Chapter I: HID it securely

ONCE again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty--a crime to darken its perfection.

SO you belong to me--

YOU owe me much--

ALL that you can pay.

THE little sum of money he had in the Postal Savings rose into his mind--and gave him amazing steadiness

HIS voice sounded loud and full in his own ears

YOU lie! he shouted suddenly.

YOU lie! you fiend! Come into the daylight.

HE was tearing his mind free from the influence of the place, the shadows--the possessing voice of the woman.

SHE crouched back toward the door.

IT is you--you! she muttered accusingly.

NO, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now

TWO men came running attracted by his loud voice

THEY lead the gypsy to a place of security

IT is you, she kept muttering to each in turn.

THE young man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.

CONFLICT

IT is night--a moonlight night in the Orient--

THE earth is flooded in mystic beauty--

MIDNIGHT songbirds in the trees.

AND the Palace of the Sultan--great marble halls--fountains of running water--moonlight shining in.

STRANGE, weird music of the desert played by slaves.

IT is the picturesque setting of a strange tale--a tale of inward struggle.

THE Sultan--lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East--softened by the night's mysterious light.

AMONG flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.

HIS dancing girls have left--his bronzed face--framed in black hair--his dark eyes--wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire--Life holds nothing new for him--only the continuation of old pleasures.

AT last a heavy portière is lifted.

PERHAPS you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty--a slave--

THE girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European--a Russian of noble birth.

AMONG the palms of the Orient--almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.

ONLY one of many, a passionate love holds her there.

EVER following--pursuing, is the other self--the gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves--yet--has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one--

Lift yourself up and come away--I will lead you far from the moonlight--the overpowering perfumes--into the bleak light of day--peace will find you.

No--the stillness of the night--the kisses of my Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud--even the moonlight could not quiet it.

PULLING against the inner self--her heart must break.

THE soft music of the slaves--once it had soothed her--but now--

IT was the howling wind of a northern land--of Russia--or the pealing of a bell--There had been a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood had been spent.

THE inner voice called Katherine--but could not yet overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins--the blood of a favorite of a Czar.

SOMETIMES in the light of day the inner, other self of Katherine would overcome--would want to flee--but ever the mysticism of Oriental nights would draw out more strongly than before the tainted blood of the unfortunate.

FINALLY the Sultan grew disdainful--There were newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert.

THE great--the inevitable conflict with her inner self left her torn--haggard.

FOR days she hung between life and death--with no one to care, save an old colored slave.

GONE the mystic atmosphere of the Orient--the music of cymbals.

* * * * *

A PROVINCIAL town in France--with the ill-lighted streets--and a steady down-pour of winter rain.

IT is Christmas eve

THROUGH the window Katherine has been watching a procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at the Cathedral. Women--dressed in the picturesque garb and coif of Brittany--men and children--What peace is theirs--they know of the Christ Child--of his Mother--and no streams of lowest passion--can cover their souls.

THE Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries--has witnessed many scenes.

THAT night a soul struggled against the past.

A WOMAN--she was alive--for she walked--moved. But within--she was numb.

SHE lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar--before the crèche--

HER inner self was pleading--Katherine--live again!

PRESENTLY the Adeste Fidelis sounded--throbbed--filled the church

HOW beautiful--she murmured.

THE memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred place.

* * * * *

MY child--advised the old Priest--pray--pray always for forgiveness--for enlightenment--for guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as you do always finds.

THAT NIGHT HIS SORROW WAS LIFTED.

_All ye are Christ's and Christ is God.--Saint Paul_

HIGH in the mountains, above the cities where all was calm--peaceful-- a golden moon shone down lighting bare branches and fallen leaves-- lighting the dark pines--

IT shone on the lake, in a valley in the mountains, making golden streaks upon the waters--

* * * * *

CHRIST walked on earth that night and stopped near the shore of the lake

HE looked into its depths-- at the sky--at the moon-- and felt the cold night air on His Face.

A GREAT sadness had overcome Him.

GOD had reflected a corner of Heaven to men on Earth-- and they did not pause in pleasure or in sorrow-- no one felt the beauty of those mountains.

HE stood alone by the lake-- again looked into its depths--

WHAT peace--what beauty--

DOWN below-- men grappled with death not beautiful death but hatred--lust--filled their souls.

THEY killed--were killed----

THE agonizing sorrow of Gethsemane again swept over Christ, as He stood by the Lake and wondered if men would ever be worthy of the gift of life-- if they would ever make it beautiful--and not terrible--

THEY were endowed with a certain freedom-- they used it to make wars-- to think of barbarous machines that would kill and torture--

THE fiendish cries of battle were in the great valley below--

CANNONS roared and flashed a red glare into the sky--

TEARS filled His eyes as He thought of the unprepared souls which were being hurled into Eternity-- on both sides of the battle line--

THE broken homes--

HIS heart was breaking in sorrow for the people He loved so well--

MOON streaks were playing on the water--

THE cold night air blew through the trees.

CHRIST wept-- men surely were not worthy of life-- of the beauty which filled the world--

HE turned away-- and still hearing the noise of battle-- walked under the pines--

HE came upon a small cabin-- sheltered by tall trees-- the roof was covered by fallen leaves-- a light shone from the window.

INSIDE--a babe slept in its cradle-- and the mother gently rocked it-- singing a soft lullaby--

HER thoughts were with him, in the valley below-- battling in the iron clutch of war--

SCARCELY knowing for what--or for whom he fought--

SHE kissed her babe and knelt down before its cradle--

OH Christ-- help me in my hour of need. protect him-- protect my child--

* * * * *

THE sorrow of Christ had gone--

THE mother's soul leaned to Him-- for help-- unconsciously she had helped Him-- on that night of beauty in the mountains-- when below--the world was being torn--ravaged--

THE noise of battle died away from Him--

HE heard only the prayer-- the soft breathing of the child and the whispering of the trees--

HE gathered the mother's prayer into His heart and blessed her as He walked away

YES--men were worthy-- this hysteria of war would pass

PEACE and love would come.