CHAPTER 26 A BATTLE ROYAL I threw myself on the bed and began to turn over in my mind the tales she had told me. She had forgotten herself, and, by a single incautious word, removed one perplexity as to the condition in which I found her in the forest. The leperdice, bounded over the Princess Leiprost straight on the bank, the running stream had dissolved herself enchantment. Her own account of the object of her journey revealed the danger of the little ones then imminent. I had saved the life of their one fearful enemy. I had but reached this conclusion when I fell asleep. The lovely wine may not have been quite innocent. When I opened my eyes it was night. A lamp, suspended from the ceiling, cast a clear, although soft, light through the chamber. A delicious languor enfolded me. I seemed floating, far from land, upon the bosom of a twilight sea. Existence was in itself pleasure. I had no pain. Only I was dying. No pain. Ah!   It went right through my heart. Again that was sharpness itself, and so sickening. I could not move my hand to lay it on my heart. Something kept it down. The pain was dying away, but my whole body seemed paralyzed. Some evil thing was upon me, something hateful. I would have struggled but could not reach a struggle. My will agonized, but in vain, to assert itself. I desisted and lay passive. Then I became aware of a soft hand on my face, pressing my head into the pillow, and of a heavy weight lying across me. I began to breathe more freely. The weight was gone from my chest. I opened my eyes. The princess was standing above me on the bed, looking out into the room, with the air of one who dreamed. Her great eyes were clear and calm, her mouth wore a look of satisfied passion. She wiped from it a streak of red.  It was like drawing the edge of a knife across them, and for a moment or two I was blind. I heard a dull, heavy sound as of a large, soft-footed animal alighting from a little jump. I opened my eyes and saw the great swing of a long tail as it disappeared through the half-open doorway. I sprang after it. The creature had vanished quite. I shot down the stair and into the hall of alabaster. The moon was high and the place like the inside of a faint, sun-blanched moon. The princess was not there. I must find her, in her presence I might protect myself, out of it I could not. I was a tame animal for her to feed upon, a human fountain for a thirst demoniac. She showed me favor the more easily to use me. My waking eyes did not fear her, but they would close and she would come. Not seeing her I felt her everywhere, for she might be anywhere, might even now be waiting me in some secret cavern of sleep. Only with my eyes upon her could I feel safe from her. Outside the alabaster hall it was pitch dark, and I had to grope my way along with hands and feet. At last I felt a curtain, put it aside, and entered the black hall. There I found a great silent assembly. How it was visible I neither saw nor could imagine, for the walls, the floor, the roof were shrouded in what seemed an infinite blackness, blacker than the blackest of moonless, starless knights. Yet my eyes could separate, although vaguely, not a few of the individuals in the mass interpenetrated and divided, as well as surrounded, by the darkness. It seemed as if my eyes would never come quite to themselves. I pressed their balls and looked and looked again, but what I saw would not grow distinct. This mass, mingled with form, silence and undefined motion possessed the wide space. All was a dim, confused dance, filled with recurrent glimpses of shapes not unknown to me. Now appeared a woman, with glorious eyes, looking out of a skull, now an armed figure on a skeleton horse. Now one, now another, of the hideous burrowing phantasms. I could trace no order and little relation in the mingling and crossing currents and eddies. If I seemed to catch the shape and rhythm of a dance, it was but to see it break, and confusion prevail. With the shifting colors of the seemingly more solid shapes mingled a multitude of shadows, independent, apparently, of originals, each moving after its own free shadow-will. I looked everywhere for the princess, but throughout the wildly changing kaleidoscopic scene could not see her, nor discover indication of her presence. Where was she? What might she not be doing? No one took the least notice of me as I wandered hither and thither, seeking her. At length losing hope, I turned away to look elsewhere. Finding the wall and keeping to it with my hand, for even then I could not see it, I came, groping along, to a curtained opening into the vestibule. Dimly moonlighted, the cage of the lepertis was the arena of what seemed a desperate, although silent, struggle. Two vastly differing forms, human and bestial, with entangled confusion of mingling bodies and limbs, writhed and wrestled in closest embrace. It had lasted but an instant when I saw the lepertis out of the cage, walking quietly to the open door. As I hastened after her, I threw a glance behind me. There was the lepertis in the cage, couching motionless as when I saw her first. The moon, half-way up the sky, was shining round and clear. The bodiless shadow I had seen the night before, was walking through the trees toward the gate, and after him went the lepertis, swinging her tail. I followed a little way off, as silently as they, and neither of them once looked around. Through the open gate we went down to the city, lying quiet as the moonshine upon it. The face of the moon was very still, and its stillness looked like that of expectation. The shadow took his way straight to the stair at the top of which I had lain the night before. Without a pause he went up, and the lepertis followed. I quickened my pace but a moment after heard a cry of horror. Then came the fall of something soft and heavy between me and the stair, and at my feet lay a body, frightfully blackened and crushed, but still recognizable as that of the woman who had led me home and shut me out. As I stood petrified, the spotted lepertis came bounding down the stair with a baby in her mouth. I darted to seize her air she could turn at the foot, but that instant from behind me, the white lepertis, like a great bar of glowing silver shot through the moonlight and had her by the neck. We dropped the child, I caught it up, and stood to watch the battle between them. What a sight it was! Now the one, now the other uppermost, both too intent for any noise beyond a low growl, a whimpered cry, or a snarl of hate, followed by a quicker scrambling of claws as each, worrying and pushing and dragging, struggled for foothold on the pavement. The spotted lepertis was larger than the white, and I was anxious for my friend, but I soon saw that, though neither stronger nor more active, the white lepertis had the greater endurance. Not once did she lose her hold on the neck of the other. From the spotted throat at length issued a howl of agony, changing by swift-crowded gradations into the long-drawn crescendo of a woman's uttermost wail. The white one relaxed her jaws, the spotted one drew herself away, and rose on her hind legs. Erect in the moonlight stood the princess, a confused rush of shadows careering over her whiteness, the spots of the lepert crowding, hurrying, fleeing to the refuge of her eyes, where, merging, they vanished. The last few, outsped and belated, mingled with the cloud of her streaming hair, leaving her radiant as the moon when a legion of little vapours has flown, wind-hunted, off her silvery disc, save that, a down-the-white column of her throat, a thread of blood still trickled from every wound of her adversary's terrible teeth. She turned away, took a few steps with the gate of a hecket, fell, covered afresh with her spots, and fled at a long stretching gallop. The white lepertis turned also, sprang upon me, pulled my arms asunder, caught the baby as it fell, and flew with it along the street toward the gate. CHAPTER 27 THE SILENT Fountain I turned and followed the spotted lepertis, catching but one glimpse of her as she tore up the brow of the hill to the gate of the palace. When I reached the entrance-hall, the princess was just throwing the robe around her which she had left on the floor. The blood had ceased to flow from her wounds, and had dried in the wind of her flight. When she saw me, a flash of anger crossed her face, and she turned her head aside. Then, with an attempted smile, she looked at me and said, I have met with a small accident. Happening to hear that the catwoman was again in the city, I went down to send her away, but she had one of her horrid creatures with her. It sprang upon me, and I had its claws in my neck before I could strike it. She gave a shiver, and I could not help pitying her, although I knew she lied, for her wounds were real, and her face reminded me of how she looked in the cave. My heart began to reproach me that I had let her fight unaided, and I suppose I looked the compassion I felt. Child of folly, she said with another attempted smile, not crying, surely. Wait for me here. I am going into the black-hall for a moment. I want you to get me something for my scratches. But I followed her close. Out of my sight I feared her. The instant the princess entered I heard a buzzing sound as of many low voices, and, one portion after another, the assembly began to be shiftingly illuminated, as by a ray that went traveling from spot to spot. Group after group would shine out for a space, then sink back into the general vagueness, while another part of the vast company would grow momentally bright. Some of the actions going on when thus illuminated were not unknown to me. I had been in them, or had looked on them, and so had the princess. Present with every one of them I now saw her. The skull-headed dancers footed the grass in the forest-hall. There was the princess looking in at the door. The fight went on in the evil wood. There was the princess urging it. Yet I was close behind her all the time. She standing motionless. Her head sunk on her bosom. The confused murmur continued, the confused commotion of colors and shapes, and still the ray went shifting and showing. It settled at last on the hollow in the heath. And there was the princess, walking up and down and trying in vain to wrap the vapor around her. Then first I was startled at what I saw. The old librarian walked up to her and stood for a moment regarding her. She fell. Her limbs foresuck her and fled. Her body vanished.  I turned at once and went out, not again what I seek to restore her. As I stood trembling beside the cage I knew that in the black ellipsoid I had been in the brain of the princess. I saw the tale of the leperous quiver once. While still endeavouring to compose myself I heard the voice of the princess beside me. Come now, she said. I will show you what I want you to do for me. She led the way into the court. I followed in dazed compliance. The moon was near the zenith and her present silver seemed brighter than the gold of the absent sun. She brought me through the trees, to the tallest of them, the one in the center. It was not quite like the rest, for its branches, drawing their ends together at the top, made a clump that looked from beneath like a fur cone. The princess stood close under it, gazing up, and said, as if talking to herself, On the summit of that tree grows a tiny blossom which would at once heal my scratches. I might be a dove for a moment and fetch it, but I see a little snake in the leaves whose bite would be worse to a dove than the bite of a tiger to me.  