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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

The monk began to speak, and both to Ysabeau and her husband the voice was familiar—a voice long silent in death.

“In the name of Michael II, servant of servants of God and Vicegerent of Christ, I herewith pronounce the anathema over Balthasar of Courtrai, Emperor of the West, over Ysabeau, born Marozia Porphyrogentris, over their son, Wencelaus, over their followers, servants and hosts! I herewith expel them from the pale of Holy Church, and curse them as heretics!

“I forbid any to offer them shelter, food or help, I hurl on their heads the wrath of God and the hatred of man, I forbid any to attend their sick-bed, to receive their confession or to bury their bodies!

“I cut asunder the ties that bind the Latin people in obedience to them, and I lay under an interdict any person, village, town or state that succours or aids them against our wrath! May they and their children and their children’s children be blighted and cursed in life and in death, may they taste misery and desolation on the earth before they go to everlasting torment in hell!”

And now the cowled monk caught up one of the candles that lit the pulpit, and held it aloft.

“May their race perish with them and their memories be swallowed in oblivion—thus! As I extinguish this flame may the hand of God extinguish them!”

He cast the candle on to the marble floor beneath the pulpit, the flame was immediately dashed out, a slow smoke curled an instant and vanished.

“For Balthasar of Courtrai cherishes a murderess on the throne, and until he cast her forth and receive his true wife this anathema rests upon his head!”

Emperor and Empress listened, holding each other’s hands and staring at the monk; as he ended, and while the awe of utter fear held the assembly numb, Ysabeau rose.…

But at that same instant the monk tossed back his cowl and revealed the stern, pale features of Melchoir of Brabant, crowned with the imperial diadem.…

A frenzied shriek broke from the woman, and she fell across the steps of the throne; her crown slipped from her fair head and dazzled on the pavement.

Groaning in anguish Balthasar stooped to raise her up… when he again looked at the pulpit it was empty.

Ysabeau’s cry had loosened the souls of the multitude, they rose to their feet and began to surge wildly towards the door.

But the Pontiff rose, approached the altar and began calmly to chant the Gratias.

Balthasar gave him a wild and desperate look, staggered and fiercely recovered himself, then took his child by the hand, and supporting with the other the Empress, who struggled back to life, he swept down the aisle, followed by a few of his German knights.

The people shuddered away to right and left to give him passage; the bronze doors were opened and the excommunicated man stepped into the thunder-wrapt streets of the city where he no longer reigned.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER VIII.
URSULA OF ROOSELAARE
“Say I have done well for you—it seems that I must ask your thanks.”

The Pope sat at a little table near the window of his private room in the Vatican and rested his face on his hand.

Leaning against the scarlet tapestries that covered the opposite wall was Theirry, clothed in chain mail and heavily armed.

“You think I should be grateful?” he asked in a low voice, his beautiful eyes fixed in a half-frightened, wholly fascinated way on the slim figure of the other.

Michael II wore a straight robe of gold-coloured silk and a skull-cap of crimson and blue; no jewels nor any suggestion of pomp concealed the youthfulness, almost frailty of his appearance; the red hair made his face the paler by contrast; his full lips were highly coloured under the darkened upper lip.

“Grateful?” he repeated, and his voice was mournful. “I think you do not know what I have done—I have dared to cast the Emperor from his throne—lies he not even now without the walls, defying me with a handful of Frankish knights? Is not the excommunication on him?”

“Yea,” answered Theirry. “And is it for my sake ye have done this?”

“Must you question it?” returned Michael, with a quick breath. “Yea, for your sake, to make you, as I promised, Emperor of the West—my vengeance had else been more quietly satisfied——” He laughed. “I have not forgot all my magic.”

Theirry winced.

“The vision in the Basilica was proof of that—what are you who can bring back the hallowed dead to aid your schemes?”

Michael II answered softly.

“And who are you who take my aid and my friendship, and all the while fear and loathe me?”

He moved his hand from his face and leant forward, showing a deep red mark on his cheek where the palm had pressed.

“Do you think I am not human, Theirry?” He gave a sigh. “If you would believe in me, trust me, be faithful to me—why, our friendship would be the lever to move the universe, and you and I would rule the world between us.”

Theirry fingered the arras beside him.

“In what way can I be false to you——?”

“You betrayed me once. You are the only man in Rome who knows my secret. But this is truth, if again you forsake me, you bring about your own downfall—stand by me, and I will share with you the dominion of the earth—this, I say, is truth.”

Theirry laughed unhappily.

“Sweet devil, there is no God, and I have no soul!—there, do not fear—I shall be very faithful to you—since what is there for man save to glut his desires of pomp and wealth and power?”

He moved from the wall and took a quick turn about the room.

“And yet I know not!” he cried. “Can all your magic, all your learning, all your riches, keep you where you are? The clouds hang angrily over Rome, nor have they lifted since Orsini announced you Pope—the people riot in the streets—all beautiful things are dead, many see ghosts and devils walking at twilight across the Maremma.… Oh, horror!—they say Pan has left his ruined temple to enter Christian churches and laugh in the face of the marble Christ—can these things be?”

The Pope swept back the hair from his damp brow.

“The powers that put me here can keep me here—be you but true to me!”

“Ay, I will be Emperor”—Theirry grasped his sword hilt fiercely—“though the world I rule rot about me, though ghouls and fiends make my Imperial train—I will join hands with Antichrist and see if there be a God or no!”

The Pope rose.

“You must go against Balthasar. You must defeat his hosts and bring to me his Empress, then will I crown you in St. Peter’s.”

Theirry pressed his hand to his forehead.

“We start to-morrow with the dawn—beneath the banner of God His Church; I, in this mail ye gave me, tempered and forged in Hell!”

“Ye need have no fear of failure; you shall go forth triumphantly and return victoriously. You shall make your dwelling the Golden Palace on the Aventine, and neither Heliogabalus nor Basil, nor Charlemagne shall be more magnificently housed than you.…”

Michael seemed to check his words suddenly; he turned his face away and looked across the city which lay beneath the heavy pall of clouds.

“Be but true to me,” he added in a low voice.

Theirry smiled wildly.

“A curious love have you for me, and but little faith in my strength or constancy—well, you shall see, I go forth to-morrow, with many men and banners, to rout the Emperor utterly.”

“Until then, stay in the Vatican,” said Michael II suddenly. “My prelates and my nobles know you for their leader now.”

“Nay,”—Theirry flushed as he answered—“I must go to my own abode in the city.”

“Jacobea of Martzburg is still in Rome,” said the other. “Do you leave me to go to her?”

“Nay—I know not even where she lodges,” replied Theirry hastily.

Michael smiled bitterly and was silent.

“What is Jacobea to me?” demanded Theirry desperately.

The other gave him a sinister glance.

“Why did you approach her after her devotions in San Giovanni in Laterano—speak to her and recall yourself to her mind?”

Theirry went swiftly pale.

“You know that!—Ah, it was the dancer, your accomplice.… What mystery is this?” he asked in a distracted way. “Why does not Ursula of Rooselaare come forth under her true name and confound the Emperor?—why does she follow me, and in such a guise?”

Without looking at him Michael answered.

“Maybe because she is very wise—maybe because she is a very fool—let her pass, she has served her turn. You say you do not go to palter with Jacobea, then farewell until to-morrow; I have much to do… farewell, Theirry.”

He held out his hand with a stately gesture, and, as Theirry took it in his, the curious thought came to him how seldom he had touched so much as Dirk’s fingers, even in the old days, so proud a reserve had always encompassed the youth, and, now, the man.

Theirry left the rich-scented chamber and the vast halls of the Vatican and passed into the riotous and lawless streets of Rome.

The storm that had hung so unnaturally long over the city had affected the people; bravoes and assassins crept from their hiding-places in the Catacombs, or the Palatine, and flaunted in the streets; the wine shops were filled with mongrel soldiers of all nations, attracted by the declaration of war from the surrounding towns; blasphemers mocked openly at the processions of monks and pilgrims that traversed the streets chanting the penitential psalms, or scourging themselves in an attempt to avert the wrath of Heaven.

There was no law; crime went unpunished; virtue became a jest; many of the convents were closed and deserted, while their late occupants rejoined the world they suddenly longed for; the poor were despoiled, the rich robbed; ghastly and blasphemous processions nightly paraded the streets in honour of some heathen deity; the priests inspired no respect, the name of God no fear; the plague marched among the people, striking down hundreds; their bodies were flung into the Tiber, and their spirits went to join the devils that nightly danced on the Campagna to the accompaniment of rolling storms.

Witches gathered in the low marches of the Maremma and came at night into the city, trailing grey, fever-laden vapour after them.

The bell-ropes began to rot in the churches, and the bells clattered from the steeples; the gold rusted on the altars, and mice gnawed the garments on the holy images of the Saints.

The people lived with reckless laughter and died with hopeless curses; magicians, warlocks and vile things flourished exceedingly, and all manner of strange and hideous creatures left their caves to prowl the streets at nightfall.

And such under Pope Michael II was Rome, swiftly and in a moment.

Theirry, like all others, went heavily armed; his hand was constantly on his sword hilt as he made his way through the city that was forsaken by God.

With no faltering step or hesitating bearing he passed through the crowds that gathered more thickly as the night came on, and turned towards the Appian Gate.

Here it was gloomy, almost deserted; dark houses bordered the Appian Way, and a few strange figures crept along in their shadow; in the west a sullen glare of crimson showed that the sun was setting behind the thick clouds. Dark began to fall rapidly.

Theirry walked long beyond the Gate and stopped at a low convent building, above the portals of which hung a lamp, its gentle radiance like a star in the heavy, noisome twilight.

The gate, that led into a courtyard, stood half open. Theirry softly pushed it wider and entered.

The pure perfume of flowers greeted him; a sense of peace and security, grown strange of late in Rome, filled the square grass court; in the centre was a fountain, almost hidden in white roses; behind their leaves the water dripped pleasantly.

There were no lights in the convent windows, but it was not yet too dark for Theirry to distinguish the slim figure of a lady seated on a wooden bench, her hands passive in her lap.

He latched the gate and softly crossed the lawn.

“You said that I might come.”

Jacobea turned her head, unsmiling, unsurprised.

“Ay, sir; this place is open to all.”

He uncovered before her.

“I cannot hope ye are glad to see me.”

“Glad?” She echoed the word as if it sounded in a foreign tongue; then, after a pause, “Yes, I am glad that you have come.”

