by the moon’s ivory horn, was the opal woman. The tangling gauze which covered her--which I had not dared to touch to find if it were gauze or the smooth cold surface of a stone--had slipped to her feet, where it billowed white like foam. She was taller than the average woman and more slender, yet withal muscularly built and round. Hers was the body of Pallas.

“An apron-like corselet of flexible gold, woven in open-work squares, fitted her smoothly, falling evenly to her feet, but opened to the waist on either side. Beneath this from the waist downward fell something silken and white, softening the sharp outline of the gold. In each little open-work square of the corselet hung a pink gem, and between her breasts was set a ruby.

“Her hair, which was thick and of a bronze color, was arranged in great coils on either side of her head, completely covering her ears. In the center of each coil shone a ruby that matched in size and color the one between her breasts. From these rubies, and attached to them, extended a net of tiny pearls, covering her hair and holding it securely in place.

“So absorbed was I in contemplation of her person, that I forgot that word was due from me. When at length I lifted my eyes to hers, it was as if along with the conquest of my senses the conquest of my mind had been completed. They seemed to enfold and sweep me within a sea of light where all things were foreign to my will.

“Notwithstanding her strange and fantastic costuming, which at once revealed and enhanced the beauty of her body, I knew that this was no vain coquette. This was not a woman to find pleasure in vulgar admiration. Her costume I felt to be the result of some ideal of life, of beauty, which was the ruling passion of her mind. Calmly and in silence we looked at each other. In my face surprise and admiration struggled. She, however, was undisturbed and looked back at me serenely.

“Even then, before a word had been exchanged between us, I felt that her life and her ideal of life were altogether dissimilar to my own, that mentally we were the opposite each of the other. Within her I sensed unsoundable depths of peace and calm, which had their origin in some mental possession to which I was an alien. I measured then the abyss that lay between us.

“She was as richly colored and as gorgeous as a canvas, yet in her bearing there was nothing that hinted of pride or self-consciousness. I shall never forget that first glimpse of her. The picture is printed indelibly upon my brain, despite the years that have intervened--so vividly, indeed, that nothing has been able to dim it. For me it has dulled all other visions. Judge of it by the fact that I had known more or less well the beauties of Paris, and that I was accustomed to the luxurious gowning of the French city. It was only a few seconds that we stood there, and yet--so vivifying is the power of beauty--it was time enough for a world of fancies to sweep my brain.

“Her eyes were two flowers set within the petaled pallor of her face. Wide, straight-fronting eyes of chastest blue they were, whose vivid vitality was softened by an inner and a spiritual flame. Her face symbolized the dream-white city which I had seen outside in the night. And the changing light-splendor of that wondrous room was caught up and concentrated there. As I stood looking at her, a thousand vague and vanishing glimpses of remembered loveliness came back to haunt me. There was something about her that shut off thought connection with the active world of fact, and set one adrift among the pages of the painters. Despite her slenderness and her purely womanly beauty she was strong and masterful. She suggested the “virile note of great art.”

“In silence I stood and waited for her to speak. In a voice whose calmness was like the azure flame within her eyes, she said:

“‘You were not going away, were you? Stay and be my guest. Besides, you know, you cannot go. There is no way.’

“‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to be your guest--for a time,’ I added.

“‘For a time?’

“‘Yes; then I must go back to Europe, to my home--to France.’

“‘Home? Yes, yes; of course--but how can you! You are in the Opal Isles.’

“‘And where are they?’

“A strange look crossed her face, but so swiftly that I could not tell whether it was perplexity or grief.

“‘The Opal Isles--they--they--are in the center of the shoreless sea where the white wave circles. And I am Asra.’

“‘But there are steamers, of course; I can--’

“‘Never mind to-night. That can wait, can it not?’ She touched a hidden spring that summoned a servant. ‘The blue room.’ Then, turning to me, she said: ‘He will give you clothing suitable to our life and climate. Good night.’

“‘Good night,’ I repeated in a daze.

“After nearing the curtain behind which the servant had disappeared and stood waiting, I looked back. Asra lay silent and white, as I had first seen her, between the pale crescent’s ivory horns. Again she seemed to be not a woman, but a gigantic opal, beneath whose surface a rainbow slept. The curtains had begun their sibilant whispering again, and from them leaped gold phantoms in a dance of joy. Nearer and nearer to the ivory moon they circled. They formed a glittering cordon about it, weaving of bright motion a visible song of sleep. When the long curtains fell behind me, I thought: ‘Perhaps it has all been a dream,’ I did not know. I could not tell.