She turned to me quickly, saying with one of her sweetest smiles, Can you climb? The smile vanished with the brief question, and her face changed to a look of sadness and suffering. I ought to have left her to suffer, but the way she put her hand to her wounded neck went to my heart. I considered the tree, all the way up to the branches were projections on the stem like the remnants on a palm of its fallen leaves. I can climb that tree, I answered. Not with bare feet, she returned. In my haste to follow the leopardist disappearing I had left my sandals in my room. It is no matter, I said. I have long gone barefoot. Then I looked at the tree, and my eyes went wandering up the stem until my sight lost itself in the branches. The moon shone like silvery foam here and there on the rugged bowl, and a little rush of wind went through the top, with a murmurous sound as of water falling softly into water. I approached the tree to begin my ascent of it. The princess stopped me. I cannot let you attempt it with your feet bare, she insisted.  So would a bite from the snake, I answered, not believing I confessed that there was any snake. It would not hurt you, she replied. Wait a moment. She tore from her garment the two wide borders that met in front and kneeling on one knee made me put first my left foot, then my right on the other, and bound them about with the thick embroidered strips. You have left the ends hanging, princess, I said. I have nothing to cut them off with, but they are not long enough to get entangled, she replied. I turned to the tree and began to climb. Now in Bulica the cold after sundown was not so great as in certain other parts of the country, especially about the Sexton's Cottage, yet when I had climbed a little way I began to feel very cold, grew still colder as I ascended and became coldest of all when I got among the branches. Then I shivered and seemed to have lost my hands and feet. There was hardly any wind and the branches did not sway in the least, yet as I approached the summit I became aware of a peculiar unsteadiness, every branch on which I placed foot or laid hold seemed on the point of giving way. When my head rose above the branches near the top and in the open moonlight I began to look about for the blossom, that instant I found myself drenched from head to foot. The next, as if plunged in a stormy water, I was flung about wildly and felt myself sinking. Tossed up and down, tossed this way and tossed that way, rolled over and over, checked, rolled the other way and tossed up again. I was sinking lower and lower. Gasping and gurgling and choking I fell at last upon a solid bottom. I told you so, croaked a voice in my ear. I rubbed the water out of my eyes and saw the raven on the edge of a huge stone basin. With the cold light of dawn reflected from his glossy plumage he stood calmly looking down upon me. I lay on my back in water, above which, leaning on my elbows, I just lifted my face. I was in the basin of the large fountain constructed by my father in the middle of the lawn. High over me glimmered the thick, steel-shiny stalk, shooting, with a torrent uprush, a hundred feet into the air, to spread in a blossom of foam. Neddled at the coolness of the raven's remark, you told me nothing, I said.  Tut, how was mortal to remember that? You will not forget the consequences of having forgotten it, replied Mr. Raven, who stood leaning over the margin of the basin and stretched his hand across to me. I took it and was immediately beside him on the lawn, dripping and streaming. You must change your clothes at once, he said, a wedding does not signify where you come from, though at present such an accident is unusual. Here it has its inconveniences. He was again a raven walking with something stately in his step toward the house, the door of which stood open. I have not much to change, I laughed, for I had flung aside my robe to climb the tree. It is a long time since I molted a feather, said the raven. In the house no one seemed awake. I went to my room, found a dressing-gown, and descended to the library. As I entered, the librarian came from the closet. I threw myself on the couch. Mr. Raven drew a chair to my side and sat down. For a minute or two neither spoke. I was the first to break the silence. What does it all mean, I said. A good question, he rejoined. Nobody knows what anything is. A man can learn only what a thing means. Whether he do depends on the use he is making of it. I have made no use of anything yet. Not much, but you know the fact, and that is something. Most people take more than a lifetime to learn that they have learned nothing and done less. At least you have not been without the desire to be of use. I did want to do something for the children, the precious little ones I mean. I know you did, and started the wrong way. I did not know the right way. That is true also, but you are to blame that you did not. I am ready to believe whatever you tell me, as soon as I understand what it means. Had you accepted our invitation, you would have known the right way. When a man will not act where he is, he must go far to find his work. Indeed I have gone far, and got nowhere, for I have not found my work. I left the children to learn how to serve them, and have only learned the danger they are in. When you were with them, you were where you could help them. You left your work to look for it. It takes a wise man to know when to go away. A fool may learn to go back at once. Do you mean, sir, I could have done something for the little ones by staying with them? Would you teach them anything by leaving them? No, but how could I teach them? I did not know how to begin. Besides they were far ahead of me. That is true, but you were not a rod to measure them with. Certainly if they knew what you know, not to say what you might have known, they would be ahead of you, out of sight ahead, but you saw they were not growing, or growing so slowly that they had not yet developed the idea of growing. They were even afraid of growing. You had never seen children remain children. But surely I had no power to make them grow. You might have removed some of the hindrances to their growing. What are they? I do not know them. I did think perhaps it was the want of water. Of course it is. They have none to cry with. I would gladly have kept them from requiring any for that purpose. No doubt you would.  Why, Mr. Vane, but for the weeping in it, your world would never have become worth saving. You confess you thought it might be water they wanted. Why did not you dig them a well or two? That never entered my mind. Not when the sounds of the waters under the earth entered your ears. I believe it did once, but I was afraid of the giants for them. That was what made me bear so much from the brutes myself.    A worse wrong you could hardly have done them. They gave you their hearts. You owed them your soul. You might by this time have made the bags hewers of wood and drawers of water to the little ones. I fear what you say is true, Mr. Raven, but indeed I was afraid that more knowledge might prove an injury to them, render them less innocent, less lovely. They had given you no reason to harbor such a fear. Is not a little knowledge a dangerous thing? That is one of the pet falsehoods of your world. Is man's greatest knowledge more than a little? Or is it therefore dangerous? The fancy that knowledge is in itself a great thing would make any degree of knowledge more dangerous than any amount of ignorance. To know all things would not be greatness. At least it was for love of them, not from cowardice that I served the giants. Granted, but you ought to have served the little ones, not the giants. You ought to have given the little ones water. Then they would soon have taught the giants their true position. In the meantime you could yourself have made the giants cut down two-thirds of their coarse fruit trees to give room to the little delicate ones. You lost your chance with the lovers, Mr. Vane. You speculated about them instead of helping them. CHAPTER 29 THE PERSIAN CAT I sat in silence and shame what he said was true.  For them slavery would have been progress. To them a few such lessons as you could have given them with a stick from one of their own trees would have been invaluable. I did not know they were cowards. What difference does that make? The man who grounds his action on another's cowardice is essentially a coward himself. I fear worse will come of it. By this time the little ones might have been able to protect themselves from the princess, not to say the giants. They were always fit enough for that, as it was they laughed at them.  Did you let her know you hated her? Again I was silent. Not even to her have you been faithful, but hush. We were followed from the fountain, I fear. No living creature did I see, except a disreputable-looking cat that bolted into the shrubbery. It was a magnificent Persian, so wet and draggled, though, as to look what she was. Worse than disreputable. What do you mean, Mr. Raven, I cried, a fresh horror taking me by the throat. There was a beautiful blue Persian about the house, but she fled at the very sound of water. Could she have been after the goldfish? We shall see, returned the librarian. I know a little about cats of several sorts, and there is that in the room which will unmask this one, or I am mistaken in her. He rose, went to the door of the closet, brought from it the mutilated volume, and sat down again beside me. I stared at the book in his hand. It was a whole book, entire and sound. There was the other half of it, I gasped. Sticking through into my library, he answered, I held my piece. A single question more would have been a plunge into a bottomless sea, and there might be no time. Listen, he said, I am going to read a stanza or two. There is one present who I imagine will hardly enjoy the reading. He opened the vellum cover and turned a leaf or two. The parchment was discolored with age, and one leaf showed a dark stain over two-thirds of it. He slowly turned this also, and seemed looking for a certain passage in what appeared a continuous poem. Somewhere about the middle of the book he began to read. But what follows represents, not what he read, only the impression it made upon me. The poem seemed in a language I had never before heard, which yet I understood perfectly, although I could not write the words, or give their meaning save in poor approximation. These fragments, then, are the shapes which those he read have finally taken in passing again through my brain. But I found a man that could believe in what he saw not, felt not, and yet knew. From him I should take substance, and receive firmness and form relate to touch, and view. Then should I clothe me in the likeness true of that idea where his soul did cleave? He turned a leaf and read again. In me was every woman, I had power over the soul of every living man, such as no woman ever had in Dower. Could what no woman ever could, or can? All women, I, the woman still outran, out soared, out sank, out reigned, in hall or bower. For I, though me, he neither saw nor heard, nor with his hand could touch finger of mine. Although not once my breath had ever stirred a hair of him could tremble brain and spine with rooted bonds which death could not entwine, or life, though hope, were ever more deferred. Again he paused, again turned a leaf and again began. For by his side I lay, a bodiless thing. I breathed not, saw not, felt not, only thought, and made him love me, with a hungering after he knew not what. If it was ought, or but a nameless something that was wrought by him out of himself, for I did sing. A song that had no sound into his soul, I lay a heartless thing against his heart giving him nothing where he gave his whole being to clothe me human every part, that I at last into his sense might dart, thus first into his living mind I stole. Ah, who was ever conquering love but I! Who else did ever thrown in heart of man? To visible being, with a gladsome cry waking, life's tremor threw me, throbbing ran. A strange repulsive feline wail arose somewhere in the room. I started up on my elbow and stared about me, but could see nothing. Mr. Raven turned several leaves and went on. Suddenly I woke, nor knew the ghastly fear that held me, not like serpent coiled about, but like a vapor moist, corrupt, and drear. Having heart, soul, and breast, and brain throughout my being lay motionless in sickening doubt, nor dared to ask how came the horror there. My past entire I knew, but not my now. I understood nor what I was nor where. I knew what I had been. Still on my brow I felt the touch of what no more was there.  