He seated himself beside her, his splendid mail touching her straight grey robe, his full, beautiful face turned towards her worn and expressionless features.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

She answered in the same gentle tone; she had a white rose in her hands, and turned it about as she spoke.

“So little—there are two sisters here, and I help them; one can do nothing against the plague, but for the little forsaken children something, and something for the miserable sick.”

“The wretched of Rome are not in your keeping,” he said eagerly. “It will mean your life—why did you not go with the Empress?”

She shook her head.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

He seated himself beside her, his splendid mail touching her straight grey robe, his full, beautiful face turned towards her worn and expressionless features.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

She answered in the same gentle tone; she had a white rose in her hands, and turned it about as she spoke.

“So little—there are two sisters here, and I help them; one can do nothing against the plague, but for the little forsaken children something, and something for the miserable sick.”

“The wretched of Rome are not in your keeping,” he said eagerly. “It will mean your life—why did you not go with the Empress?”

She shook her head.

“I was not needed. I suppose what they said of her was true. I cannot remember clearly, but I think that when Melchoir died I knew it was her doing.”

“We must not dwell on the past,” cried Theirry. “Have you heard that I lead the Pope’s army against Balthasar?”

“Nay;” her eyes were on the white rose.

“Jacobea, I shall be the Emperor.”

“The Emperor,” she repeated dreamily.

“I shall rule the Latin world—Emperor of the West!”

In the now complete dark they could scarcely see each other; there were no stars, and distant thunder rolled at intervals; Theirry timidly put out his hand and touched the fold of her dress where it lay along the seat.

“I wish you would not stay here—it is so lonely——”

“I think she would wish me to do this.”

“She?” he questioned.

Jacobea seemed surprised he did not take her meaning.

“Sybilla.”

“O Christus!” shuddered Theirry. “Ye still think of her?”

Jacobea smiled, as he felt rather than saw.

“Think of her? … is she not always with me?”

“She is dead.”

He saw the blurred outline of the lady’s figure stir.

“Yea, she died on a cold morning—it was so cold you could see your breath before you as you rode along, and the road was hard as glass—there was a yellow dawn that day, and the pine trees seemed frozen, they stood so motionless—you would not think it was ten years ago—I wonder how long it seems to her?”

A silence fell upon them for a while, then Theirry broke out desperately—

“Jacobea—my heart is torn within me—to-day I said there was no God—but when I sit by you…”

“Yea, there is a God,” she answered quietly. “Be very sure of that.”

“Then I am past His forgiveness,” whispered Theirry.

Again he was mute; he saw before him the regal figure of Dirk—he heard his words—“Be but true to me”—then he thought of Jacobea and Paradise… agony ran through his veins.

“Oh, Jacobea!” he cried at last. “I am beyond all measure mean and vile.… I know not what to do.… I can be Emperor, yet as I sit here that seems to me as nothing.”

“The Pope favours you, you tell me,” she said. “He is a priest, and a holy man, and yet—it is strange, what is this talk of Ursula of Rooselaare?—and yet it is no matter.”

His mail clinked in answer to his tremor.

“Tell me what I must do—see, I am in a great confusion; the world is very dark, this way and that show little lights, and I strive to follow them—but they change and move and blind me—and if I grasp one it is extinguished into greater darkness; I hear whispers, murmurs, threats, I believe them, and believe them not, and all is confusion, confusion!”

Jacobea rose slowly from the bench.

“Why do you come to me?”

“Because ye seem to me nearer heaven than anything I know.…”

Jacobea pressed the white rose to her bosom.

“It is dark now—the flowers smell so sweet—come into the house.”

He followed her dim-seen figure across the grass; she lifted the latch of the convent door and went before him into the building.

For a while she left him in the passage, then returned with a pale lamp in her hand and conducted him into a small, bare chamber, which seemed mean in contrast with the glowing splendour of his appearance.

“The sisters are abroad,” said Jacobea. “And I stay here in case any ring the bell for succour.”

She set the lamp on the wooden table and slowly turned her eyes on Theirry.

“Sir, I am very selfish.” She spoke with difficulty, as if she painfully forced expression. “I have thought of myself for so many years—and somehow”—she lightly touched her breast—“I cannot feel, for myself or for others; nothing seems real, save Sybilla; nothing matters save her—sometimes I cry for little things I find dying alone, for poor unnoticed miseries of animals and children—but for the rest… you must not blame me if I do not sympathise; that has gone from me. Nor can I help you; God is far away beyond the stars. I do not think He can stoop to such as you and me—and—and—I do not feel as if I should wake until I die——”

Theirry covered his eyes and moaned.

Jacobea was not looking at him, but at the one bright thing in the room.

A samite cushion worked with a scarlet lily that rested on a chair by the window.

“Each our own way to death,” she said. “All we can do is so little compared with that—death—see, I think of it as a great crystal light, very cold, that will slowly encompass us, revealing everything, making everything easy to understand—white lilies will not be more beautiful, nor breeze at summer-time more sweet… so, sir, must you wait patiently.”

She took her gaze from the red flower and turned her tired grey eyes on him.

The blood surged into his face; he clenched his hands and spoke passionately.

“I will renounce the world, I will become a monk.…”

The words choked in his throat; he looked fearfully round; the lamplight struck his armour into a hundred points of light and cast pale shadows over the white-washed walls.

“What was that?” asked Jacobea.

One was singing without: Theirry’s strained eyes glistened.

“If Love were all!
His perfect servant I would be,
Kissing where his foot might fall,
Doing him homage on a lowly knee,
If Love were all!”

Theirry turned and went out into the dark, hot night.

He could see neither roses, nor fountain, nor even the line of the convent wall against the sky; but the light above the gate revealed to him the dancer in orange, who leant against the stone arch of the entrance and sang to a strange long instrument that hung round her neck by a gleaming chain.

At her feet the ape crouched, nodding himself to sleep.

“If Love were all!
But Love is weak,
And Hate oft giveth him a fall,
And Wisdom smites him on the cheek,
If Love were all!”

Behind Theirry came Jacobea, with the lantern in her hand.

“Who is this?” she asked.

The dancer laughed; the sound of it muffled behind her mask.

Theirry made his way across the dark to her.

“What do you do here?” he demanded fiercely. “The Pope’s spy, you!”

“May I not come to worship here as well as another?” she answered.

“You know too much of me!” he cried distractedly. “But I also have some knowledge of you, Ursula of Rooselaare!”

“How does that help you?” she asked, drawing back a little before him.

“I would discover why you follow me—watch me.”

He caught her by the arms and held her against the stone gateway.

“Now tell me the meaning of your disguise,” he breathed—“and of your league with Michael II.”

She said a strange little word underneath her breath; the ape jumped up and tore away the man’s hands while the girl bent to a run and sped through the gate.

Theirry gave a cry of pain and rage, and glanced towards the convent; the door was closed; lady and lamp had disappeared in the darkness.

“Shut out!” whispered Theirry. “Shut out!”

He turned into the street and saw, by the scattered lanterns along the Appian Way, the figure of the dancer slipping fast towards the city gates.

But he gained on her, and at sound of his clattering step she looked round.

“Ah!” she said; “I thought you had stayed with the sweet-faced saint yonder——”

“She wants none of me,” he panted—“but I—I mean to see your face to-night.…”

“I am not beautiful,” answered the dancer; “and you have seen my face——”

“Seen your face!”

“Certes! in the Basilica on the Fête.”

“I knew you not in the press.”

“Nevertheless I was there.”

“I looked for you.”

“I thought ye looked for Jacobea.”

“Also I sought you,” said Theirry. “Ye madden me.”

The ever-gathering tempest was drawing near, with fitful flashes of lightning playing over his jewel-like mail and her orange gown as they made their way through the ruins.

“Do you wander here alone at night?” asked Theirry. “It is a vile place; a man might be afraid.”

“I have the ape,” she said.

“But the storm?”

“In Rome now-a-days we are well used to storms,” she answered in a low voice.

“Yea.”

He did not know what to say to her, but he could not leave her; a strong, a supreme, fascination compelled him to walk beside her, a half-delightful excitement stirred his blood.

“Where are we going?” asked Theirry. The wayside lanterns had ceased; he could see her only by the lightning gleams.

“I know not—why do you follow me?”

“I am mad, I think—the earth rocks beneath me and heaven bends overhead—you lure me and I follow in sheer confusion—Ursula of Rooselaare, why have you lured me? What power is it that you have over me? Wherefore are you disguised?”

She touched his mail in the dark as she answered—

“I am Balthasar’s wife.”

“Ay,” he responded eagerly; “and I do hear ye loved another man——”

“What is that to you?” she asked.

“This—though I have not seen your face—perchance could I love you, Ursula!”

“Ursula!” She laughed on the word.

“Is it not your name?” he cried wildly.

“Yea—but it is long since any used it——”

The hot darkness seemed to twist and writhe about Theirry; he seemed to breathe a nameless and uncontrollable passion in with the storm-laden air.

“Witch or demon,” he said, “I have cast in my lot with the Devil and Michael II his servant—I follow the same master as you, Ursula.”

He put out his hand through the dark and grasped her arm.

“Who is the man for whose sake ye are silent?” he demanded.

There was no answer; he felt her arm quiver under his hand, and heard the hems of her tunic tinkle against her buskins, as if she trembled.

The air was chokingly hot; Theirry’s heart throbbed high.

At last she spoke, in a half-swooning voice.

“I have taken off my mask… bend your head and kiss me.”

Invisible and potent powers drew him towards her unseen face; his lips touched and kissed its softness.…

The thunder sounded with such a terrific force and clash that Theirry sprang back; a cry of agony went up from the darkness. He ran blindly forward; her presence had gone from his side, nor could he see or feel her as he moved.

A thousand light shapes danced across the night; witches and warlocks carrying swinging lanterns, imps and fiends.

They gathered round Theirry, shrieking and howling to the accompaniment of the storm.

He ran sobbing down the Appian Way, and his pace was very swift, for all the mail he carried.
 
And now for one of the few pure sci-fi stories Lovecraft ever wrote.

In the Walls of Eryx

By H.P. Lovecraft and Kenneth J. Sterling


Before I try to rest I will set down these notes in preparation for the report I must make. What I have found is so singular, and so contrary to all past experience and expectations, that it deserves a very careful description.

