gaze fell upon O’Keefe in all his silvery magnificence. Everywhere the light-giving globes sent their roseate radiance.
The cuirassed dwarfs led us through the aisle. Within the arc of the inner half — circle was another glittering board, an oval. But of those seated there, facing us — I had eyes for only one — Yolara! She swayed up to greet O’Keefe — and she was like one of those white lily maids, whose beauty Hoang–Ku, the sage, says made the Gobi first a paradise, and whose lusts later the burned-out desert that it is. She held out hands to Larry, and on her face was passion — unashamed, unhiding.
She was Circe — but Circe conquered. Webs of filmiest white clung to the rose-leaf body. Twisted through the corn-silk hair a threaded circlet of pale sapphires shone; but they were pale beside Yolara’s eyes. O’Keefe bent, kissed her hands, something more than mere admiration flaming from him. She saw — and, smiling, drew him down beside her.
It came to me that of all, only these two, Yolara and O’Keefe, were in white — and I wondered; then with a tightening of nerves ceased to wonder as there entered — Lugur! He was all in scarlet, and as he strode forward a silence fell a tense, strained silence.
His gaze turned upon Yolara, rested upon O’Keefe, and instantly his face grew — dreadful — there is no other word than that for it. Marakinoff leaned forward from the centre of the table, near whose end I sat, touched and whispered to him swiftly. With appalling effort the red dwarf controlled himself; he saluted the priestess ironically, I thought; took his place at the further end of the oval. And now I noted that the figures between were the seven of that Council of which the Shining One’s priestess and Voice were the heads. The tension relaxed, but did not pass — as though a storm-cloud should turn away, but still lurk, threatening.
My gaze ran back. This end of the room was draped with the exquisitely coloured, graceful curtains looped with gorgeous garlands. Between curtains and table, where sat Larry and the nine, a circular platform, perhaps ten yards in diameter, raised itself a few feet above the floor, its gleaming surface half-covered with the luminous petals, fragrant, delicate.
On each side below it, were low carven stools. The curtains parted and softly entered girls bearing their flutes, their harps, the curiously emotion-exciting, octaved drums. They sank into their places. They touched their instruments; a faint, languorous measure throbbed through the rosy air.
The stage was set! What was to be the play?
Now about the tables passed other dusky-haired maids, fair bosoms bare, their scanty kirtles looped high, pouring out the wines for the feasters.
My eyes sought O’Keefe. Whatever it had been that Marakinoff had said, clearly it now filled his mind — even to the exclusion of the wondrous woman beside him. His eyes were stern, cold — and now and then, as be turned them toward the Russian, filled with a curious speculation. Yolara watched him, frowned, gave a low order to the Hebe behind her.
The girl disappeared, entered again with a ewer that seemed cut of amber. The priestess poured from it into Larry’s glass a clear liquid that shook with tiny sparkles of light. She raised the glass to her lips, handed it to him. Half-smiling, half-abstractedly, he took it, touched his own lips where hers had kissed; drained it. A nod from Yolara and the maid refilled his goblet.
At once there was a swift transformation in the Irishman. His abstraction vanished; the sternness fled; his eyes sparkled. He leaned caressingly toward Yolara; whispered. Her blue eyes flashed triumphantly; her chiming laughter rang. She raised her own glass — but within it was not that clear drink that filled Larry’s! And again he drained his own; and, lifting it, full once more, caught the baleful eyes of Lugur, and held it toward him mockingly. Yolara swayed close — alluring, tempting. He arose, face all reckless gaiety; rollicking deviltry.
“A toast!” he cried in English, “to the Shining One — and may the hell where it belongs soon claim it!”
He had used their own word for their god — all else had been in his own tongue, and so, fortunately, they did not understand. But the contempt in his action they did recognize — and a dead, a fearful silence fell upon them all. Lugur’s eyes blazed, little sparks of crimson in their green. The priestess reached up, caught at O’Keefe. He seized the soft hand; caressed it; his gaze grew far away, sombre.
“The Shining One.” He spoke low. “An’ now again I see the faces of those who dance with it. It is the Fires of Mora — come, God alone knows how — from Erin — to this place. The Fires of Mora!” He contemplated the hushed folk before him; and then from his lips came that weirdest, most haunting of the lyric legends of Erin — the Curse of Mora:
“The fretted fires of Mora blew o’er him in the night;
He thrills no more to loving, nor weeps for past delight.
For when those flames have bitten, both grief and joy take flight —”
Again Yolara tried to draw him down beside her; and once more he gripped her hand. His eyes grew fixed — he crooned:
“And through the sleeping silence his feet must track the tune,
When the world is barred and speckled with silver of the moon —”
He stood, swaying, for a moment, and then, laughing, let the priestess have her way; drained again the glass.
And now my heart was cold, indeed — for what hope was there left with Larry mad, wild drunk!
The silence was unbroken — elfin women and dwarfs glancing furtively at each other. But now Yolara arose, face set, eyes flashing grey.
“Hear you, the Council, and you, Lugur — and all who are here!” she cried. “Now I, the priestess of the Shining One, take, as is my right, my mate. And this is he!” She pointed down upon Larry. He glanced up at her.
“Can’t quite make out what you say, Yolara,” he muttered thickly. “But say anything — you like — I love your voice!”
I turned sick with dread. Yolara’s hand stole softly upon the Irishman’s curls caressingly.
“You know the law, Yolara.” Lugur’s voice was flat, deadly, “You may not mate with other than your own kind. And this man is a stranger — a barbarian — food for the Shining One!” Literally, he spat the phrase.
“No, not of our kind — Lugur — higher!” Yolara answered serenely. “Lo, a son of Siya and of Siyana!”
“A lie!” roared the red dwarf. “A lie!”
“The Shining One revealed it to me!” said Yolara sweetly. “And if ye believe not, Lugur — go ask of the Shining One if it be not truth!”
There was bitter, nameless menace in those last words — and whatever their hidden message to Lugur, it was potent. He stood, choking, face hell-shadowed — Marakinoff leaned out again, whispered. The red dwarf bowed, now wholly ironically; resumed his place and his silence. And again I wondered, icy-hearted, what was the power the Russian had so to sway Lugur.
“What says the Council?” Yolara demanded, turning to them.
Only for a moment they consulted among themselves. Then the woman, whose face was a ravaged shrine of beauty, spoke.
“The will of the priestess is the will of the Council!” she answered.
Defiance