As I was a queen I knew right well, and sometimes wore a splendor on my head, whose flashing even dead darkness could not quell. The like on neck and arms and girdle stead, and men declared a light my closed eyes shed that killed the diamond in its silver cell. Again I heard the ugly cry of feline pain, again I looked, but saw neither shape nor motion. Mr. Raven seemed to listen a moment, but again turned several pages and resumed. Only wet, my hair of golden hue fouled my fair hands. To have it swiftly shorn I had given my rubies, all for me dug new. No eyes had seen and such no waste had worn. For a draft of water from a drinking horn, for one blue breath I had given my sapphires blue. Nay, I had given my opals for a smock, a peasant maiden's garment, coarse and clean my shroud was rotting.  Dulled by space between came back an answer like a ghostly mock. Once more arose the bestial wail. I thought some foul thing was in the room, said the librarian casting a glance around him, but instantly he turned a leaf or two and again read. For I had bathed in milk and honeydew. In rain from rose shook that nair touched earth and ointed me with gnarred of amber hue. Never had spot me spotted from birth or mole or scar of hurt or fret of dearth. Never one hair superfluous on me grew. Fleeing cold whiteness I would sit alone, not in the sun I feared his bronzing light, but in his radiance back around me thrown by fulgent mirrors tempering his might. Thus bathing in a moon bath not too bright my skin I tinted slow to ivory tone. But now all round was dark, dark all within. My eyes not even gave out a phantom flash, my fingers sank in pulp through pulpy skin. My body lay death-welted in a mash of slimy horrors. With a fearsome yell her clammy fur staring in clumps, her tail thick as a cable, her eyes flashing green as a chrysopraise, her distended claws entangling themselves so that she floundered across the carpet a huge white cat rushed from somewhere and made for the chimney. Quick as thought the librarian threw the manuscript between her and the hearth. She crouched instantly, her eyes fixed on the book. But his voice went on as if still he read, and his eyes seemed also fixed on the book. Ah! The two worlds, so strangely are they one, and yet so measurelessly wide apart. Oh! had I lived the bodiless alone, and from defiling sense held safe my heart. Then had I escaped the canker and the smart, escaped life and death, escaped misery's endless moan. At these words such a howling, such a prolonged yell of agony burst from the cat that we both stopped our ears. When it ceased Mr. Raven walked to the fireplace, took up the book, and standing between the creature and the chimney, pointed his finger at her for a moment. She lay perfectly still. He took a half-burnt stick from the hearth, drew with it some sign on the floor, put the manuscript back in its place, with a look that seemed to say, Now we have her, I think, and returning to the cat stood over her and said, in a still, solemn voice, Lilith, when you came here on the way to your evil will, you little thought into whose hands you were delivering yourself. Mr. Vane, when God created me, not out of nothing, as say the unwise, but out of his own endless glory, he brought me an angelic splendor to be my wife. There she lies. For her first thought was power. She counted its slavery to be one with me, and bear children for him who gave her being. One child indeed she bore, then, puffed with the fancy that she had created her, would have me fall down and worship her. Having however that I would but love and honour, never obey and worship her, she poured out her blood to escape me, fled to the army of the aliens, and soon had so ensnared the heart of the great shadow that he became her slave, wrought her will, and made her queen of hell. How it is with her now, she best knows, but I know also. The one child of her body she fears and hates, and would kill, putting a right, which is a lie, over what God sent through her into his new world. Of creating she knows no more than the crystal that takes its allotted shape, or the worm that makes two worms when it is cloven asunder. Violest of God's creatures, she lives by the blood and lives and souls of men. She consumes and slays, but is powerless to destroy as to create. The animal lay motionless, its barrel eyes fixed, flaming on the man. His eyes on hers held them fixed that they could not move from his. Then God gave me another wife, not an angel but a woman. Who is to this as light is to darkness? The cat gave a horrible screech and began to grow bigger. She went on growing and growing. At last the spotted lepertus uttered a roar that made the house tremble. I sprang to my feet. I do not think Mr. Raven started even with his eyelids. It is but her jealousy that speaks, he said, jealousy self-kindled, foiled and fruitless, for here I am, her master now whom she would not have for her husband. While my beautiful Eve yet lives hoping immortally. Her hated daughter lives also but beyond her evil ken, one day to be what she counts her destruction, for even Lilith shall be saved by her childbearing. Meanwhile she exalts that my human wife plunged herself and me in despair, and has borne me a countless race of miserable. But my Eve repented and is now beautiful as never was woman or angel while her groaning, travelling world is the nursery of our father's children. I too have repented and am blessed, thou Lilith hast not yet repented, but thou must. Tell me, is the great shadow beautiful? Knowest thou how long thou wilt thyself remain beautiful? Answer me if thou knowest. Then at last I understood that Mr. Raven was indeed Adam, the old and the new man, and that his wife, ministering in the house of the dead, was Eve, the mother of us all, the lady of the new Jerusalem. The leperous reared, the flickering and fleeing of her spots began, the princess at length stood radiant in her perfect shape. I am beautiful and immortal, she said, and she looked to the goddess she would be. As a bush that burns and is consumed answered he who had been her husband. What is that under thy right hand? For her arm lay across her bosom and her hand was pressed to her side. A swift pang contorted her beautiful face and passed. It is but a leopard spot that lingers. It will quickly follow those I have dismissed, she answered. Thou art beautiful because God created thee, but thou art the slave of sin. Take thy hand from thy side. Her hand sank away, and as it dropped she looked him in the eyes with a quailing fierceness that had in it no surrender. He gazed a moment at the spot. It is not on the leopard, it is on the woman, he said, nor will it leave thee until it hath eaten to thy heart, and thy beauty hath flowed from thee through the open wound. She gave a glance downward and shivered. Lilith, said Adam, and his tone had changed to a tender beseeching, hear me, and repent. And he who made thee will cleanse thee.  She gave the cry of one from whom hope is vanishing. The cry passed into a howl. She lay writhing on the floor, a leperdus covered with spots.  The battle between them may last for countless ages, but it must end. How will it fare with thee when time hath vanished in the dawn of the eternal morn? Repent, I beseech thee, repent and be again an angel of God.  My eyes were fastened on the princess, but when Adam spoke, I turned to him. He stood towering above her, the form of his visage was altered, and his voice was terrible. Down, he cried, or by the power given me I will melt thy very bones. She flung herself on the floor, dwindled and dwindled and was again a gray cat. Adam caught her up by the skin of her neck, bore her to the closet, and threw her in. He described a strange figure on the threshold, and closing the door locked it. Then he returned to my side, the old librarian, looking sad and worn, and furtively wiping tears from his eyes. CHAPTER 30 Adam explains. We must be on our guard, he said, or she will again outwit us. She would be fooled the very elect. How are we to be on our guard, I asked.  The birth of children is in her eyes the death of their parents, and every new generation the enemy of the last. Her daughter appears to her, an open channel through which her immortality, which yet she counts self-inherent, is flowing fast away. To fill it up, almost from her birth, she has pursued her with an utter enmity. But the result of her machinations hitherto is that in the region she claims as her own has appeared a colony of children, to which that daughter is heart and head and sheltering wings. My Eve longed after the child, and would have been to her as a mother to her first-born, but we were then unfit to train her. Eve is carried into the wilderness, and for ages we knew nothing of her fate. But she was divinely fostered and had young angels for her playmates, nor did she ever know care until she found a baby in the wood, and the mother-heart in her awoke. One by one she has found many children since, and that heart is not yet full. Her family is her absorbing charge, and never children were better mothered. Her authority over them is without appeal, but it is unknown to herself, and never comes to the surface except in watchfulness and service. She has forgotten the time when she lived without them, and thinks she came herself from the wood, the first of the family. You have saved the life of her and their enemy, therefore your life belongs to her and them. The princess was on her way to destroy them, but as she crossed that stream, vengeance overtook her, and she would have died had you not come to her aid. You did, and ere now she would have been raging among the little ones had she dared again cross the stream. But there was yet a way to the blessed little colony through the world of the three dimensions, only from that by the slaying of her former body she had excluded herself, and except in personal contact with one belonging to it could not re-enter it. You provided the opportunity. Never in all her long years had she had one before. Her hand, with lightest touch, was on one or other of your muffled feet every step as you climbed. In that little chamber she is now watching to leave it as soon as ever she may. She cannot know anything about the door. She cannot at least know how to open it, I said, but my heart was not so confident as my words. Hush, hush! whispered the librarian with uplifted hand. She can hear through anything. You must go at once and make your way to my wife's cottage. I will remain to keep guard over her. Let me go to the little ones, I cried. Beware of that, Mr. Vane. Go to my wife and do as she tells you. His advice did not recommend itself why haste to encounter measureless delay. If not to protect the children, why go at all? Also even now I believed him only enough to ask him questions, not to obey him. Tell me first, Mr. Raven, I said, Why, of all places you have shut her up here? The night I ran from your house it was immediately into that closet. The closet is no nearer our cottage and no farther from it than any or every other place. But I returned hard to persuade where I could not understand. How is it then that when you please you take from that same door a whole book where I saw and felt only a part of one? The other part you have just told me stuck through into your library. When you put it again on the shelf will it not again stick