I reached the main landing on Venus March 18, terrestrial time; VI, 9 of the planet’s calendar. Being put in the main group under Miller, I received my equipment—watch tuned to Venus’s slightly quicker rotation—and went through the usual mask drill. After two days I was pronounced fit for duty.

Leaving the Crystal Company’s post at Terra Nova around dawn, VI, 12, I followed the southerly route which Anderson had mapped out from the air. The going was bad, for these jungles are always half impassable after a rain. It must be the moisture that gives the tangled vines and creepers that leathery toughness; a toughness so great that a knife has to work ten minutes on some of them. By noon it was dryer—the vegetation getting soft and rubbery so that the knife went through it easily—but even then I could not make much speed. These Carter oxygen masks are too heavy—just carrying one half wears an ordinary man out. A Dubois mask with sponge-reservoir instead of tubes would give just as good air at half the weight.

The crystal-detector seemed to function well, pointing steadily in a direction verifying Anderson’s report. It is curious how that principle of affinity works—without any of the fakery of the old ‘divining rods’ back home. There must be a great deposit of crystals within a thousand miles, though I suppose those damnable man-lizards always watch and guard it. Possibly they think we are just as foolish for coming to Venus to hunt the stuff as we think they are for grovelling in the mud whenever they see a piece of it, or for keeping that great mass on a pedestal in their temple. I wish they’d get a new religion, for they have no use for the crystals except to pray to. Barring theology, they would let us take all we want—and even if they learned to tap them for power there’d be more than enough for their planet and the earth besides. I for one am tired of passing up the main deposits and merely seeking separate crystals out of jungle river-beds. Sometime I’ll urge the wiping out of these scaly beggars by a good stiff army from home. About twenty ships could bring enough troops across to turn the trick. One can’t call the damned things men for all their “cities” and towers. They haven’t any skill except building—and using swords and poison darts—and I don’t believe their so-called “cities” mean much more than ant-hills or beaver-dams. I doubt if they even have a real language—all the talk about psychological communication through those tentacles down their chests strikes me as bunk. What misleads people is their upright posture; just an accidental physical resemblance to terrestrial man.

I’d like to go through a Venus jungle for once without having to watch out for skulking groups of them or dodge their cursed darts. They may have been all right before we began to take the crystals, but they’re certainly a bad enough nuisance now—with their dart-shooting and their cutting of our water pipes. More and more I come to believe that they have a special sense like our crystal-detectors. No one ever knew them to bother a man—apart from long-distance sniping—who didn’t have crystals on him.

Around 1 p.m. a dart nearly took my helmet off, and I thought for a second one of my oxygen tubes was punctured. The sly devils hadn’t made a sound, but three of them were closing in on me. I got them all by sweeping in a circle with my flame pistol, for even though their colour blended with the jungle, I could spot the moving creepers. One of them was fully eight feet tall, with a snout like a tapir’s. The other two were average seven-footers. All that makes them hold their own is sheer numbers—even a single regiment of flame throwers could raise hell with them. It is curious, though, how they’ve come to be dominant on the planet. Not another living thing higher than the wriggling akmans and skorahs, or the flying tukahs of the other continent—unless of course those holes in the Dionaean Plateau hide something.

About two o’clock my detector veered westward, indicating isolated crystals ahead on the right. This checked up with Anderson, and I turned my course accordingly. It was harder going—not only because the ground was rising, but because the animal life and carnivorous plants were thicker. I was always slashing ugrats and stepping on skorahs, and my leather suit was all speckled from the bursting darohs which struck it from all sides. The sunlight was all the worse because of the mist, and did not seem to dry up the mud in the least. Every time I stepped my feet sank down five or six inches, and there was a sucking sort of blup every time I pulled them out. I wish somebody would invent a safe kind of suiting other than leather for this climate. Cloth of course would rot; but some thin metallic tissue that couldn’t tear—like the surface of this revolving decay-proof record scroll—ought to be feasible some time.

I ate about 3:30—if slipping these wretched food tablets through my mask can be called eating. Soon after that I noticed a decided change in the landscape—the bright, poisonous-looking flowers shifting in colour and getting wraith-like. The outlines of everything shimmered rhythmically, and bright points of light appeared and danced in the same slow, steady tempo. After that the temperature seemed to fluctuate in unison with a peculiar rhythmic drumming.

The whole universe seemed to be throbbing in deep, regular pulsations that filled every corner of space and flowed through my body and mind alike. I lost all sense of equilibrium and staggered dizzily, nor did it change things in the least when I shut my eyes and covered my ears with my hands. However, my mind was still clear, and in a very few minutes I realised what had happened.

I had encountered at last one of those curious mirage-plants about which so many of our men told stories. Anderson had warned me of them, and described their appearance very closely—the shaggy stalk, the spiky leaves, and the mottled blossoms whose gaseous, dream-breeding exhalations penetrate every existing make of mask.

Recalling what happened to Bailey three years ago, I fell into a momentary panic, and began to dash and stagger about in the crazy, chaotic world which the plant’s exhalations had woven around me. Then good sense came back, and I realised all I need do was retreat from the dangerous blossoms; heading away from the source of the pulsations, and cutting a path blindly—regardless of what might seem to swirl around me—until safely out of the plant’s effective radius.

Although everything was spinning perilously, I tried to start in the right direction and hack my way ahead. My route must have been far from straight, for it seemed hours before I was free of the mirage-plant’s pervasive influence. Gradually the dancing lights began to disappear, and the shimmering spectral scenery began to assume the aspect of solidity. When I did get wholly clear I looked at my watch and was astonished to find that the time was only 4:20. Though eternities had seemed to pass, the whole experience could have consumed little more than a half-hour.

Every delay, however, was irksome, and I had lost ground in my retreat from the plant. I now pushed ahead in the uphill direction indicated by the crystal-detector, bending every energy toward making better time. The jungle was still thick, though there was less animal life. Once a carnivorous blossom engulfed my right foot and held it so tightly that I had to hack it free with my knife; reducing the flower to strips before it let go.

In less than an hour I saw that the jungle growths were thinning out, and by five o’clock—after passing through a belt of tree-ferns with very little underbrush—I emerged on a broad mossy plateau. My progress now became rapid, and I saw by the wavering of my detector-needle that I was getting relatively close to the crystal I sought. This was odd, for most of the scattered, egg-like spheroids occurred in jungle streams of a sort not likely to be found on this treeless upland.

The terrain sloped upward, ending in a definite crest. I reached the top about 5:30, and saw ahead of me a very extensive plain with forests in the distance. This, without question, was the plateau mapped by Matsugawa from the air fifty years ago, and called on our maps “Eryx” or the “Erycinian Highland.” But what made my heart leap was a smaller detail, whose position could not have been far from the plain’s exact centre. It was a single point of light, blazing through the mist and seeming to draw a piercing, concentrated luminescence from the yellowish, vapour-dulled sunbeams. This, without doubt, was the crystal I sought—a thing possibly no larger than a hen’s egg, yet containing enough power to keep a city warm for a year. I could hardly wonder, as I glimpsed the distant glow, that those miserable man-lizards worship such crystals. And yet they have not the least notion of the powers they contain.
 
In the Walls of Eryx, cont'd.

Breaking into a rapid run, I tried to reach the unexpected prize as soon as possible; and was annoyed when the firm moss gave place to a thin, singularly detestable mud studded with occasional patches of weeds and creepers. But I splashed on heedlessly—scarcely thinking to look around for any of the skulking man-lizards. In this open space I was not very likely to be waylaid. As I advanced, the light ahead seemed to grow in size and brilliancy, and I began to notice some peculiarity in its situation. Clearly, this was a crystal of the very finest quality, and my elation grew with every spattering step.

It is now that I must begin to be careful in making my report, since what I shall henceforward have to say involves unprecedented—though fortunately verifiable—matters. I was racing ahead with mounting eagerness, and had come within an hundred yards or so of the crystal—whose position on a sort of raised place in the omnipresent slime seemed very odd—when a sudden, overpowering force struck my chest and the knuckles of my clenched fists and knocked me over backward into the mud. The splash of my fall was terrific, nor did the softness of the ground and the presence of some slimy weeds and creepers save my head from a bewildering jarring. For a moment I lay supine, too utterly startled to think. Then I half-mechanically stumbled to my feet and began to scrape the worst of the mud and scum from my leather suit.

Of what I had encountered I could not form the faintest idea. I had seen nothing which could have caused the shock, and I saw nothing now. Had I, after all, merely slipped in the mud? My sore knuckles and aching chest forbade me to think so. Or was this whole incident an illusion brought on by some hidden mirage-plant? It hardly seemed probable, since I had none of the usual symptoms, and since there was no place near by where so vivid and typical a growth could lurk unseen. Had I been on the earth, I would have suspected a barrier of N-force laid down by some government to mark a forbidden zone, but in this humanless region such a notion would have been absurd.

Finally pulling myself together, I decided to investigate in a cautious way. Holding my knife as far as possible ahead of me, so that it might be first to feel the strange force, I started once more for the shining crystal—preparing to advance step by step with the greatest deliberation. At the third step I was brought up short by the impact of the knife-point on an apparently solid surface—a solid surface where my eyes saw nothing.

After a moment’s recoil I gained boldness. Extending my gloved left hand, I verified the presence of invisible solid matter—or a tactile illusion of solid matter—ahead of me. Upon moving my hand I found that the barrier was of substantial extent, and of an almost glassy smoothness, with no evidence of the joining of separate blocks. Nerving myself for further experiments, I removed a glove and tested the thing with my bare hand. It was indeed hard and glassy, and of a curious coldness as contrasted with the air around. I strained my eyesight to the utmost in an effort to glimpse some trace of the obstructing substance, but could discern nothing whatsoever. There was not even any evidence of refractive power as judged by the aspect of the landscape ahead. Absence of reflective power was proved by the lack of a glowing image of the sun at any point.

Burning curiosity began to displace all other feelings, and I enlarged my investigations as best I could. Exploring with my hands, I found that the barrier extended from the ground to some level higher than I could reach, and that it stretched off indefinitely on both sides. It was, then, a wall of some kind—though all guesses as to its materials and its purpose were beyond me. Again I thought of the mirage-plant and the dreams it induced, but a moment’s reasoning put this out of my head.

Knocking sharply on the barrier with the hilt of my knife, and kicking at it with my heavy boots, I tried to interpret the sounds thus made. There was something suggestive of cement or concrete in these reverberations, though my hands had found the surface more glassy or metallic in feel. Certainly, I was confronting something strange beyond all previous experience.

