It was a stormy night. At rare intervals a weak moon-ray darted between hurrying black clouds and mingled itself strangely with the throbbings of lightning. A warm salt-laden wind was blowing violently. On the left shore of the Bosphorus a horseman was approaching a lonely ruin. In immemorial Trojan times this fortification had been used as a watch-tower. It was now little more than a heap of stones and half-demolished walls, overgrown by tall grass. But at its foot a small chamber still served as shelter to shepherds and poor travellers.
Tethering his horse under a dismantled doorway, and brushing through the burdock-leaves, the rider knocked at a low door—
"It is I, Meroë! Open!..."
An old Egyptian woman opened the door and admitted him to the interior of the tower. The traveller came near a torch which lighted up his face. He was Julian the Emperor.
The two went out, the old woman, who knew the place well, leading Julian by the hand. Parting the briers and thistles she revealed a low entry in one face of a little ravine in the cliff, and went down the steps within. The sea lay near, and the shock of the waves below made the cliff tremble, but arched rockwalls completely sheltered them from the wind. The Egyptian halted—
"Here, my lord, is a lamp, and the key. You must turn it twice. The monastery-door is open. If youmeet the guardian brother, fear nothing; I have given him money. Only make no mistake; it is in the upper passage, the third cell to the left."
Julian opened the door and took a long time descending a steep slope of huge stone-hewn steps. The tunnel soon became a passage, so narrow that two men could not pass each other in it. This secret way joined the watch-tower on the opposite bank of the chasm with a new Christian monastery.
Julian emerged high above the sea, but still between steep cliffs washed by the tide. He began to climb a narrow rocky stair by daylight. Arrived at the summit he found a brick wall, which he climbed with some difficulty. He found himself in the little cloistered garden.
He penetrated farther into a small court, in which the walls were hung with wild roses. The air was full of perfume. The shutters of one of the windows on the ground floor were not closed from within. Julian gently opened them, and entered through the window. A gust of imprisoned air filled his nostrils with odours of moisture, incense, mice, medicinal herbs, and fresh apples, with which the cautious nuns had filled their stores.
The Emperor went along a corridor into which opened two rows of doors. He counted the third to the left and softly opened it. An alabaster lamp faintly lighted the cell. He made his breathing as noiseless as possible.
A woman, dressed in the dark robe of a nun, lay stretched upon a low bed. She must have fallen asleep during prayer, too weary to undress. Long lashes shadowed the pale cheeks, and the brows wore a slight majestic frown, like the frown of the dead.
Julian recognised Arsinoë.
She had greatly changed. Her hair alone had remained unaltered. It was still golden brown at its roots, and at its ends pale yellow, like honey standing in the sun.
The eyelids trembled. She sighed.
Before Julian's remembrance arose that proud body of the young Amazon bathed in light, dazzling as the mellow Parthenon marbles, and, with a gesture of irresistible love, Julian stretched out his arms to the nun sleeping under the shadow of the tall black cross. He murmured—
"Arsinoë!"
The girl opened her eyes, and gazed at him without astonishment or fear, as if she had known he would come. But returning to herself, she shivered, and passed her hand over her forehead.
He came near her—
"Fear nothing; at a word from you I will go away."
"Why have you come?"
"I wished to know if indeed...."
"What matters it, Julian? We cannot understand each other."
"Do you really believe in 'Him,' Arsinoë?"
She made no answer and lowered her eyes.
"Do you remember our night at Athens?" continued the Emperor. "Do you remember then how you tempted me, the Galilean monk, as now I am tempting you? The old pride, the old force, are still on your face, Arsinoë, and not humility, O slave of the Galilean! Tell me the truth."
"I wish for power," she said in a low tone.
"Power! Then you still remember our compact—our alliance?" exclaimed Julian joyfully.
She shook her head, with a sad smile—
"Oh no! Power over the people is not worth the labour of obtaining it.Youhave learned that!"
"And this is why you go forth into the desert?"