through into that? Must not then the two places in which parts of the same volume can at the same moment exist lie close together? Or can one part of the book be in space or somewhere and the other out of space or nowhere? I am sorry I cannot explain the thing to you, he answered, but there is no provision in you for understanding it. Not merely, therefore, is the phenomenon inexplicable to you, but the very nature of it is inapprehensible by you. Indeed I but partially apprehended myself. At the same time you are constantly experiencing things which you not only do not but cannot understand. You think you understand them, but your understanding of them is only your being used to them, and therefore not surprised at them. You accept them, not because you understand them, but because you must accept them. They are there and have unavoidable relations with you. The fact is no man understands anything. When he knows he does not understand, that is his first tottering step, not toward understanding but toward the capability of one day understanding. To such things as these you are not used, therefore you do not fancy you understand them. Neither I nor any man can here help you to understand, but I may perhaps help you a little to believe. He went to the door of the closet, gave a low whistle, and stood listening. A moment after I heard or seemed to hear a soft whirr of wings, and, looking up, saw a white dove perched for an instant on the top of the shelves over the portrait, thence dropped to Mr. Raven's shoulder and lay her head against his cheek. Only by the motions of their two heads could I tell that they were talking together. I heard nothing. Neither had I moved my eyes from them when suddenly she was not there, and Mr. Raven came back to his seat. "'Why did you whistle?' I asked. Surely sound here is not sound there.' "'You are right,' he answered. I whistled that you might know I called her, not the whistle, but what the whistle meant, reached her. There is not a minute to lose. You must go.' "'I will at once,' I replied, and moved for the door. "'You will sleep tonight at my hostelry,' he said, not as a question, but in a tone of mild authority. "'My heart is with the children,' I replied, but if you insist, I do insist. You can otherwise affect nothing. I will go with you as far as the mirror, and see you off.' He rose. There came a sudden shock in the closet. Apparently the leperdice had flung herself against the heavy door. I looked at my companion. "'Come, come,' he said. Air we reached the door of the library a howling yell came after us, mingled with the noise of claws that scored at the hard oak. I hesitated, and half turned. "'To think of her lying there alone,' I murmured, with that terrible wound. "'Nothing will ever close that wound,' he answered with a sigh. "'It must eat into her heart. Annihilation itself is no death to evil.  An evil thing must live with its evil until it chooses to be good. That alone is the slaying of evil.' I held my peace until a sound I did not understand overtook us. "'If she should break loose,' I cried. "'Make haste,' he rejoined. "'I shall hurry down the moment you are gone, and I have disarranged the mirrors.' We ran and reached the wooden chamber breathless. Mr. Raven seized the chains and adjusted the hood. Then he set the mirrors in their proper relation, and came beside me in front of the standing one. Suddenly I saw the mountain range emerging from the mist. Between us, wedging us asunder, darted with the yell of a demon, the huge bulk of the spotted leopardess. She leaped through the mirror as through an open window, and settled at once into a low, even, swift gallop. I cast a look of dismay at my companion and sprang through to follow her. He came after me leisurely. "'You need not run,' he called. "'You cannot overtake her. This is our way.' As he spoke, he turned in the opposite direction. "'She has more magic at her fingertips than I care to know,' he added quietly. "'We must do what we can,' I said, and ran on, but sickening as I saw her dwindle in the distance, stopped, and went back to him. "'Doubtless we must,' he answered, but my wife has warned Mara, and she will do her part. "'You must sleep first. You have given me your word.' "'Nor do I mean to break it, but surely sleep is not the first thing. Surely, surely action takes precedence of repose. "'A man can do nothing he is not fit to do. See, did I not tell you Mara would do her part?' I looked with her he pointed and saw a white spot moving at an acute angle with the line taken by the leopardess. "'There she is,' he cried. The spotted leopardess is strong, but the white is stronger. "'I have seen them fight. The combat did not appear decisive as to that.' "'How should such eyes tell which have never slept?' The princess did not confess herself beaten. That she never does, but she fled. When she confesses her last hope gone, that it is indeed hard to kick against the gode. Then will her day begin to dawn. "'Come, come. He who cannot act must make haste to sleep.'" CHAPTER 31 THE SEXTON'S OLD HORSE I stood and watched the last gleam of the white leopardess melt away, then turned to follow my guide, but reluctantly. What had I to do with sleep? Surely, reason was the same in every world, and what reason could there be in going to sleep with the dead when the hour was calling the live man? Besides, no one would wake me, and how could I be certain of waking early, of waking at all? The sleepers in that house let morning glide into noon, and noon into night, nor ever stirred. I murmured, but followed, for I knew not what else to do. The librarian walked on in silence, and I walked silent as he. Time and space glided past us. The sun set, it began to grow dark, and I felt in the air the spreading cold of the chamber of death. My heart sank lower and lower. I began to lose sight of the lean, long-coated figure, and at length could no more hear his swishing stride through the heather. But then I heard instead the slow-flapping wings of the raven, and at intervals, now a firefly, now a gleaming butterfly, rose into the rayless air. By and by the moon appeared, slow-crossing the far horizon. You are tired, are you not, Mr. Vane? said the raven, alighting on a stone. You must make acquaintance with the horse that will carry you in the morning. He gave a strange whistle through his long black beak. A spot appeared on the face of the half-risen moon. To my ears came presently the drumming of swift, soft-galloping hooves, and in a minute or two, out of the very disk of the moon, low-thundered the terrible horse. His mane flowed away behind him like the crest of a wind-fighting wave, torn seaward in hoary spray, and the whisk of his tail kept blinding the eye of the moon. Nineteen hands, he seemed, huge of bone, tight of skin, hard of muscle, a steed the holy death himself might choose on which to ride abroad and slay. The moon seemed to regard him with awe. In her scary light he looked a very skeleton, loosely roped together. Terrifically large, he moved with the lightness of a winged insect. As he drew near, his speed slackened, and his mane and tail drifted about him, settling. Now I was not merely a lover of horses, but I loved every horse I saw. I had never spent money except upon horses and had never sold a horse. The sight of this mighty one, terrible to look at, woken me longing to possess him. It was pure greed, nay, rank covetousness, and evil thing in all the worlds. I do not mean that I could have stolen him, but that, regardless of his proper place, I would have bought him if I could. I laid my hands on him and stroked the protuberant bones that humped a hide smooth and thin, and shiny as satin, so shiny that the very shape of the moon was reflected in it. I fondled his sharp pointed ears, whispered words in them, and breathed into his red nostrils the breath of a man's life. He in return breathed into mine the breath of a horse's life, and we loved one another. What eyes he had, blue filmy like the eyes of the dead, behind each was a glowing coal. The raven, with wings half extended, looked on pleased at my love-making to his magnificent horse. That is well, be friends with him, he said, he will carry you all the better tomorrow. Now we must hurry home. My desire to ride the horse had grown passionate. May I not mount him at once, Mr. Raven, I cried? By all means, he answered, mount, and ride him home. The horse bent his head over my shoulder lovingly. I twisted my hands in his mane and scrambled onto his back, not without aid from certain protuberant bones. He would outspeed any leopard in creation, I cried. Not that way at night, answered the raven, the road is difficult, but come. Loss now will be gained then, to wait is harder than to run, and its mead is the fuller. Go on, my son, straight to the cottage. I shall be there as soon as you. It will rejoice my wife's heart to see son of hers on that horse. I sat silent. The horse stood like a block of marble. Why do you linger, asked the raven. I long so much to ride after the leperous I answered that I can scarce restrain myself. You have promised. My debt to the little ones appears I confess a greater thing than my bond to you. Yield to the temptation, and you will bring mischief upon them, and on yourself also. What matters it for me, I love them, and love works no evil, I will go. But the truth was, I forgot the children, infatuated with the horse. Eyes flashed through the darkness, and I knew that Adam stood in his own shape beside me. I knew also by his voice that he repressed an indignation almost too strong for him. Mr. Vane, he said, Do you not know why you have not yet done anything worth doing? Because I have been a fool, I answered. Wherein? In everything. Which do you count your most indiscreet action? Bringing the princess to life, I ought to have left her to her just fate. Nay, now you talk foolishly. You could not have done otherwise than you did, not knowing she was evil, but you never brought anyone to life. How could you, yourself dead? I dead, I cried.  Back to the old riddling, I returned scornfully. Be persuaded and go home with me, he continued gently. The most, nearly the only foolish thing you ever did, was to run from our dead. I pressed the horse's ribs, and he was off like a sudden wind. I gave him a pat on the side of the neck, and he went about in a sharp-driven curve, close to the ground like a cat when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse, leaning sideways till his mane swept the tops of the heather. Through the dark I heard the wings of the raven, five quick flaps I heard, and he perched on the horse's head. The horse checked himself instantly, plowing up the ground with his feet. Mr. Vane, croaked the raven, think what you are doing. Twice already has evil befallen you, once from fear, and once from heedlessness. Breach of word is far worse. It is a crime. The little ones are in frightful peril, and I brought it upon them, I cried. But indeed, I will not break my word to you.    