The next logical move was to get some idea of the wall’s dimensions. The height problem would be hard if not insoluble, but the length and shape problem could perhaps be sooner dealt with. Stretching out my arms and pressing close to the barrier, I began to edge gradually to the left—keeping very careful track of the way I faced. After several steps I concluded that the wall was not straight, but that I was following part of some vast circle or ellipse. And then my attention was distracted by something wholly different—something connected with the still-distant crystal which had formed the object of my quest.

I have said that even from a greater distance the shining object’s position seemed indefinably queer—on a slight mound rising from the slime. Now—at about an hundred yards—I could see plainly despite the engulfing mist just what that mound was. It was the body of a man in one of the Crystal Company’s leather suits, lying on his back, and with his oxygen mask half buried in the mud a few inches away. In his right hand, crushed convulsively against his chest, was the crystal which had led me here—a spheroid of incredible size, so large that the dead fingers could scarcely close over it. Even at the given distance I could see that the body was a recent one. There was little visible decay, and I reflected that in this climate such a thing meant death not more than a day before. Soon the hateful farnoth-flies would begin to cluster about the corpse. I wondered who the man was. Surely no one I had seen on this trip. It must have been one of the old-timers absent on a long roving commission, who had come to this especial region independently of Anderson’s survey. There he lay, past all trouble, and with the rays of the great crystal streaming out from between his stiffened fingers.

For fully five minutes I stood there staring in bewilderment and apprehension. A curious dread assailed me, and I had an unreasonable impulse to run away. It could not have been done by those slinking man-lizards, for he still held the crystal he had found. Was there any connexion with the invisible wall? Where had he found the crystal? Anderson’s instrument had indicated one in this quarter well before this man could have perished. I now began to regard the unseen barrier as something sinister, and recoiled from it with a shudder. Yet I knew I must probe the mystery all the more quickly and thoroughly because of this recent tragedy.

Suddenly—wrenching my mind back to the problem I faced—I thought of a possible means of testing the wall’s height, or at least of finding whether or not it extended indefinitely upward. Seizing a handful of mud, I let it drain until it gained some coherence and then flung it high in the air toward the utterly transparent barrier. At a height of perhaps fourteen feet it struck the invisible surface with a resounding splash, disintegrating at once and oozing downward in disappearing streams with surprising rapidity. Plainly, the wall was a lofty one. A second handful, hurled at an even sharper angle, hit the surface about eighteen feet from the ground and disappeared as quickly as the first.

I now summoned up all my strength and prepared to throw a third handful as high as I possibly could. Letting the mud drain, and squeezing it to maximum dryness, I flung it up so steeply that I feared it might not reach the obstructing surface at all. It did, however, and this time it crossed the barrier and fell in the mud beyond with a violent spattering. At last I had a rough idea of the height of the wall, for the crossing had evidently occurred some twenty or 21 feet aloft.

With a nineteen- or twenty-foot vertical wall of glassy flatness, ascent was clearly impossible. I must, then, continue to circle the barrier in the hope of finding a gate, an ending, or some sort of interruption. Did the obstacle form a complete round or other closed figure, or was it merely an arc or semicircle? Acting on my decision, I resumed my slow leftward circling, moving my hands up and down over the unseen surface on the chance of finding some window or other small aperture. Before starting, I tried to mark my position by kicking a hole in the mud, but found the slime too thin to hold any impression. I did, though, gauge the place approximately by noting a tall cycad in the distant forest which seemed just on a line with the gleaming crystal an hundred yards away. If no gate or break existed I could now tell when I had completely circumnavigated the wall.

I had not progressed far before I decided that the curvature indicated a circular enclosure of about an hundred yards’ diameter—provided the outline was regular. This would mean that the dead man lay near the wall at a point almost opposite the region where I had started. Was he just inside or just outside the enclosure? This I would soon ascertain.

As I slowly rounded the barrier without finding any gate, window, or other break, I decided that the body was lying within. On closer view, the features of the dead man seemed vaguely disturbing. I found something alarming in his expression, and in the way the glassy eyes stared. By the time I was very near I believed I recognised him as Dwight, a veteran whom I had never known, but who was pointed out to me at the post last year. The crystal he clutched was certainly a prize—the largest single specimen I had ever seen.

I was so near the body that I could—but for the barrier—have touched it, when my exploring left hand encountered a corner in the unseen surface. In a second I had learned that there was an opening about three feet wide, extending from the ground to a height greater than I could reach. There was no door, nor any evidence of hinge-marks bespeaking a former door. Without a moment’s hesitation I stepped through and advanced two paces to the prostrate body—which lay at right angles to the hallway I had entered, in what seemed to be an intersecting doorless corridor. It gave me a fresh curiosity to find that the interior of this vast enclosure was divided by partitions.

Bending to examine the corpse, I discovered that it bore no wounds. This scarcely surprised me, since the continued presence of the crystal argued against the pseudo-reptilian natives. Looking about for some possible cause of death, my eyes lit upon the oxygen mask lying close to the body’s feet. Here, indeed, was something significant. Without this device no human being could breathe the air of Venus for more than thirty seconds, and Dwight—if it were he—had obviously lost his. Probably it had been carelessly buckled, so that the weight of the tubes worked the straps loose—a thing which could not happen with a Dubois sponge-reservoir mask. The half-minute of grace had been too short to allow the man to stoop and recover his protection—or else the cyanogen content of the atmosphere was abnormally high at the time. Probably he had been busy admiring the crystal—wherever he may have found it. He had, apparently, just taken it from the pouch in his suit, for the flap was unbuttoned.

I now proceeded to extricate the huge crystal from the dead prospector’s fingers—a task which the body’s stiffness made very difficult. The spheroid was larger than a man’s fist, and glowed as if alive in the reddish rays of the westering sun. As I touched the gleaming surface I shuddered involuntarily—as if by taking this precious object I had transferred to myself the doom which had overtaken its earlier bearer. However, my qualms soon passed, and I carefully buttoned the crystal into the pouch of my leather suit. Superstition has never been one of my failings.

Placing the man’s helmet over his dead, staring face, I straightened up and stepped back through the unseen doorway to the entrance hall of the great enclosure. All my curiosity about the strange edifice now returned, and I racked my brain with speculations regarding its material, origin, and purpose. That the hands of men had reared it I could not for a moment believe. Our ships first reached Venus only 72 years ago, and the only human beings on the planet have been those at Terra Nova. Nor does human knowledge include any perfectly transparent, non-refractive solid such as the substance of this building. Prehistoric human invasions of Venus can be pretty well ruled out, so that one must turn to the idea of native construction. Did a forgotten race of highly evolved beings precede the man-lizards as masters of Venus? Despite their elaborately built cities, it seemed hard to credit the pseudo-reptiles with anything of this kind. There must have been another race aeons ago, of which this is perhaps the last relique. Or will other ruins of kindred origin be found by future expeditions? The purpose of such a structure passes all conjecture—but its strange and seemingly non-practical material suggests a religious use.

Realising my inability to solve these problems, I decided that all I could do was to explore the invisible structure itself. That various rooms and corridors extended over the seemingly unbroken plain of mud I felt convinced; and I believed that a knowledge of their plan might lead to something significant. So, feeling my way back through the doorway and edging past the body, I began to advance along the corridor toward those interior regions whence the dead man had presumably come. Later on I would investigate the hallway I had left.

Groping like a blind man despite the misty sunlight, I moved slowly onward. Soon the corridor turned sharply and began to spiral in toward the centre in ever-diminishing curves. Now and then my touch would reveal a doorless intersecting passage, and I several times encountered junctions with two, three, or four diverging avenues. In these latter cases I always followed the inmost route, which seemed to form a continuation of the one I had been traversing. There would be plenty of time to examine the branches after I had reached and returned from the main regions. I can scarcely describe the strangeness of the experience—threading the unseen ways of an invisible structure reared by forgotten hands on an alien planet!
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER IX.
POPE AND EMPRESS
The Pope walked in the garden of the Vatican, behind him Cardinal Orsini and Cardinal Colonna; the first carried a cluster of daisies, white and yellow, strong in colour and pungent of odour, the second tossed up and down a little ball of gold and blue silk.

Both talked of the horrible state of Rome, of the unending storm hanging over the capital, of the army that had gone forth three days ago to crush the excommunicated Emperor.

Michael II was silent.

They went along the marble walks and looked at the goldfish in the basin under the overhanging branches of the yellow rose bushes; they passed the trellis over which the jasmine clustered, and came out on the long terrace, where the peacocks flashed their splendour across the grass.

Oleanders grew here, and lilies; laurel trees rose against the murky heavens that should have shown blue, and curious statues gleamed beside the dark foliage.

Cardinal Colonna dropped his ball and let it roll away across the close grass, and Michael slackened his pace. He wore a white robe, his soft heavy red hair showing a brilliant colour above it; his dark eyes were thoughtful, his pale mouth resolutely set. The Cardinals fell further behind and conversed with the greater ease.

Suddenly the Pope paused and stood waiting, for Paolo Orsini, with a sprig of pink flower at his chin, was coming across the lawn.

Michael II tapped his gold-shod foot on the marble path. “What is it, Orsini?”

The secretary went on one knee.

“Your Holiness, a lady, who will neither unveil nor give her name, has obtained entry to the Vatican and desires to see your Holiness.”

The Pope’s face darkened.

“I thought ye had brought me news of the return of Theirry of Dendermonde! What can this woman want with us?”

“She says it is a matter of such import it may avert the war, and she prays, for the love of God, not to be denied.”

Michael II reflected a moment, his slim fingers pulling at the laurel leaves beside him.

“We will see her,” he said at length. “Bring her here, Orsini.”

The yellow clouds broke over a brief spell of sunshine that fell across the Vatican gardens, though the horizon was dark with a freshly gathering storm; Michael II seated himself on a bench where the sun gleamed.

“Sirs,” he said to the two Cardinals, “stand by me and listen to what this woman may say.”

And picking a crimson rose from a thorny bush that brushed the seat, he considered it curiously, and only took his eyes from it when Paolo Orsini had returned and led the lady almost to his feet.

Then he looked at her.

She wore a dark rough dress showing marks of ill usage, and over her face a thick veil.

This she loosened as she knelt, and revealed the exceedingly fair, sad face of Ysabeau the Empress.

Michael II went swiftly pale, he fixed large wide eyes on her.