"Yes ... and for freedom's sake."
"Arsinoë, as of old, you care only for yourself!"
"I wish to love others as 'He' commands, but I cannot. I detest them, and I detest myself!"
"Then it is better not to live!"
"One must conquer oneself," she said slowly. "One must conquer in oneself not only the distaste for death but also distaste for life, which is very difficult, because a life like mine is much more terrible than death. But if one succeeds in self-conquest to the end, Life and Death become as nothing, and a greater liberty is gained!"
Her fine brows were knit into a frown of indomitable will.
Julian looked at her in despair.
"What have they made of you?" he murmured. "You are all, all, executioners and martyrs! Why do you keep torturing yourselves? Do you not see that within your soul there is nothing but hate and despair?"
She fixed on him eyes full of anger—
"Why did you come here? I never summoned you. Go!... What matters it to me what you think! My own thoughts and sufferings are enough for me to bear. There is an abyss between us which none living can cross over. You tell me that I do not believe.... That is precisely the cause of my self-hatred. I do not believe, but I wish to believe. Do you understand? I wish and I shall believe. I shall force myself. I shall torture my flesh—dry it up by hunger and thirst, make it more unfeeling than stones.I will tame my intelligence, I will slay it, I will kill it, because it is the Devil, and more seducing than any passion. That shall be my last victory, and the best, because it will set me free. Then I shall see if anything will dare revolt in me and say, 'I do not believe!'"
She stretched her joined hands heavenward, with a suppliant gesture—
"Lord, have mercy upon me! Lord, where art Thou? Hear me, and pardon me!"
Julian flung himself on his knees before her, drew her to himself, and his triumphant eyes sparkled—
"O girl, I see now, you are not able to leave us! You willed it, but willed the impossible! Come! Come now with me! To-morrow you shall be the spouse of the Roman Emperor, mistress of the world! I have entered this place like a thief; I shall go out with my prey like a lion! What a victory over the Galileans! Who can hinder us? We will dare everything, and walk as gods!"
The face of Arsinoë became sad and tranquil. She looked at Julian pityingly, without thrusting him away—
"Unhappy man!... You are unhappy as I. You yourself know not whither you wish to lead me. On whom do you reckon? In whom put your trust? Your gods are decaying, dead.... I will flee into the desert, far from contaminating fables, far from this terrifying smell of rottenness. Leave me.... I can aid you in nothing.... Go...."
Wrath and passion shone in Julian's eyes; but more calmly still, and so pityingly that his very heart shivered and froze as under the blow of deadly insult, she went on—
"Why do you delude yourself? Areyounot wavering, perishable, as we all are? Think: what means this charity of yours? These guest-houses—these sermons of the sacrificial priests? All that is new, unknown to the ancient heroes of Hellas.... Julian! Julian! areyourgods the ancient Olympians, luminous and pitiless—terrible sons of the azure—rejoicing in the blood of victims and in the pains of mortals? Human blood and suffering were the very nectar of the old gods! Yours, seduced by the faith of the fishermen of Capernaum, are sick and humble weaklings, full of compassion for men.... But that pity is mortal to your gods!
"Yes," she continued implacably; "you are sick, you are all too weak for your wisdom! That is your penalty, Hellenists of too late a day. You have strength neither for good nor for evil. You are neither day nor night, nor life nor death; your heart wavers, here and there. You have left one bank, and cannot reach the other. You believe, and you do not believe. You betray yourselves, you hesitate; you will, and you do not will, because you do not know on what to set your will. They alone are strong who, seeing one truth, are blind to all other. They will conquer us—us who are wise and weak!"
Julian raised his head with an effort, as if waking from some evil dream, and said—
"You are unjust, Arsinoë. My soul does not know fear, nor my will weakness. The forces of destiny are leading me. If it is written that I shall die too soon—and I know it is so—my death shall not be unworthy of the sight of the gods. Farewell. I bear you no anger, because now to me you are as one dead!"