Would you take from me my last chance of reparation, I cried? This time there shall be no shirking. It is my duty, and I will go if I perish for it. Go, then, foolish boy, he returned, with anger in his croak, take the horse and ride to failure. May it be to humility. He spread his wings and flew. Again I pressed the lean ribs under me. After the spotted lepertus I whispered in his ear. He turned his head this way and that, snuffing the air, then started, and went a few paces in a slow, undecided walk. Suddenly he quickened his walk, broke into a trot, began to gallop, and in a few moments his speed was tremendous. He seemed to see in the dark, never stumbled, not once faltered, not once hesitated. I sat as on the ridge of a wave. I felt under me the play of each individual muscle. His joints were so elastic and his every movement glided so into the next that not once did he jar me. His growing swiftness bore him along until he flew rather than ran. The wind met and passed us like a tornado. Across the evil hollow we sped like a bolt from an arbalest. No monster lifted its neck, all knew the hoofs that thundered over their heads. We rushed up the hills. We shot down their farther slopes, from the rocky chasms of the riverbed he did not swerve. He held on over them his fierce, terrible gallop. The moon, half way up the heaven, gazed with a solemn trouble in her pale countenance. Rejoicing in the power of my steed and in the pride of my life, I sat like a king and rode. We were near the middle of the many channels, my horse every other moment clearing one, sometimes two in his stride, and now and then gathering himself for a great bounding leap when the moon reached the keystone of her arch. Then came a wonder and a terror. She began to descend, rolling like the nave of fortune's wheel, bowled by the gods, and went faster and faster. Like our own moon, this one had a human face, and now the broad forehead, now the chin, was uppermost as she rolled. I gazed aghast. Across the ravines came the howling of wolves.  My confidence was on the wane. The horse maintained his headlong swiftness, with ears pricked forward, and thirsty nostrils exalting in the wind his career created. But there was the moon, jolting like an old chariot wheel down the hill of heaven, with awful boating. She rolled at last over the horizon edge, and disappeared, carrying all her light with her. The mighty steed was in the act of clearing a wide shallow channel when we were caught in the net of the darkness. His head dropped, its impetus carried his helpless bulk across, but he fell in a heap of the margin, and where he fell, he lay. I got up, kneeled beside him, and felt him all over. Not a bone could I find broken, but he was a horse no more. I sat down on the body, and buried my face in my hands. Lilith, by George Macdonald. CHAPTER XXXII. THE LOVERS AND THE BAGS. Bitterly cold grew the night. The body froze under me. The cry of the wolves came nearer. I heard their feet soft padding on the rocky ground. Their quick panting filled the air. Through the darkness I saw the many glowing eyes. Their half-circle contracted around me. My time was come. I sprang to my feet, alas I had not even a stick. They came in a rush, their eyes flashing with fury of greed. Their black throats agape to devour me. I stood hopelessly waiting them. One moment they halted over the horse, then came at me. With a sound of swiftness all but silence, a cloud of green eyes came down on their flank. The heads that bore them flew at the wolves with a cry feebler yet fiercer than their howling snarl, and by the cry I knew them. They were cats, led by a huge gray one. I could see nothing of him but his eyes, yet I knew him, and so knew his color and bigness. A terrific battle followed, whose tale alone came to me through the night. I would have fled, for surely it was but a fight which should have me, only where was the use. My first step would be to fall, and my foes of either kind could both see and sent me in the dark. All at once I missed the howling, and the catter-walling grew wilder. Then came the soft padding, and I knew it meant flight. The cats had defeated the wolves. In a moment the sharpest of sharp teeth were in my legs, a moment more and the cats were all over me in a live cataract, biting wherever they could bite, furiously scratching me anywhere and everywhere. A multitude clung to my body, I could not flee. Madly I fell on the hateful swarm, every finger instinct with destruction. I tore them off me, I throttled at them in vain. When I would have flung them from me they clung to my hands like limpets. I trampled them under my feet, thrust my fingers in their eyes, caught them in jaws stronger than theirs, but could not rid myself of one. Without cease they kept discovering upon me space for fresh mouthfuls. They hauled at my skin with the widespread, horribly curved pincers of clutching claws. They hissed and spat in my face, but never touched it, until, in my despair, I threw myself on the ground. When they forsook my body, and darted at my face, I rose and immediately they left it, the more to occupy themselves with my legs. In an agony I broke from them and ran, careless wither, cleaving the solid dark. They accompanied me in a surrounding torrent, now rubbing, now leaping up against me, but tormenting me no more. When I fell, which was often, they gave me time to rise. When from fear of falling I slackened my pace they flew afresh at my legs. All that miserable night they kept me running. But they drove me by a comparatively smooth path. For I tumbled into no gully, and passing the evil wood without seeing it, left it behind in the dark. When at length the morning appeared I was beyond the channels and on the verge of the orchard valley. In my joy I would have made friends with my persecutors, but not a cat was to be seen. I threw myself on the moss, and fell fast asleep. I was waked by a kick, to find myself bound hand and foot, once more the thrall of the giants. What fitter I said to myself, to whom else should I belong? And I laughed in the triumph of self-disgust. A second kick stopped my false merriment, and thus recurrently assisted by my captors, I succeeded at length in rising to my feet. Six of them were about me, they undid the rope that tied my legs together, attached a rope to each of them, and dragged me away. I walked as well as I could, but as they frequently pulled both ropes at once I fell repeatedly, whereupon they always kicked me up again. Straight to my old labor they took me, tied my leg ropes to a tree, undid my arms, and put the hateful flint in my left hand. Then they lay down and pelted me with fallen fruit and stones, but seldom hit me. If I could have freed my legs and got hold of a stick I spied a couple of yards from me I would have fallen upon all six of them. But the little ones will come at night, I said to myself, and was comforted. All day I worked hard, when the darkness came they tied my hands and left me fast to the tree. I slept a good deal, but woke often, and every time from a dream of lying in the heart of a heap of children. With the morning my enemies reappeared, bringing their kicks and their bestial company. It was about noon and I was nearly failing from fatigue and hunger when I heard a sudden commotion in the brushwood, followed by a burst of the bell-like laughter so dear to my heart. I gave a loud cry of delight and welcome. Immediately rose a trumpeting as of baby elephants, a neighing as of foals, and a bellowing as of calves, and through the bushes came a crowd of little ones, on diminutive horses, on small elephants, on little bears, but the noises came from the riders not the animals. Mingled with the mounted ones walked the bigger of the boys and girls, among the latter a woman with a baby crowing in her arms. The giants sprang to their lumbering feet, but were instantly saluted with a storm of sharp stones. The horses charged their legs, the bears rose and hugged them at the waist. The elephants, through their trunks round their necks, pulled them down and gave them such a trampling as they had sometimes given but never received before. In a moment my ropes were undone and I was in the arms, seemingly innumerable, of the little ones. For some time I saw no more of the giants. They made me sit down and my lona came and without a word began to feed me with the loveliest red and yellow fruits. I sat and ate, the whole company mount and guard until I had done. Then they brought up two of the largest of their elephants and having placed them side by side, hooked their trunks and tied their tails together. The docile creatures could have untied their tails with a single shake and unhooked their trunks by forgetting them, but tails and trunks remained as their little masters had arranged them, and it was clear the elephants understood that they must keep their bodies parallel. I got up and laid myself in the hollow between their two backs. When the wise animals, counteracting the weight that pushed them apart, leaned against each other and made for me a most comfortable litter. My feet, it is true, projected beyond their tails, but my head lay pillowed on an ear of each. Then some of the smaller children, mounting for a bodyguard, ranged themselves in a row along the back of each of my mirrors. The whole assembly formed itself in train, and the procession began to move. Wither they were carrying me I did not try to conjecture. I yielded myself to their pleasure, almost as happy as they. Chattering and laughing and playing glad tricks innumerable at first. The moment they saw I was going to sleep, they became still as judges. I woke. A sudden musical uproar greeted the opening of my eyes. We were travelling through the forest in which they found the babies, and which, as I had suspected, stretched all the way from the valley to the hot stream. A tiny girl sat with her little feet close to my face and looked down at me coaxingly for a while. Then spoke, the rest seeming to hang on her words. We make a patissin to king, she said. What is it, my darling? I asked. Eyes one minute, she answered.  No, no, not for I tell who, she cried. I opened them again, and we talked and laughed together for quite another hour. Close eyes, she said suddenly. I closed my eyes and kept them close. The elephants stood still. I heard a soft scurry, a little rustle, and then a silence. Or in that world some silences are heard. Open eyes, twenty voices a little way off shouted at once, but when I obeyed not a creature was visible except the elephants that bore me. I knew the children marvelously quick in getting out of the way. The giants had taught them that, but when I raised myself and looked about in the open, shrubless forest, could describe neither hand nor heel, I stared in black astonishment. The sun was set, and it was fast getting dark, yet presently a multitude of birds began to sing. I lay down to listen, pretty sure that if I left them alone, the hiders would soon come out again. The singing grew to a little storm of bird voices, surely the children must have something to do with it, and yet how could they set the birds singing, I said to myself as I lay, and listened. Soon, however, happening to look up into the tree under which my elephants stood, I thought I spied a little motion among the leaves and looked more keenly. Suddenly white spots appeared in the dark foliage, the music died down, a gale of childish laughter rippled the air, and white spots came out in every direction. The trees were full of children. In the wildest merriment they began to descend, some dropping from bow to bow so rapidly that I could scarce believe they had not fallen. I left my litter, and was instantly surrounded, a mark for all the artillery of their jubilant fun. With stately composure the elephants walked away to bed. But, said I, when their uproarious gladness had had scope for a while, how is it that I never before heard you sing like the birds, even when I thought it must be you I could hardly believe it? Ah, said one of the wildest, but we were not birds then. We were run creatures, not fly creatures. We had our hide places in the bushes then, but when we came to no bushes, only trees, we had to build nests. When we built nests we grew birds, and when we were birds we had to do birds. We asked them to teach us their noises, and they taught us, and now we are real birds. Come and see my nest. It's not big enough for king, but it's big enough for king to see me in it. I told him I could not get up a tree without the sun to show me the way. When he came I would try. King seldom have wings, I added. King, king, cried one. Who knows none of us hasn't no wings? Full of fettery tings, arms and legs is better. That is true, I can get up without wings and carry straws in my mouth, too, to build my nest with. Who knows, he answered, and went away sucking his thumb. A moment after I heard him calling out of his nest a great way up a walnut tree of enormous size. Up a den, king! Good night! I seepe! And I heard no more of him till he woke me in the morning. I lay down by a tree, and one and one or in little groups the children left me, and climbed to their nests. They were always so tired at night, and so rested in the morning, that they were equally glad to go to sleep and to get up again. I, although tired also, lay awake. Lona had not bid me good night, and I was sure she would come. I had been struck, the moment I saw her again, with her resemblance to the princess, and could not doubt her the daughter of whom Adam had told me, but in Lona the dazzling beauty of Lilith was softened by childlikeness, and deepened by the sense of motherhood. She is occupied, probably, I said to myself with the child of the woman I met fleeing, who, she had already told me, was not half-mother enough. She came at length, sat down beside me, and after a few moments of silent delight, expressed mainly by stroking my face and hands, began to tell me everything that had befallen since I went. The moon appeared as we talked, and now and then, through the leaves, lighted for a quivering moment, her beautiful face, full of thought and a care whose love redeemed and glorified it.  