“What do you here, defying us?” he demanded.

She rose.

“I am not here in defiance. I have come to give myself up to punishment for the crime you denounced—the crime for which my lord now suffers.”

Michael crushed the rose in his hand and the Cardinals glanced at each other, having never seen him show agitation.

“It did not occur to your Holiness,” said Ysabeau, facing him fearlessly, “that I should do this; you thought that he would never give me up and you were right—crown, life, heaven he would forfeit for love of me, but I will not take the sacrifice.”

The fitful sunshine touched her great beauty, her fair, soft hair lying loosely on her shoulders, her eyes shadowed and dark, her hollow face.

“Mine was the sin,” she continued. “And I who was strong enough to sin alone can take the punishment alone.”

At last Michael spoke.

“Ye slew Melchoir of Brabant—ye confess it!”

Her bosom heaved.

“I am here to confess it.”

“For love of Balthasar you did it.…”

“As for love of him I stand here now to take the consequences.”

“We have fire on earth and fire in hell for those who do murder,” said Michael II; “flames for the body in the market-place, and flames in the pit for the soul, and though the body will not burn long, the soul will burn for eternity.”

“I know—do what you will with me.”

The Pope cast the crushed rose from him.

“Has Balthasar sent you here?”

She smiled proudly.

“I come without his knowledge.” Her voice trembled a little. “I left a writing telling him where I had gone and why——” Her hand crept to her brow. “Enough of that.”

Michael II rose.

“Why have you done this?” he cried angrily.

Ysabeau answered swiftly.

“That you may take the curse off him—for my sin you cast him forth, well, if I leave him, if I accept my punishment, if he be free to find the—woman—who can claim him, your Holiness must absolve him of the excommunication.”

Michael flushed.

“This comes late—too late;” he turned to the Cardinals. “My lords, is not this love a mad thing?—that she should hope to cheat Heaven so!”

“My hope is not to cheat Heaven but to appease it,” said Ysabeau; and the sun, making a pale glimmer in her hair, cast her shadow faintly before her to the Pontiff’s feet. “If not for myself, for him.”

“This foolish sacrifice,” said Michael, “cannot avail Balthasar. Since not of his free will ye are parted from him, how is his sin then lessened?”

She trembled exceedingly.

“Now, perchance he shall loathe me…” she said.

“Had you told him to his face of your crime, would he have given you over to our wrath?”

“Nay,” she flashed. “It would have been only noble in him to refuse; but since of myself I am come, I pray you, Lord Pope, to send me to death and take the curse off him.”

Michael II looked at his hand; the stem of the red rose had scratched his finger, and a tiny drop of blood showed on the white flesh.

“You are a wicked woman, by your own confession,” he said, frowning. “Why should I show you any pity?”

“I do not ask pity, but justice for the Emperor. I am the cause of the quarrel, and now ye have me ye can have no bitterness against him.”

He gave her a quick sidelong look.

“Do you repent, Ysabeau?”

She shook the clinging hood free of her yellow hair.

“No; the gain was worth the sin, nor am I afraid of you nor of Heaven. I am not of a faltering race, nor of a name easily ashamed. In my own eyes I am not abashed.”

Michael raised his head and their eyes met.

“So you would die for him?”

Ysabeau smiled.

“I think I shall. I do not think your Holiness is merciful.”

He glanced again at the drop of blood on his finger.

“You show some courage, Ysabeau.”

She smiled.

“When I was a child I was taught that they who live as kings and queens must not look for age—the flame soon burns away, leaving the ashes—and gorgeous years are like the flame; why should we taste the dust that follows? I have lived my life.”

He answered—

“This shall not save Balthasar, nor take our curse from off him; Theirry of Dendermonde has gone forth with many men and banners, and soon the Roman gates shall open to him and victory lead his charger through the streets! And his reward shall be the Latin world, his badge of triumph the Imperial crown. He is our choice to share with us the dominion of the West, therefore no more of Balthasar—ye might speak until the heavens fell and still our heart be as brass!”

He turned swiftly and caught the arm of Cardinal Orsini.

“Away, my lord, we have given this Greek time enough.”

Ysabeau fell on her knees.

“My lord, take off the curse!”

“What shall we do with her?” asked Cardinal Colonna.

She clutched, in her desperation, at the priest’s white garments.

“Show some pity; Balthasar dies beneath your wrath——”

Paolo Orsini drew her away, while Michael II stared at her with a touch of fear.

“Cast her without the walls—since the excommunication is upon her we do not need her life.”

“Oh, sirs!” shrieked Ysabeau, striving after them, “my lord is innocent!”

“Take her away,” said Michael. “Cast her from Rome,”—he glared at her over his shoulder—“doubtless the Eastern she-cat will find it worse so to die than as Hugh of Rooselaare perished; come on, my lords.”

Leaning on the arm of Cardinal Orsini, he moved away across the Vatican gardens.

Paolo Orsini blew a little whistle.

“You must be turned from the city,” he said.

Ysabeau rose from the grass.

“This your Christian priest!” she cried hoarsely, staring after the white figure; then, as she saw the guards approaching, she fell into an utter silence.

As Michael II entered the Vatican the sun was again obscured and the thunder rolled; he passed up the silver stairs to his cabinet and closed the door on all.

The storm grew and rioted angrily in the sky; in the height of it came a messenger riding straight to the Vatican.

Blood and dust were smeared on his clothes, and he was weary with swift travel; they brought him to the ebony cabinet and face to face with the Pope.

“From Theirry of Dendermonde?” breathed Michael, his face white as his robe.

“From Theirry of Dendermonde, your Holiness.”

“What says he—victory?”

“Balthasar of Courtrai is defeated, his army lies dead, men and horses, in the vale of Tivoli, and his conqueror marches home to-day.”

A shaft of lightning showed the ghastly face of Michael II, and a peal of thunder shook the messenger back against the wall.
 
In the Walls of Eryx, cont'd.

At last, still stumbling and groping, I felt the corridor end in a sizeable open space. Fumbling about, I found I was in a circular chamber about ten feet across; and from the position of the dead man against certain distant forest landmarks I judged that this chamber lay at or near the centre of the edifice. Out of it opened five corridors besides the one through which I had entered, but I kept the latter in mind by sighting very carefully past the body to a particular tree on the horizon as I stood just within the entrance.

There was nothing in this room to distinguish it—merely the floor of thin mud which was everywhere present. Wondering whether this part of the building had any roof, I repeated my experiment with an upward-flung handful of mud, and found at once that no covering existed. If there had ever been one, it must have fallen long ago, for not a trace of debris or scattered blocks ever halted my feet. As I reflected, it struck me as distinctly odd that this apparently primordial structure should be so devoid of tumbling masonry, gaps in the walls, and other common attributes of dilapidation.

What was it? What had it ever been? Of what was it made? Why was there no evidence of separate blocks in the glassy, bafflingly homogeneous walls? Why were there no traces of doors, either interior or exterior? I knew only that I was in a round, roofless, doorless edifice of some hard, smooth, perfectly transparent, non-refractive, and non-reflective material, an hundred yards in diameter, with many corridors, and with a small circular room at the centre. More than this I could never learn from a direct investigation.

I now observed that the sun was sinking very low in the west—a golden-ruddy disc floating in a pool of scarlet and orange above the mist-clouded trees of the horizon. Plainly, I would have to hurry if I expected to choose a sleeping-spot on dry ground before dark. I had long before decided to camp for the night on the firm, mossy rim of the plateau near the crest whence I had first spied the shining crystal, trusting to my usual luck to save me from an attack by the man-lizards. It has always been my contention that we ought to travel in parties of two or more, so that someone can be on guard during sleeping hours, but the really small number of night attacks makes the Company careless about such things. Those scaly wretches seem to have difficulty in seeing at night, even with curious glow-torches.

Having picked out again the hallway through which I had come, I started to return to the structure’s entrance. Additional exploration could wait for another day. Groping a course as best I could through the spiral corridor—with only general sense, memory, and a vague recognition of some of the ill-defined weed patches on the plain as guides—I soon found myself once more in close proximity to the corpse. There were now one or two farnoth-flies swooping over the helmet-covered face, and I knew that decay was setting in. With a futile instinctive loathing I raised my hand to brush away this vanguard of the scavengers—when a strange and astonishing thing became manifest. An invisible wall, checking the sweep of my arm, told me that—notwithstanding my careful retracing of the way—I had not indeed returned to the corridor in which the body lay. Instead, I was in a parallel hallway, having no doubt taken some wrong turn or fork among the intricate passages behind.

Hoping to find a doorway to the exit hall ahead, I continued my advance, but presently came to a blank wall. I would, then, have to return to the central chamber and steer my course anew. Exactly where I had made my mistake I could not tell. I glanced at the ground to see if by any miracle guiding footprints had remained, but at once realised that the thin mud held impressions only for a very few moments. There was little difficulty in finding my way to the centre again, and once there I carefully reflected on the proper outward course. I had kept too far to the right before. This time I must take a more leftward fork somewhere—just where, I could decide as I went.

As I groped ahead a second time I felt quite confident of my correctness, and diverged to the left at a junction I was sure I remembered. The spiralling continued, and I was careful not to stray into any intersecting passages. Soon, however, I saw to my disgust that I was passing the body at a considerable distance; this passage evidently reached the outer wall at a point much beyond it. In the hope that another exit might exist in the half of the wall I had not yet explored, I pressed forward for several paces, but eventually came once more to a solid barrier. Clearly, the plan of the building was even more complicated than I had thought.

I now debated whether to return to the centre again or whether to try some of the lateral corridors extending toward the body. If I chose this second alternative, I would run the risk of breaking my mental pattern of where I was; hence I had better not attempt it unless I could think of some way of leaving a visible trail behind me. Just how to leave a trail would be quite a problem, and I ransacked my mind for a solution. There seemed to be nothing about my person which could leave a mark on anything, nor any material which I could scatter—or minutely subdivide and scatter.

My pen had no effect on the invisible wall, and I could not lay a trail of my precious food tablets. Even had I been willing to spare the latter, there would not have been even nearly enough—besides which the small pellets would have instantly sunk from sight in the thin mud. I searched my pockets for an old-fashioned notebook—often used unofficially on Venus despite the quick rotting-rate of paper in the planet’s atmosphere—whose pages I could tear up and scatter, but could find none. It was obviously impossible to tear the tough, thin metal of this revolving decay-proof record scroll, nor did my clothing offer any possibilities. In Venus’s peculiar atmosphere I could not safely spare my stout leather suit, and underwear had been eliminated because of the climate.

