The Hosts of the Lord Part 43

"Oh! what is he going to do?" gasped the woman who was watching.

"I appose he's going to be brave, mum," said the child, who clutched at her hand, watching, too, with great, wide, uncomprehending eyes.

But the man beside them held his breath.

So retreating, step by step, Vincent Dering kept the crowd back, lured the crowd on, safe--so far! For these, the first, the swiftest, were naturally the unironed, therefore, the unarmed. But there were others, forcing their way to the front, who would be harder to deal with.

Vincent threw his head back and wondered how Eugene was faring; for he dared not turn his face from his task even for a second.

Had those three been caught up? Had the _kukri_ helped?

It had. And one of those three had fallen before a flash, as of light.

And another!

But the third had the key in the door; had turned it, when Eugene struck him from behind. With a wild yell he flung his full weight on the door; it burst open, and the two fell headlong into the tower beyond.

But only for a second. Eugene Smith was up again, had the key out, and in on the further side.

"All right!" he shouted; "make a rush for it! I'm ready!"

Vincent Dering gave one sharp look round. The door was not four yards from him, but the crowd was not one. There was no time. "Shut it," he called, "I'm all right."

Eugene Smith stood uncertain; the door ajar.

The keys! ah! what could he do with the keys if he went back to help--and if not--

"Oh! please shut it, Smith! there's a good fellow; please."

The four yards were two now, were one. Then slowly the door closed, and Vincent had his back against it.

"Oh, Vincent! Vincent!"

The agonized cry echoed above all other cries, but only for an instant; the next, George Dillon's hand was gagging the lips which uttered it.

"Hush!" he said fiercely. "Can't you let him forget for these last few minutes that there is such a thing as a woman in the world. Hush! I say."

And a great hush came. The sound of blows, of iron clashing on iron, and falling with a dull thud on something softer, seemed to fill the world and leave room for nothing else.

Nothing except a softer sound still. A shuddering moan, as a woman slipped to her knees, and covered her face with her hands; then slipped lower still to the ground, in a heap.

But the child looked at her mother, surprised.

"Doesn't 'oo like Derin' darlin' to be brave, dearest?" she asked, in a concerned little voice.

CHAPTER XXV

DAWN

Had an hour pa.s.sed, or twain? Ninian Bruce could not tell. It seemed to him that he had been kneeling for a lifetime, there on the altar steps beside the dying girl, with the glittering red-and-gold drapery trailing to the white marble, and opening to a white breast stained red,--a brighter red!

A long lifetime; long as his own; that long life in which he had seen, had felt, so much.

For as he waited for her inevitable death, his mind had followed that long life of his own, year after year, day after day, hour after hour.

And everywhere it had seen a woman's eyes, a woman's soul, looking back from a soul, from eyes, that should have been a man's.

Yes! the keynote of that long life had been the love of a woman.

Pa.s.sionate love, absorbing mind as well as body, claiming its reward in kind; as such love always does.

In kind!

There lay the whole difference between _anathema_ and _beata_. They were both _karma_, or desire!

One of the girl's white feet slid with a silvery jingle of its anklet to the next step, and, as he replaced it to a more comfortable position, a chill struck to his heart as he remembered what such chiming had meant in the past history of the world. The measure which that provoked was--_anathema_. That--disguised, palliated, refined in a thousand ways--was one kind.

And the other?

The memory of his own past surged to his brain as he bent over the girl's whitening face and scanned it narrowly. How like the face was to that other one, now that coming death had sharpened the full, youthful curves. He had noticed the likeness often--it had been clear when Laila had worn the old Italian--Beatrice's--dress. But not so clear, not half so clear, as when in this--this almost shameless one--she had said--"I only want--him."

It might have been Margherita speaking,--Margherita, who had wanted a man's soul.

And she had had one.

That was the other kind. But both were desire; the desire which drove humanity from Paradise, and keeps it vainly seeking for one still.

Saturated as he was with the mysticism of the East and West, these thoughts came to him, dreamily, making him feel curiously aloof from himself. The pity of it filled him, and brought a pity for the dying girl also; the girl who had failed to find a paradise in this world, and was seeking a new road to it; seeking it alone. The only thing she craved in all G.o.d's earth to make that paradise--gone! Priest as he was, the humanity in him rose in pa.s.sionate hope that she should not wake to the consciousness of this. What good would it do? Let her enter the shadows in peace.

But as he wished the wish, her head, which had been resting on his arm, turned to the touch of it, and her smooth cheek nestled closer to what it found.

"Kiss me, Vincent," she said, and her voice came back full, rich, round, to make the claim. "Kiss me before you go, dear!"

The old man gave a slight shiver, and was silent.

"Vincent!" came the voice again; "you _are_ there, aren't you? You wouldn't leave me--now--surely?"

There was another silent pause, and then, silent still, Father Ninian stooped, and the old lips and the young ones met in a lover's kiss. And as they met, he knew that in that kiss lay the great renunciation of his life; that henceforward there would be no woman waiting in Paradise for him; that the spiritual presence had gone from his life like the bodily presence. That Margherita was Juliet, and Juliet, Margherita!

"That's nice," murmured Laila, softly; "that's nice."

Her head settled to his arm again, and the silence went on. On and on, till he stooped lower to listen for an unheard breath; then lower still to shift that head from his arm to the ground. For the need of a human touch, a human sympathy, had gone forever.

He made the sign of the cross over the dead body, rose to his feet unsteadily, and looked about him, dazed, uncertain. In truth, he felt all his years for the first time; felt that his last hold on life had somehow gone from him in that kiss; that something more than one woman lay dead before him.

Then the sight of Akbar Khan, still rocking himself backwards and forwards, a perfect pendulum of protesting innocence and helpless remorse, roused the old priest to the present. He took up the rapier he had laid aside in crossing the chapel, and pa.s.sed over to where the old eunuch was bemoaning the high-handedness of fate. It was a tyranny, indeed! Who could have foreseen such an ending to a very ordinary intrigue? Who could even have dreamt of it? Had not men and women loved and met, thus, since the beginning of time?