She drew my heart by what in me was likeest herself, and I loved her as one who, grown to what perfection she might, could only become the more a child. I knew now that I loved her when I left her, and that the hope of seeing her again had been my main comfort. Every word she spoke seemed to go straight to my heart, and, like the truth itself, make it purer. She told me that after I left the Orchard Valley, the giants began to believe a little more in the actual existence of their neighbors and became, in consequence, more hostile to them. Sometimes the little ones would see them trampling furiously, perceiving or imagining some indication of their presence, while they indeed stood beside and laughed at their foolish rage. By and by, however, their animosity assumed a more practical shape.  This drove the mother of them all to meditate counter-action. Setting the sharpest of them to listen at night, she learned that the giants thought I was hidden somewhere near, intending, as soon as I recovered my strength, to come in the dark and kill them sleeping. Thereupon she concluded that the only way to stop the destruction was to give them ground for believing that they had abandoned the place. The little ones must remove into the forest, beyond the range of the giants, but within reach of their own trees, which they must visit by night. The main objection to the plan was that the forest had little or no undergrowth to shelter, or conceal them if necessary. But she reflected that, where birds, there the little ones could find habitation. They had eager sympathies with all modes of life and could learn of the wildest creatures. Why should they not take refuge from the cold and their enemies in the treetops? Why not, having lain in the low brushwood, seek now the lofty foliage? Why not build nests where it would not serve to scoop hollows? All that the birds could do the little ones could learn, except indeed to fly. She spoke to them on the subject and they heard with approval. They could already climb the trees and they had often watched the birds building their nests. The trees of the forest, although large, did not look bad. They went up much nearer the sky than those of the giants and spread out their arms. Some even stretched them down, as if inviting them to come and live with them. Perhaps in the top of the tallest they might find that bird that laid the baby eggs, and sat upon them till they were ripe, then tumbled them down to let the little ones out. Yes, they would build sleep-houses in the trees where no giant would see them, for never by any chance did one throw back his dull head to look up. Then the bad giants would be sure they had left the country, and the little ones would gather their own apples and pears and figs and mesples and peaches when they were asleep. Thus reasoned the lovers and eagerly adopted Lona's suggestion, with the result that they were soon as much at home in the treetops as the birds themselves, and that the giants came ere long to the conclusion that they had frightened them out of the country, whereupon they forgot their trees and, again, almost ceased to believe in the existence of their small neighbors. Lona asked me whether I had not observed that many of the children were grown. I answered I had not, but could readily believe it. She assured me it was so, but said the certain evidence that their minds, too, had grown since their migration upward, had gone far in migration of the alarm the discovery had occasioned her. In the last of the short twilight, and later when the moon was shining, they went down to the valley and gathered fruit enough to serve them the next day, for the giants never went out in the twilight. That to them was darkness, and they hated the moon. Had they been able they would have extinguished her, but soon the little ones found that fruit gathered in the night was not altogether good the next day, so the question arose whether it would not be better, instead of pretending to have left the country, to make the bad giants themselves leave it. They had already, she said, in exploring the forest, made acquaintance with the animals in it, and with most of them personally. Knowing therefore how strong as well as wise and docile some of them were, and how swift as well as manageable many others, they now set themselves to secure their aid against the giants, and with loving, playful approaches had soon made more than friends of most of them, from the first addressing horse or elephant as brother or sister elephant, brother or sister horse, until before long they had an individual name for each. It was some little time longer before they said brother or sister bear, but that came next, and the other day she had heard one little fellow cry, ah, sister serpent, to a snake that bit him as he played with it too roughly. Most of them would have nothing to do with a caterpillar, except watch it through its changes, but when at length it came from its retirement with wings all would immediately address it as sister butterfly, congratulating it on its metamorphosis, for which they used a word that meant something like repentance, and evidently regarding it as something sacred. One moonlit evening as they were going to gather their fruit, they came upon a woman seated on the ground with a baby in her lap, the woman I had met on my way to Bulica. They took her for a giantess that had stolen one of their babies, for they regarded all babies as their property.  She would have fled, but a boy threw himself down and held her by the feet. Recovering her wits she recognized in her assailants the children whose hospitality she sought, and at once yielded the baby. Lona appeared and carried it away in her bosom. But while the woman noted that in striking her they were careful not to hurt the child, the little ones noted that as she surrendered her she hugged and kissed her, just as they wanted to do, and came to the conclusion that she must be a giantess of the same kind as the good giant. The moment Lona had the baby, therefore, they brought the mother fruit, and began to show her every sort of childish attention. Now the woman had been in perplexity with her to be take herself, not daring to go back to the city because the princess was certain to find out who had lame'd her leperdess, delighted with the friendliness of the little people she resolved to remain with them for the present, she would have no trouble with her infant, and might find some way of returning to her husband, who was rich in money and gems, and very seldom unkind to her. Here I must supplement, partly from conjecture, what Lona told me about the woman. With the rest of the inhabitants of Bulica she was aware of the tradition that the princess lived in terror of the birth of an infant destined to her destruction. They were all unacquainted, however, with the frightful means by which she preserved her youth and beauty, and her deteriorating physical condition requiring a larger use of those means, they took the apparent increase of her hostility to children for a sign that she saw her doom approaching. This, although no one dreamed of any attempt against her, nourished in them hopes of change. Now arose in the mind of the woman the idea of furthering the fulfilment of the shadowy prediction, or of using the myth at least for her own restoration to her husband, for what seemed more probable than that the fate foretold lay with these very children. They were marvelously brave and the Bulica's cowards in abject terror of animals. If she could rouse in the little ones the ambition of taking the city, then in the confusion of the attack she would escape from the little army, reach her house unrecognised, and there, lying hidden, await the result. Should the children now succeed in expelling the giants, she would begin at once, while they were yet flushed with victory, to suggest the loftier aim. By disposition, indeed, they were unfit for warfare. They hardly ever quarreled and never fought, loved every live thing, and hated either to hurt or to suffer. Still, they were easily influenced, and could certainly be taught any exercise within her strength. At once she set some of the smaller ones throwing stones at a mark, and soon they were all engrossed with the new game, and growing skillful in it. The first practical result was their use of stones in my rescue. While gathering fruit they found me asleep, went home. All the council came the next day with their elephants and horses, overwhelmed the few giants watching me, and carried me off. Jubilant over their victory the smaller boys were childishly boastful, the bigger boys less ostentatious, while the girls, although their eyes flashed more, were not so talkative as usual. The woman of Bulica no doubt felt encouraged. We talked the greater part of the night chiefly about the growth of the children and what it might indicate. With Lona's power of recognizing truth I had long been familiar, now I began to be astonished at her practical wisdom. Probably had I been more of a child myself, I should have wondered less. It was yet far from morning when I became aware of a slight fluttering and scrambling. I rose on my elbow, and looking about me saw many little ones descend from their nests. They disappeared, and in a few moments all was again still. What are they doing, I asked.  