I tried to smear mud on the smooth, invisible walls after squeezing it as dry as possible, but found that it slipped from sight as quickly as did the height-testing handfuls I had previously thrown. Finally I drew out my knife and attempted to scratch a line on the glassy, phantom surface—something I could recognise with my hand, even though I would not have the advantage of seeing it from afar. It was useless, however, for the blade made not the slightest impression on the baffling, unknown material.

Frustrated in all attempts to blaze a trail, I again sought the round central chamber through memory. It seemed easier to get back to this room than to steer a definite, predetermined course away from it, and I had little difficulty in finding it anew. This time I listed on my record scroll every turn I made—drawing a crude hypothetical diagram of my route, and marking all diverging corridors. It was, of course, maddeningly slow work when everything had to be determined by touch, and the possibilities of error were infinite; but I believed it would pay in the long run.

The long twilight of Venus was thick when I reached the central room, but I still had hopes of gaining the outside before dark. Comparing my fresh diagram with previous recollections, I believed I had located my original mistake, so once more set out confidently along the invisible hallways. I veered further to the left than during my previous attempts, and tried to keep track of my turnings on the record scroll in case I was still mistaken. In the gathering dusk I could see the dim line of the corpse, now the centre of a loathsome cloud of farnoth-flies. Before long, no doubt, the mud-dwelling sificlighs would be oozing in from the plain to complete the ghastly work. Approaching the body with some reluctance, I was preparing to step past it when a sudden collision with a wall told me I was again astray.

I now realised plainly that I was lost. The complications of this building were too much for offhand solution, and I would probably have to do some careful checking before I could hope to emerge. Still, I was eager to get to dry ground before total darkness set in; hence I returned once more to the centre and began a rather aimless series of trials and errors—making notes by the light of my electric lamp. When I used this device I noticed with interest that it produced no reflection—not even the faintest glistening—in the transparent walls around me. I was, however, prepared for this; since the sun had at no time formed a gleaming image in the strange material.

I was still groping about when the dusk became total. A heavy mist obscured most of the stars and planets, but the earth was plainly visible as a glowing, bluish-green point in the southeast. It was just past opposition, and would have been a glorious sight in a telescope. I could even make out the moon beside it whenever the vapours momentarily thinned. It was now impossible to see the corpse—my only landmark—so I blundered back to the central chamber after a few false turns. After all, I would have to give up hope of sleeping on dry ground. Nothing could be done till daylight, and I might as well make the best of it here. Lying down in the mud would not be pleasant, but in my leather suit it could be done. On former expeditions I had slept under even worse conditions, and now sheer exhaustion would help to conquer repugnance.

So here I am, squatting in the slime of the central room and making these notes on my record scroll by the light of the electric lamp. There is something almost humorous in my strange, unprecedented plight. Lost in a building without doors—a building which I cannot see! I shall doubtless get out early in the morning, and ought to be back at Terra Nova with the crystal by late afternoon. It certainly is a beauty—with surprising lustre even in the feeble light of this lamp. I have just had it out examining it. Despite my fatigue, sleep is slow in coming, so I find myself writing at great length. I must stop now. Not much danger of being bothered by those cursed natives in this place. The thing I like least is the corpse—but fortunately my oxygen mask saves me from the worst effects. I am using the chlorate cubes very sparingly. Will take a couple of food tablets now and turn in. More later.
 
In the Walls of Eryx, cont'd.

Later—Afternoon, VI, 13

There has been more trouble than I expected. I am still in the building, and will have to work quickly and wisely if I expect to rest on dry ground tonight. It took me a long time to get to sleep, and I did not wake till almost noon today. As it was, I would have slept longer but for the glare of the sun through the haze. The corpse was a rather bad sight—wriggling with sificlighs, and with a cloud of farnoth-flies around it. Something had pushed the helmet away from the face, and it was better not to look at it. I was doubly glad of my oxygen mask when I thought of the situation.

At length I shook and brushed myself dry, took a couple of food tablets, and put a new potassium chlorate cube in the electrolyser of the mask. I am using these cubes slowly, but wish I had a larger supply. I felt much better after my sleep, and expected to get out of the building very shortly.

Consulting the notes and sketches I had jotted down, I was impressed by the complexity of the hallways, and by the possibility that I had made a fundamental error. Of the six openings leading out of the central space, I had chosen a certain one as that by which I had entered—using a sighting-arrangement as a guide. When I stood just within the opening, the corpse fifty yards away was exactly in line with a particular lepidodendron in the far-off forest. Now it occurred to me that this sighting might not have been of sufficient accuracy—the distance of the corpse making its difference of direction in relation to the horizon comparatively slight when viewed from the openings next to that of my first ingress. Moreover, the tree did not differ as distinctly as it might from other lepidodendra on the horizon.

Putting the matter to a test, I found to my chagrin that I could not be sure which of three openings was the right one. Had I traversed a different set of windings at each attempted exit? This time I would be sure. It struck me that despite the impossibility of trailblazing there was one marker I could leave. Though I could not spare my suit, I could—because of my thick head of hair—spare my helmet; and this was large and light enough to remain visible above the thin mud. Accordingly I removed the roughly hemispherical device and laid it at the entrance of one of the corridors—the right-hand one of the three I must try.

I would follow this corridor on the assumption that it was correct; repeating what I seemed to recall as the proper turns, and constantly consulting and making notes. If I did not get out, I would systematically exhaust all possible variations; and if these failed, I would proceed to cover the avenues extending from the next opening in the same way—continuing to the third opening if necessary. Sooner or later I could not avoid hitting the right path to the exit, but I must use patience. Even at worst, I could scarcely fail to reach the open plain in time for a dry night’s sleep.

Immediate results were rather discouraging, though they helped me eliminate the right-hand opening in little more than an hour. Only a succession of blind alleys, each ending at a great distance from the corpse, seemed to branch from this hallway; and I saw very soon that it had not figured at all in the previous afternoon’s wanderings. As before, however, I always found it relatively easy to grope back to the central chamber.

About 1 p.m. I shifted my helmet marker to the next opening and began to explore the hallways beyond it. At first I thought I recognised the turnings, but soon found myself in a wholly unfamiliar set of corridors. I could not get near the corpse, and this time seemed cut off from the central chamber as well, even though I thought I had recorded every move I made. There seemed to be tricky twists and crossings too subtle for me to capture in my crude diagrams, and I began to develop a kind of mixed anger and discouragement. While patience would of course win in the end, I saw that my searching would have to be minute, tireless, and long-continued.

Two o’clock found me still wandering vainly through strange corridors—constantly feeling my way, looking alternately at my helmet and at the corpse, and jotting data on my scroll with decreasing confidence. I cursed the stupidity and idle curiosity which had drawn me into this tangle of unseen walls—reflecting that if I had let the thing alone and headed back as soon as I had taken the crystal from the body, I would even now be safe at Terra Nova.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I might be able to tunnel under the invisible walls with my knife, and thus effect a short cut to the outside—or to some outward-leading corridor. I had no means of knowing how deep the building’s foundations were, but the omnipresent mud argued the absence of any floor save the earth. Facing the distant and increasingly horrible corpse, I began a course of feverish digging with the broad, sharp blade.

There was about six inches of semi-liquid mud, below which the density of the soil increased sharply. This lower soil seemed to be of a different colour—a greyish clay rather like the formations near Venus’s north pole. As I continued downward close to the unseen barrier I saw that the ground was getting harder and harder. Watery mud rushed into the excavation as fast as I removed the clay, but I reached through it and kept on working. If I could bore any kind of a passage beneath the wall, the mud would not stop my wriggling out.

About three feet down, however, the hardness of the soil halted my digging seriously. Its tenacity was beyond anything I had encountered before, even on this planet, and was linked with an anomalous heaviness. My knife had to split and chip the tightly packed clay, and the fragments I brought up were like solid stones or bits of metal. Finally even this splitting and chipping became impossible, and I had to cease my work with no lower edge of wall in reach.

The hour-long attempt was a wasteful as well as futile one, for it used up great stores of my energy and forced me both to take an extra food tablet, and to put an additional chlorate cube in the oxygen mask. It has also brought a pause in the day’s gropings, for I am still much too exhausted to walk. After cleaning my hands and arms of the worst of the mud I sat down to write these notes—leaning against an invisible wall and facing away from the corpse.

That body is simply a writhing mass of vermin now—the odour has begun to draw some of the slimy akmans from the far-off jungle. I notice that many of the efjeh-weeds on the plain are reaching out necrophagous feelers toward the thing; but I doubt if any are long enough to reach it. I wish some really carnivorous organisms like the skorahs would appear, for then they might scent me and wriggle a course through the building toward me. Things like that have an odd sense of direction. I could watch them as they came, and jot down their approximate route if they failed to form a continuous line. Even that would be a great help. When I met any the pistol would make short work of them.

But I can hardly hope for as much as that. Now that these notes are made I shall rest a while longer, and later will do some more groping. As soon as I get back to the central chamber—which ought to be fairly easy—I shall try the extreme left-hand opening. Perhaps I can get outside by dusk after all.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER X.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE CORONATION
The orange marble pillars glowing in the light of a hundred lamps gave the chamber a dazzling brightness; the windows were screened by scarlet silk curtains, and crystal bowls of purple flowers stood on the serpentine floor.

On a low gilt couch against the wall sat Theirry, his gold armour half concealed by a violet and ermine mantle; round his close dark hair was a wreath of red roses, and the long pearls in his ears glimmered with his movements.

Opposite him on a throne supported by basalt lions was Michael II, robed in gold and silver tissues under a dalmatica of orange and crimson brocade.

“It is done,” he said in a low eager voice, “and to-morrow I crown you in St. Peter’s church; Theirry, it is done.”

“Truly our fortunes are marvellous,” answered Theirry, “to-day—when I heard the Princes elect me—an unknown adventurer!—when I heard the mob of Rome shout for me—I thought I had gone mad!”

“It is I who have done this for you,” said the Pope softly.

Theirry seemed to shudder in his gorgeous mail.

“Are you afraid of me?” the other asked. “Why do you so seldom look at me?”

Theirry slowly turned his beautiful face.

“I am afraid of my own fortunes—I am not as bold as you,” he said fearfully. “You never hesitated to sin.”