“‘This is the guest-room,’ the servant said, breaking in upon my reverie. ‘It tells of the supremacy of the sea. Here are your clothes. Good night.’

“The room was similar to the one I had left. Like it, it was roofless. Like it, too, it was walled in white silk. Within the silk slumbered not gold and silver, but the mysteries of the sea. I saw depth on depth of translucent water of every varying shade, running the entire gamut of blues and greens, within which gem-winged fish, slim silvery serpents, and strange iridescent sea-life swam. It was as if I looked through leagues of water, as one looks across a level prairie. Sometimes the water was blue and warm and pierced by sunlight. Again it was black-green and angry. Sometimes a cold light shivered this soundless ocean, a great wave came rolling in, crested with pale foam the color of fear. At the moment when it seemed ready to break and shed its tumbling waters over me, it vanished and the white silk trembled crisply. I remembered what Asra had said of the white wave that circles the shoreless sea. The servant, too, had spoken of the supremacy of the sea. I felt that in both expressions there was concealed a threat, or at least a deeper meaning. Unbidden came the thought that perhaps the Opal Isles and the people who dwelled within them were somehow at the mercy of the sea.

“When I stretched myself out upon the narrow ivory bed in the center of the room, I still continued to watch the curtains, in the dim wonder of approaching sleep. I was conscious of their beauty and their magic, but I no longer felt any desire to solve a mystery where all was mystery. As I fell asleep I wondered if I, too, would be transformed into an opal. Why not? Are we not all opals by day and night, white flesh opals beneath whose surface flashes the flame of imagination?

“When I went downstairs the next day dressed in a white tunic worn after the manner of the Greek costume, I found that I had slept the greater part of the day. On the way a servant met me and led me to a room where Asra awaited me. She wore the wonderful costume of the evening before. The sight of her brought back the golden phantoms of which she seemed to be an embodied one. I wondered if, when I approached her, she would vanish and the pallor of space confront me. I had ceased to trust the testimony of my senses. But she stood there calmly smiling, the swinging pink corselet gems swaying with the movement of her breath.

“When I went up to her, she held out her hand frankly and wished me good morning. I was more surprised to find that she was real, that she did not vanish at my approach, than if, upon the instant, a dozen phantoms had leaped to take her place. The little hand within my own was warm and white. Here was the first reality. In gratitude I bent over it. As I lifted my head, bright sunlight swept in from the open side of the room and swathed her about like a robe. Color became sound. I saw then their relationship to fearlessness and joy.

“With the new clothes I put on a new life--a lighter, freer, happier life. The black-robed world which I had known seemed far away. Suddenly it seemed to have been a sort of slavery. I saw it fettered with restraints and prejudices. I saw it bowed of back and weary. I drew a deep breath as of one pleasantly released, as if prison doors had opened and shown me light.

“Laughing, Asra came to where I stood and clasped upon my upper arm a bracelet of opals.

“‘Now you are a subject of the Opal Isles! Now there is no retreat.’

“I looked down upon the glittering gems. Each stone was emitting sparklets of cold green light, as if in anger at me, an interloper. While I was watching almost in fear its malevolent shine, a servant entered and asked Asra if she wished to drive as usual at that hour. She looked toward me questioningly.

“‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure,’ I replied, to the unuttered question in her eyes. ‘I should like to see the city by day.’

“As we drove along, I saw that there were other cities and other islands, a dozen or more perhaps. They had been hidden from me the evening before by the luminousness of the night, which had made them a part of the distance. Between the islands little red-sailed boats fluttered, but nowhere was the long, black smoke-ribbon of a steamer to be seen.

“‘Where are the Opal Isles?’ I questioned, turning to Asra. ‘I never heard the name before. I’m sure I never dreamed of cities of white marble on the other side of the earth.’

“I told you last night,’ she replied evasively, ‘that they are in the center of the shoreless sea, where the white wave circles.’

“I fancied then, as I looked out across the shining water, that something white and ominous like foam bounded the far horizon. She followed my glance. When again she looked toward me, I thought that within her eyes I read fear, but the look vanished as quickly as it came, and the old serenity took its place.

“‘That does not tell me where I am--“in the center of the shoreless sea”--that only helps to lose me the more.’

“‘What difference does it make where one is, if one is happy? How could happiness be situated upon a map!’

“‘But are there no steamers, no seafaring vessels?’ I insisted, looking out beyond the islands where the smooth water stretched to the horizon, unfurrowed of prow or oar.