Stones are not plentiful in the forest, and they have to scatter far to find enough. They will carry them to their nests, and from the trees attack the giants as they come within reach. Knowing their habits they do not expect them before the dying. If they do come it will be the opening of a war of expulsion. One or the other people must go. The result, however, is hardly doubtful. We do not mean to kill them. Indeed their skulls are so thick that I do not think we could. Not that killing would do them much harm. They are so little alive. If one were killed his giantess would not remember him beyond three days. Did the children then throw so well that the thing might happen, I asked? Wait till you see them, she answered with a touch of pride. But I have not yet told you, she went on, of a strange thing that happened the night before last. We had come home from gathering our fruit and were asleep in our nests when we were roused by the horrid noises of beasts fighting. The moon was bright, and in a moment our trees glittered with staring little eyes, watching two huge leperduses, one perfectly white, the other covered with black spots, which worried and tore each other with I do not know how many teeth and claws. To judge by her back, the spotted creature must have been climbing a tree when the other sprang upon her. When I first saw them, they were just under my own tree, rolling over and over each other. I got down on the lowest branch and saw them perfectly. The children enjoyed the spectacle, siding some with this one, some with that, for we had never seen such beasts before and thought they were only at play. But by degrees, their roaring and growling almost ceased, and I saw that they were indebtly earnest and heartily wished neither might be left able to climb a tree. But when the children saw the blood pouring from their flanks and throats, what do you think they did? They scurried down to comfort them and, gathering in a great crowd about the terrible creatures, began to pat and stroke them. Then I got down as well, for they were much too absorbed to heed my calling to them, but before I could reach them, the white one stopped fighting and sprang among them with such a hideous yell that they flew up into the trees like birds. Before I got back into mine, the wicked beasts were added again, tooth and claw. Then Whitey had the best of it, Spotty ran away as fast as she could run, and Whitey came and lay down at the foot of my tree. But in a minute or two she was up again and walking about as if she thought Spotty might be lurking somewhere. I waked often, and every time I looked out I saw her. In the morning she went away. I know both the beasts, I said, Spotty is a bad beast, she hates the children and would kill every one of them. But Whitey loves them, she ran at them only to frighten them away lest Spotty should get hold of any of them. No one needs to be afraid of Whitey. By this time the little ones were coming back and with much noise, for they had no care to keep quiet now that they were at open war with the giants and laden with good stones. They mounted to their nests again, though with difficulty because of their burdens, and in a minute were fast asleep. Lona retired to her tree. I lay where I was and slept the better that I thought most likely the White Leopardess was still somewhere in the wood. I woke soon after the sun and lay pondering. Two hours passed and then in truth the giants began to appear, in straggling companies of three and four, until I counted over a hundred of them. The children were still asleep and to call them would draw the attention of the giants. I would keep quiet so long as they did not discover me. But by and by one came blundering upon me, stumbled, fell, and rose again. I thought he would pass heedless, but he began to search about. I sprang to my feet and struck him in the middle of his huge body. The roar he gave roused the children and a storm as of hail instantly came on, of which not a stone struck me and not one missed the giant. He fell and lay. Others drew near and the storm extended. Each perblant creature becoming, as he entered the range of a garrisoned tree, a target for converging stones. In a short time almost every giant was prostrate and a jubilant pain of birdsong rose from the tops of fifty trees. Many elephants came hurrying up and the children descending the trees like monkeys, in a moment every elephant had three or four of them on his back and thus loaded began to walk over the giants, who lay and roared. Losing patience at length with their noise the elephants gave them a few blows of their trunks and left them. Until night the bad giants remained where they had fallen, silent and motionless. The next morning they had disappeared every one and the children saw no more of them. They removed to the other end of the orchard valley and never after ventured into the forest. CHAPTER XXXIV of Lilith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Pete Williams. Lilith by George MacDonald. CHAPTER XXXIV Preparation Victory thus gained the woman of Bulaca began to speak about the city and talked much of its defenseless condition, of the wickedness of its princess, of the cowardice of its inhabitants. In a few days the children chattered of nothing but Bulaca, although indeed they had not the least notion of what a city was. Then first I became aware of the design of the woman, although not yet of its motive. The idea of taking possession of the place recommended itself greatly to Lona, and to me also. The children were now so rapidly developing faculty that I could see no serious obstacle to the success of the enterprise. For the terrible Lilith, woman or lepertice, I knew her one vulnerable point. Her doom through her daughter, and the influence the ancient prophecy had upon the citizens, surely whatever in the enterprise could be called risk, was worth taking. Successful, and who could doubt their success, must not the little ones, from a crowd of children, speedily become a youthful people, whose government and influence would be all for righteousness? Using the wicked with a rod of iron, would they not be the redemption of the nation? At the same time I have to confess that I was not without views of personal advantage, not without ambition in the undertaking. It was just, it seemed to me, that Lona should take her seat on the throne that had been her mother's, and natural that she should make me her consort and minister. For me I would spend my life in her service, and between us what might we not do with such a core to it as the little ones for the development of a noble state? I confess also to an altogether foolish dream of opening a commerce in gems between the two worlds. Happily impossible, for it could have done nothing but harm to both. Calling to mind the appeal of Adam I suggested to Lona that to find them water might perhaps expedite the growth of the little ones. She judged it prudent, however, to leave that alone for the end, as we did not know what its first consequences might be, while in the course of time it would almost certainly subject them to a new necessity. They are what they are without it, she said. When we have the city we will search for water. We began, therefore, and pushed forward our preparation, constantly reviewing the merry troops and companies. Lona gave her attention chiefly to the commissariat while I drilled the little soldiers, exercised them in stone-throwing, bought them the use of some other weapons and did all I could to make warriors of them. The main difficulty was to get them to rally to their flag the instant the call was sounded. Most of them were armed with slings, some of the bigger boys with bows and arrows. The bigger girls carried aloe spikes, strong as steel and sharp as needles, fitted to long as shafts, rather formidable weapons. Their sole duty was the charge of such as were too small to fight. Lona had herself grown a good deal, but did not seem aware of it. She had always been, as she still was, the tallest. Her hair was much longer, and she was become almost a woman, but not one beauty of childhood had she outgrown. When first we met after our long separation she laid down her infant, put her arms round my neck, and clung to me silent, her face glowing with gladness.  To see her with any thoughtless, obstinate, or irritable little one was to think of a tender grandmother. I seemed to have known her for ages, for always, from before time began. I hardly remembered my mother, but in my mind's eye she now looked like Lona, and if I imagined sister or child invariably she had the face of Lona. My every imagination flew to her. She was my heart's wife. She hardly ever sought me, but was almost always within sound of my voice. What I did or thought, I referred constantly to her, and rejoiced to believe that, while doing her work in absolute independence, she was most at home by my side. Never for me did she neglect the smallest child, and my love only quickened my sense of duty. To love her and to do my duty seemed not indeed one but inseparable. She might suggest something I should do. She might ask me what she ought to do, but she never seemed to suppose that I, any more than she, would like to do or could care about anything except what must be done. Her love overflowed upon me, not in caresses, but in a closeness of recognition which I can compare to nothing but the devotion of a divine animal. I never told her anything about her mother. The wood was full of birds, the splendor of whose plumage, while it took nothing from their song, seemed almost to make up for the lack of flowers, which apparently could not grow without water. Their glorious feathers, being everywhere about in the forest, it came into my heart to make from them a garment for Lona. While I gathered and bound them in overlapping rows, she watched me with evident appreciation of my choice and arrangement, never asking what I was fashioning, but evidently waiting expectant the result of my work. In a week or two it was finished, a long loose mantle to fasten at the throat and waist, with openings for the arms. I rose and put it on her. She rose, took it off, and laid it at my feet, I imagine from a sense of propriety. I put it again on her shoulders and showed her where to put her arms through. She smiled, looked at the feathers a little and stroked them, again took it off and laid it down, this time by her side. When she left me she carried it with her, and I saw no more of it for some days. At length she came to me one morning wearing it and carrying another garment which she had fashioned similarly, but of the dried leaves of a tough evergreen. It had the strength almost of leather and the appearance of scale armor. I put it on at once and we always thereafter wore those garments when on horseback. For on the outskirts of the forest had appeared one day a troop of full-grown horses, with which, as they were no wise alarmed at creatures of a shape so different from their own, I had soon made friends, and two of the finest I had trained for Lona and myself. Already accustomed to ride a small one, her delight was great when first she looked down from the back of an animal of the giant kind, and the horse showed himself proud of the burden he bore. We exercised them every day until they had such confidence in us as to obey instantly and fear nothing, after which we always rode them at parade and on the march. The undertaking did indeed at times appear to me a full hearty one, but the confidence of the woman of Bulica, real or simulated, always overcame my hesitancy. The princess's magic, she insisted, would prove powerless against the children, and as to any force she might muster, our animal allies alone would assure our superiority. She was herself, she said, ready, with a good stick, to encounter any two men of Bulica. She confessed to not a little fear of the Leopardous, but I was myself ready for her. I shrank, however, from carrying all the children with us. Would it not be better, I said, that you remained in the forest with your baby and the smallest of the little ones? She answered that she greatly relied on the impression the sight of them would make on the women, especially the mothers. When they see the darlings, she said, their hearts will be taken by storm, and I must be there encouraging them to make a stand. If there be a remnant of hardyhood in the place, it will be found among the women. You must not encumber yourself, I said to Lona, with any of the children, you will be wanted everywhere. For there were two babies besides the women, and even on horseback she had almost always won in her arms. I do not remember ever being without a child to take care of, she answered, but when we reach the city it shall be as you wish. Her confidence in one who had failed so unworthily shamed me. But neither had I initiated the movement nor had I any ground for opposing it. I had no choice but must give it the best help I could.  