The Pope moved, and his garments sparkled against the gleaming marble wall.

“I do not sin,” he smiled. “I am Sin—I do no evil for I am Evil—but you”—his face became grave, almost sad—“you are very human, better had it been for me never to have met you!”

He placed his little hands either side of him on the smooth heads of the basalt lions.

“Theirry—for your sake I have risked everything, for your sake maybe I must leave this strange fair life and go back whence I came—so much I care for you, so dearly have I kept the vows we made in Frankfort—cannot you meet with courage the destiny I offer you?”

Theirry hid his face in his hands.

The Pope flushed, and a wild light sparkled in his dark eyes.

“Was not your blood warmed by that charge at Tivoli? When knight and horse fell before your spears and your host humbled an Emperor, when Rome rose to greet you and I came to meet you with a kingdom for a gift, did not some fire creep into your veins that might serve to heat you now?”

“A kingdom!” cried Theirry, “the kingdom of Antichrist. The victory was not mine—the cohorts of the Devil galloped beside us and urged us to unholy triumph—Rome is a place of horror, full of witches, ghosts and strange beasts!”

“You said you would be Emperor,” answered the Pope. “And I have granted you your wish, if you fail me or betray me now… it is over—for both of us.”

Theirry rose and paced the chamber.

“Ay, I will be Emperor,” he cried feverishly. “Theirry of Dendermonde crowned by the Devil in St. Peter’s church—why should I hesitate? I am on the road to hell, to hell.…”

The Pope fixed ardent eyes on him.

“And if ye fail me ye shall go there instantly.”

Theirry stopped in his pacing to and fro.

“Why do you say to me so often, ‘do not fail me, do not betray me’?”

Michael II answered in a low voice.

“Because I fear it.”

Theirry laughed desperately.

“To whom should I betray you! It seems that you have all the world!”

“There is Jacobea of Martzburg.”

“Why do you sting me with that name!”

“Belike I thought ye might wish to make her your Empress,” said the Pope in sudden mockery.

Theirry pressed his hand to his brow.

“She believes in God… what is such to me?” he cried.

“The other day you lied to me, saying you knew not where she was—and straightway ye visited her.”

“This is your spy’s work, Ursula of Rooselaare.”

“Maybe,” answered the Pope.

Theirry paused before the basalt throne.

“Tell me of her. She follows me—I—I—know not what to think, she has been much in my mind of late, since I——” He broke off, and looked moodily at the ground. “Where has she been these years—what does she mean to do now?”

“She will not trouble you again,” answered Michael II, “let her go.”

“I cannot—she said I had seen her face——”

“Well, if you have?—take it from me she is not fair.”

“I do not think of her fairness,” answered Theirry sullenly, “but of the mystery there is behind all of it—why you never told me of her before, and why she haunts me with witches in her train.”

The Pope looked at him curiously.

“For one who has never been an ardent lover ye dwell much on women—I had rather you thought on battles and kingdoms—had I been a—were I you, dancer and nun alike would be nothing to me compared with my coronation on the morrow.”

Theirry replied hotly.

“Dancer and nun, as ye term them, are woven in with all I do, I cannot, if I would, forget them. Ah, that I ever came to Rome—would I were still a Chamberlain at Basil’s Court or a merchant’s clerk in India!”

He covered his face with his trembling hands and turned away across the golden room.

The Pope rose in his seat and pressed his jewelled fingers against his breast.

“Would ye had never come my way to be my ruin and your own—would you were not such a sweet fair fool that I must love you! … and so, we make ourselves the mock of destiny by these complaints. Oh, if you have the desire to be king show the courage to dare a kingly fate.”

Theirry leant against one of the orange marble pillars, the violet mantle falling away from his golden armour, the fainting roses lying slackly in his dark hair.

“You must think me a coward,” he said, “and I have been very weak—but that, I think, is passed; I have reached the summit of all the greatness I ever dreamed and it confuses me, but when the Imperial crown is mine you shall find me bold enough.”

Michael II flushed and gave a dazzling smile.

“Then are we great indeed!—we shall join hands across the fairest dominion men ever ruled, Suabia is ours, Bohemia and Lombardy, France courts our alliance, Cyprus, the isle of Candy and Malta town, in Rhodes they worship us, and Genoa town owns us master!”

He paused in his speech and stepped down from the throne.

“Do you remember that day in Antwerp, Theirry, when we looked in the mirror?” he said, and his voice was tender and beautiful; “we hardly dared then to think of this.”

“We saw a gallows in that mirror,” answered Theirry, “a gallows tree beside the triple crown.”

“It was for our enemies!” cried Michael; “our enemies whom we have triumphed over; Theirry, think of it, we were very young then, and poor—now I have kings at my footstool, and you will sleep to-night in the Golden Palace of the Aventine!” He laughed joyously.

Theirry’s face grew gentle at the old memories.

“The house still stands, I wot,” he mused, “though the dust be thick over the deserted rooms and the vine chokes the windows—when I was in the East, I have thought with great joy of Antwerp.”

The Pope laid his delicate fragrant hand on the glittering vambrace.

“Theirry—do you not value me a little now?”

Theirry smiled into the ardent eyes.

“You have done more for me than man or God, and above both I do you worship,” he answered wildly. “I am not fearful any more, and to-morrow ye shall see me a king indeed.”

“Until to-morrow then, farewell. I must attend a Conclave of the Cardinals and show myself unto the multitude in St. Peter’s church. You to the palace, on the Aventine, there to sleep soft and dream of gold.”

They clasped hands, a hot colour was in the Pope’s face.

“The Syrian guards wait below and the Lombard archers who stood beside you at Tivoli—they will attend you to the Imperial Palace.”

“What shall I do there?” asked Theirry. “It is early yet, and I do not love to sit alone.”

“Then, come to the service in the Basilica—come with a bold bearing and a rich dress to overawe these mongrel crowds of Rome.”

To that Theirry made no answer.

“Farewell,” he said, and lifted the scarlet curtain that concealed the door, “until to-morrow.”

The Pope came quickly to his side.

“Do not go to Jacobea to-night,” he said earnestly. “Remember, if you fail me now——”

“I shall not fail you or myself, again—farewell.”

His hand was on the latch when Michael spoke once more—

“I grieve to let you go,” he murmured in an agitated tone. “I have not before been fearful, but to-night——”

Theirry smiled.

“You have no cause to dread anything, you with your foot on the neck of the world.”

He opened the door on to the soft purple light of the stairs and stepped from the room.

In a half-stifled voice the Pope called him.

“Theirry!—be true to me, for on your faith have I staked everything.”

Theirry looked over his shoulder and laughed.

“Will you never let me begone?”

The other pressed his hand to his forehead.

“Ay, begone—why should I seek to keep you?”

Theirry descended the stairs and now and then looked up.

Always to see fixed on him the yearning, fierce gaze of the one who stood by the gilded rails and stared down at his glittering figure.

Only when he had completely disappeared in the turn of the stairs did Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber and close the gorgeous doors.

Theirry, splendidly attended, flashed through the riotous streets of Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill.

There he dismissed the knights.

“I shall not go to the Basilica to-night,” he said, “go thou there without me.”

He laid aside the golden armour, the purple cloak, and attired himself in a dark habit and a steel corselet; he meant to be Emperor to-morrow, he meant to be faithful to the Pope, but it was in his heart to see Jacobea once more before he accepted the Devil’s last gift and sign.

Leaving the palace secretly, when they all thought him in his chamber, he took his way towards the Appian Gate.

Once more, for the last time… he would suggest to her that she returned to Martzburg. The plague was rampant in the city; more than once he passed the death-cart attended by friars clanging harsh bells; several houses were sealed and silent; but in the piazzas the people danced and sang, and in the Via Sacra they held a carnival in honour of the victory at Tivoli.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

It was nearly dark, starless, and the air heavy with the sense of storm; as he neared the less-frequented part of the city Theirry looked continually behind him to see if the dancer in orange dogged his footsteps—he saw no one.

Very lonely, very silent it was in the Appian Way, the only domestic light he came to the little lamp above the convent gate.

The stillness and gloom of the place chilled his heart, she could not, must not stay here.…

He gently pushed the gate and entered.

The hot dusk just revealed to him the dim shapes of the white roses and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them.

“Jacobea,” he whispered.

She moved very slowly towards him.

“Ah! you.”

“Jacobea—you must not remain in this place!—where are the nuns?”

She shook her head.

“They are dead of the plague days past, and I have buried them in the garden.”

He gave a start of horror.

“You shall go back to Martzburg—you are alone here?”

Her answer came calmly out of the twilight.

“I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been very fierce—you should not come here if you do not wish to die.”

“But what of you?” His voice was full of horror.

“Why, what can it matter about me?”

He thought she smiled; he followed her into the house, the chamber where they had sat before.

A tall pale candle burnt on the bare table, and by the light of it he saw her face.

“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.

Again she shook her head.

“Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor to-morrow.”

She crept with a slow sick movement to a bench that stood against the wall and sank down on it; her features showed pinched and wan, her eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.

“You must return to Martzburg,” repeated Theirry distractedly; and thought of her as he had first seen her, bright and gay, in a pale crimson dress.…

“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died to-day.”

“He?—who died, Jacobea?”

Very faintly she smiled.

“Sebastian—in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir… he has been a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and he was sick with fever—he crept into the shade (for it is very hot there, sir), and died.”

Theirry stood dumb, and the mad hatred of the devil who had brought about this misery anew possessed him.

Jacobea spoke again.

“Maybe they have met in Paradise—and as for me I hope God may think me fit to die—of late it seemed to me that the fiends were again troubling me”—she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and shivered; “something evil is abroad… who is the dancer? … last night I saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me—as the young scholar did, long ago.”

Theirry leant heavily against the table.

“She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of Rooselaare!”

Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered.

“Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool—how should he meddle with an evil thing?”

Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling.

“The Pope is Dirk Renswoude—the Pope is Antichrist—do you not understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”

Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat and sank back against the wall.

Theirry crossed the room and fell on his knees beside her.

“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned for ever!”

The lightning darted in from the darkness and thunder crashed above the convent; Theirry laid his head on her lap and her cold fingers touched his hair.

“Since, knowing this, you are his ally,” she whispered fearfully.

He answered through clenched teeth.

“Yea, I will be Emperor—and it is too late to turn back.”

Jacobea stared across the candle-lit room.

“Dirk Renswoude,” she muttered, “and Ursula of Rooselaare—why—was it not to save Hugh of Rooselaare that he rode—that night?”

Theirry lifted his head and looked at her, her utterance was feeble and confused, her eyes glazing in a livid face; he clasped his hands tightly over hers.

“What was Lord Hugh to him?” she asked, “Ursula’s father.…”

“I do not understand,” cried Theirry.

“But it is very clear to me—I am dying—she loved you, loves you still—that such things should be.…”

“Whom do you speak of—Jacobea?” he cried, distracted.

She drooped towards him and he caught her in his arms.

“The city is accursed,” she gasped; “give me Christian burial, if ever once you cared for me, and fly, fly!”

She strained and writhed in his frantic embrace.

“And you never knew it was a woman,” she whispered, “Pope and dancer.…”

“God!” shrieked Theirry; and staggered to his feet drawing her with him.

She choked her life out against his shoulder, clinging with the desperation of the dying, to him, while he tried to force her into speech.

“Answer me, Jacobea! What authority have you for this hideous thing, in the name of God, Jacobea!”

She slipped from him to the bench.

“Water, a crucifix.… Oh, I have forgot my prayers.” She stretched out her hands towards a wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, caught hold of it, pressed her lips to the feet.…

“Sybilla,” she said, and died with that name struggling in her throat.

Theirry stepped back from her with a strangled shriek that seemed to tear the breath from his body, and staggered against the table.

The lightning leapt in through the dark window, and appeared to plunge like a sword into the breast of the dead woman.

Dead!—even as she uttered that horror—dead so suddenly. The plague had slain her—he did not wish to die, so he must leave this place—was he not to be Emperor to-morrow?

He fell to laughing.

The candle had burnt almost to the socket; the yellow flame struggling against extinction cast a fantastic leaping light over Jacobea, lying huddled along the bench with her yellow hair across the breast of her rough garment; over Theirry, leaning with slack limbs against the table; it showed his ghastly face, his staring eyes, his dropped jaw—as his laughter died into silence.

Fly! Fly!

He must fly from this Thing that reigned in Rome—he could not face to-morrow, he could not look again into the face of Antichrist.…

He crawled across the room and stared at Jacobea.

She was not beautiful; he noticed that her hands were torn and stained with earth from making the graves of the nuns… she had asked for Christian burial… he could not stay to give it her.…

He fiercely hated her for what she had told him, yet he took up the ends of her yellow hair and kissed them.

Again the thunder and lightning and wild howlings reached him from without, as ghosts and night-hags wandered past to hold court within the accursed city.

The candle shot up a long tongue of flame—and went out.

Theirry staggered across the darkness.

A flash of lightning showed him the door. As the thunder crashed above the city he fled from the convent and from Rome.
 
In The Walls of Eryx, cont'd.

Night—VI, 13

New trouble. My escape will be tremendously difficult, for there are elements I had not suspected. Another night here in the mud, and a fight on my hands tomorrow. I cut my rest short and was up and groping again by four o’clock. After about fifteen minutes I reached the central chamber and moved my helmet to mark the last of the three possible doorways. Starting through this opening, I seemed to find the going more familiar, but was brought up short in less than five minutes by a sight that jolted me more than I can describe.

It was a group of four or five of those detestable man-lizards emerging from the forest far off across the plain. I could not see them distinctly at that distance, but thought they paused and turned toward the trees to gesticulate, after which they were joined by fully a dozen more. The augmented party now began to advance directly toward the invisible building, and as they approached I studied them carefully. I had never before had a close view of the things outside the steamy shadows of the jungle.

The resemblance to reptiles was perceptible, though I knew it was only an apparent one, since these beings have no point of contact with terrestrial life. When they drew nearer they seemed less truly reptilian—only the flat head and the green, slimy, frog-like skin carrying out the idea. They walked erect on their odd, thick stumps, and their suction-discs made curious noises in the mud. These were average specimens, about seven feet in height, and with four long, ropy pectoral tentacles. The motions of those tentacles—if the theories of Fogg, Ekberg, and Janat are right, which I formerly doubted but am now more ready to believe—indicated that the things were in animated conversation.

I drew my flame pistol and was ready for a hard fight. The odds were bad, but the weapon gave me a certain advantage. If the things knew this building they would come through it after me, and in this way would form a key to getting out, just as carnivorous skorahs might have done. That they would attack me seemed certain; for even though they could not see the crystal in my pouch, they could divine its presence through that special sense of theirs.

Yet, surprisingly enough, they did not attack me. Instead they scattered and formed a vast circle around me—at a distance which indicated that they were pressing close to the unseen wall. Standing there in a ring, the beings stared silently and inquisitively at me, waving their tentacles and sometimes nodding their heads and gesturing with their upper limbs. After a while I saw others issue from the forest, and these advanced and joined the curious crowd. Those near the corpse looked briefly at it but made no move to disturb it. It was a horrible sight, yet the man-lizards seemed quite unconcerned. Now and then one of them would brush away the farnoth-flies with its limbs or tentacles, or crush a wriggling sificligh or akman, or an out-reaching efjeh-weed, with the suction discs on its stumps.

Staring back at these grotesque and unexpected intruders, and wondering uneasily why they did not attack me at once, I lost for the time being the will power and nervous energy to continue my search for a way out. Instead I leaned limply against the invisible wall of the passage where I stood, letting my wonder merge gradually into a chain of the wildest speculations. An hundred mysteries which had previously baffled me seemed all at once to take on a new and sinister significance, and I trembled with an acute fear unlike anything I had experienced before.

I believed I knew why these repulsive beings were hovering expectantly around me. I believed, too, that I had the secret of the transparent structure at last. The alluring crystal which I had seized, the body of the man who had seized it before me—all these things began to acquire a dark and threatening meaning.

It was no common series of mischances which had made me lose my way in this roofless, unseen tangle of corridors. Far from it. Beyond doubt, the place was a genuine maze—a labyrinth deliberately built by these hellish beings whose craft and mentality I had so badly underestimated. Might I not have suspected this before, knowing of their uncanny architectural skill? The purpose was all too plain. It was a trap—a trap set to catch human beings, and with the crystal spheroid as bait. These reptilian things, in their war on the takers of crystals, had turned to strategy and were using our own cupidity against us.

Dwight—if this rotting corpse were indeed he—was a victim. He must have been trapped some time ago, and had failed to find his way out. Lack of water had doubtless maddened him, and perhaps he had run out of chlorate cubes as well. Probably his mask had not slipped accidentally after all. Suicide was a likelier thing. Rather than face a lingering death he had solved the issue by removing the mask deliberately and letting the lethal atmosphere do its work at once. The horrible irony of his fate lay in his position—only a few feet from the saving exit he had failed to find. One minute more of searching and he would have been safe.

And now I was trapped as he had been. Trapped, and with this circling herd of curious starers to mock at my predicament. The thought was maddening, and as it sank in I was seized with a sudden flash of panic which set me running aimlessly through the unseen hallways. For several moments I was essentially a maniac—stumbling, tripping, bruising myself on the invisible walls, and finally collapsing in the mud as a panting, lacerated heap of mindless, bleeding flesh.

The fall sobered me a bit, so that when I slowly struggled to my feet I could notice things and exercise my reason. The circling watchers were swaying their tentacles in an odd, irregular way suggestive of sly, alien laughter, and I shook my fist savagely at them as I rose. My gesture seemed to increase their hideous mirth—a few of them clumsily imitating it with their greenish upper limbs. Shamed into sense, I tried to collect my faculties and take stock of the situation.

After all, I was not as badly off as Dwight had been. Unlike him, I knew what the situation was—and forewarned is forearmed. I had proof that the exit was attainable in the end, and would not repeat his tragic act of impatient despair. The body—or skeleton, as it would soon be—was constantly before me as a guide to the sought-for aperture, and dogged patience would certainly take me to it if I worked long and intelligently enough.

I had, however, the disadvantage of being surrounded by these reptilian devils. Now that I realised the nature of the trap—whose invisible material argued a science and technology beyond anything on earth—I could no longer discount the mentality and resources of my enemies. Even with my flame pistol I would have a bad time getting away—though boldness and quickness would doubtless see me through in the long run.

But first I must reach the exterior—unless I could lure or provoke some of the creatures to advance toward me. As I prepared my pistol for action and counted over my generous supply of ammunition it occurred to me to try the effect of its blasts on the invisible walls. Had I overlooked a feasible means of escape? There was no clue to the chemical composition of the transparent barrier, and conceivably it might be something which a tongue of fire could cut like cheese. Choosing a section facing the corpse, I carefully discharged the pistol at close range and felt with my knife where the blast had been aimed. Nothing was changed. I had seen the flame spread when it struck the surface, and now I realised that my hope had been vain. Only a long, tedious search for the exit would ever bring me to the outside.

So, swallowing another food tablet and putting another cube in the electrolyser of my mask, I recommenced the long quest; retracing my steps to the central chamber and starting out anew. I constantly consulted my notes and sketches, and made fresh ones—taking one false turn after another, but staggering on in desperation till the afternoon light grew very dim. As I persisted in my quest I looked from time to time at the silent circle of mocking starers, and noticed a gradual replacement in their ranks. Every now and then a few would return to the forest, while others would arrive to take their places. The more I thought of their tactics the less I liked them, for they gave me a hint of the creatures’ possible motives. At any time these devils could have advanced and fought me, but they seemed to prefer watching my struggles to escape. I could not but infer that they enjoyed the spectacle—and this made me shrink with double force from the prospect of falling into their hands.

With the dark I ceased my searching, and sat down in the mud to rest. Now I am writing in the light of my lamp, and will soon try to get some sleep. I hope tomorrow will see me out; for my canteen is low, and lacol tablets are a poor substitute for water. I would hardly dare to try the moisture in this slime, for none of the water in the mud-regions is potable except when distilled. That is why we run such long pipe lines to the yellow clay regions—or depend on rain-water when those devils find and cut our pipes. I have none too many chlorate cubes either, and must try to cut down my oxygen consumption as much as I can. My tunnelling attempt of the early afternoon, and my later panic flight, burned up a perilous amount of air. Tomorrow I will reduce physical exertion to the barest minimum until I meet the reptiles and have to deal with them. I must have a good cube supply for the journey back to Terra Nova. My enemies are still on hand; I can see a circle of their feeble glow-torches around me. There is a horror about those lights which will keep me awake.
 
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