Her humility as well as her trust humbled me, and I gave myself heartily to her purposes. Our way lying across a grassy plain there was no need to take food for the horses, or the two cows which would accompany us for the infants, but the elephants had to be provided for. True, the grass was as good for them as for those other animals, but it was short, and with their one-fingered long noses they could not pick enough for a single meal. We had, therefore, set the whole colony to gather grass and make hay, of which the elephants themselves could carry a quantity sufficient to last them several days, with the supplement of what we would gather fresh every time we halted. For the bears we stored nuts, and for ourselves dried plenty of fruits. We had caught and tamed several more of the big horses, and now having loaded them and the elephants with these provisions we were prepared to set out. Then Lona and I held a general review, and I made them a little speech. I began by telling them that I had learned a good deal about them, and knew now where they came from. We did not come from anywhere, they cried, interrupting me. We are here. I told them that every one of them had a mother of his own, like the mother of the last baby, that I believed they had all been brought from Bulica when they were so small that they could not now remember it, that the wicked princess there was so afraid of babies, and so determined to destroy them, that their mother had to carry them away and leave them where she could not find them, and that now we were going to Bulica to find their mothers and deliver them from the bad giantus. But I must tell you, I continued, that there is danger before us, for as you know we may have to fight hard to take the city. We can fight, we are ready, cried the boys. Yes, you can, I returned, and I know you will. Mothers are worth fighting for. Only mind, you must all keep together. Yes, yes, we'll take care of each other, they answered. Nobody shall touch one of us but his own mother. You must mind every one to do immediately what your officers tell you. We will, we will. Now we're quite ready, let us go. Another thing you must not forget, I went on, when you strike, be sure you make it a downright swinging blow. When you shoot an arrow, draw it to the head. When you sling a stone, sling it strong and straight. That we will, they cried with jubilant, fearless shout. Perhaps you will be hurt. We don't mind that, do we, boys? Not a bit. Some of you may very possibly be killed, I said. I don't mind being killed, cried one of the finest of the smaller boys. He rode a beautiful little bull, which galloped and jumped like a horse. I don't either, I don't either, came from all sides. Then Lona, queen and mother and sister of them all, spoke from her big horse by my side. I would give my life, she said, to have my mother. She might kill me if she liked.  Come along, boys, cried a girl, we're going to our mothers. A pang went through my heart, but I could not draw back. It would be moral ruin to the little ones. CHAPTER 35 THE LITTLE ONES IN BULIKA It was early in the morning when we set out, making, between the blue sky and the green grass, a gallant show on the wide plain. We would travel all the morning and rest the afternoon, then go on at night, rest the next day, and start again in the short twilight. The latter part of our journey we would endeavor so to divide as to arrive at the city with the first of the morning, and be already inside the gates when discovered. It seemed as if all the inhabitants of the forest would migrate with us. A multitude of birds flew in front, imagining themselves, no doubt, the leading division. Great companies of butterflies and other insects played about our heads, and a crowd of four-footed creatures followed us. These last, when night came, left us almost all, but the birds and the butterflies, the wasps and the dragonflies, went with us to the very gates of the city. We halted and slept soundly through the afternoon. It was our first real march, but none were tired. In the night we went faster, because it was cold. Many fell asleep on the backs of their beasts, and woke in the morning quite fresh. None tumbled off. Some rode shaggy, shambling bears, which yet made speed enough, going as fast as the elephants. Others were mounted on different kinds of deer, and would have been racing all the way had I not prevented it. As a top of the hay on the elephants, unable to see the animals below them, would keep talking to them as long as they were awake. Once, when we had halted to feed, I heard a little fellow as he drew out the hay to give him commune thus with his darling beast. "'Nosey dear, I am digging you out of the mountain, and shall soon get down to you. Be patient. I am coming.  The same night there burst out such a tumult of elephant-trumpeting, horse-naying and child imitation, ringing far over the silent levels that, uncertain how near the city might not be, I quickly stilled the uproar lest it should give warning of our approach. Suddenly one morning the sun and the city rose, as it seemed, together. To the children the walls appeared only a great mass of rock, but when I told them the inside was full of nests of stone, I saw apprehension and dislike at once invade their hearts. For the first time in their lives I believe, many of them, long little lives, they knew fear. The place looked to them bad. How were they to find mothers in such a place? But they went on bravely, for they had confidence in Lona, and in me too little as I deserved it. We rode through the sounding archway. Sure never had such a drumming of hooves, such a padding of paws and feet been heard on its old pavement. The horses started and looked scared at the echo of their own steps. Some halted a moment, some plunged wildly and wheeled about, but they were soon quieted and went on. Some of the little ones shivered, and all were still as death. The three girls held closer the infants they carried. All except the bears and butterflies manifested fear. On the countenance of the woman lay a dark anxiety, nor was I myself unaffected by the general dread, for the whole army was on my hands and on my conscience. I had brought it up to the danger whose shadow was now making itself felt. But I was supported by the thought of the coming kingdom of the little ones, with the bad giants its slaves and the animals its loving obedient friends. Alas, I who dreamed thus had not myself learned to obey. Untrusting, unfaithful obstinacy had set me at the head of that army of innocents. I was myself but a slave, like any king in the world I had left who does or would do only what pleases him. But Lona rode beside me a child indeed, therefore a free woman, calm, silent, watchful, not a wit afraid. We were nearly in the heart of the city before any of its inhabitants became aware of our presence. But now windows began to open and sleepy heads to look out. Every face wore at first a dull stare of wonderless astonishment which, as soon as the sterrers perceived the animals, changed to one of consternation. In spite of their fear, however, when they saw that their invaders were almost all children, the women came running into the streets and the men followed. But for a time all of them kept close to the houses, leaving open the middle of the way for they durst not approach the animals.  But the hand of a man came over her shoulder and seized him by the neck. Instantly a girl ran her sharp spear into the fellow's arm. He sent forth a savage howl, and immediately stabbed by two or three more, fled, yelling.  He dared not abide the shock but slunk aside, and the next moment went down, struck by several stones. Another huge fellow, avoiding my charger, stepped suddenly, with a speech whose rudeness alone was intelligible, between me and the boy who rode behind me.  Before the brute could strike him again, however, one of the elephants behind laid him prostrate and trampled on him so that he did not attempt to get up until hundreds of feet had walked over him, and the army was gone by. But at sight of the women what a dismay clouded the face of Lona, hardly one of them was even pleasant to look upon, were her darlings to find mothers among such as these? Hardly had we halted in the central square when two girls rode up in anxious haste with the tidings that two of the boys had been hurried away by some women. We turned at once, and then first discovered that the woman we befriended had disappeared with her baby. But at the same moment we described a white lepertus come bounding toward us down a narrow lane that led from the square to the palace. The little ones had not forgotten the fight of the two lepertuses in the forest, some of them looked terrified and their ranks began to waver, but they remembered the order I had just given them and stood fast. We stopped to see the result when suddenly a small boy, called Odu, remarkable for his speed and courage, who had heard me speak of the goodness of the white lepertus, leaped from the back of his bear which went shambling after him and ran to meet her. The lepertus, to avoid knocking him down, pulled herself up so suddenly that she went rolling over and over. When she recovered her feet she found the child on her back. Who could doubt the subjugation of a people which saw an urchin of the enemy bestride an animal of which they lived in daily terror? Confident of the effect on the whole army, we rode on. As we stopped at the house to which our guides led us, we heard a scream. I sprang down and thundered at the door.  When up came little Odu on the lepertus, and at sight of her he stood still, trembling.  The boy was dashed against it and fell senseless. Before I could reach him Lona had him in her arms, and as soon as he came to himself set him on the back of his bear, which had still followed him. When the lepertus threw herself the third time against the door it gave way, and she darted in. We followed, but she had already vanished. We sprang up a stair and went all over the house to find no one. Darding down again we spied a door under the stair and got into a labyrinth of excavations. We had not gone far, however, when we met the lepertus with the child we sought across her back. He told us that the woman he took for his mother threw him into a hole, saying she would give him to the lepertus, but the lepertus was a good one, and took him out. Following in search of the other boy we got into the next house more easily but to find alas that we were too late. One of the savages had just killed the little captive. It consoled Lona, however, to learn which he was, for she had been expecting him to grow a bad giant from which worst of fate's death had saved him. The lepertus sprang upon his murderer, took him by the throat, dragged him into the street, and followed Lona with him like a cat with a great rat in her jaws. "'Does leave the horrible place,' said Lona, "'there are no mothers here. This people is not worth delivering.'" The lepertus dropped her burden and charged into the crowd, this way and that, wherever it was thickest. The slaves cried out and ran, tumbling over each other in heaps. When we got back to the army we found it as we had left it, standing in order and ready. When I was far from easy the princess gave no sign and what she might be plotting we did not know. Watch and ward must be kept the night through. The little ones were such hardy creatures that they could repose anywhere. We told them to lie down with their animals where they were and sleep till they were called. In one moment they were down and in another lapped in the music of their sleep, a sound as of water over grass or a soft wind among leaves. Their animals slept more lightly, ever on the edge of waking. The bigger boys and girls walked softly hither and thither among the dreaming mull-