"And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss!"
Again the silence fell, but the form did not move, and still they stood regarding him.
>From far away came the sound of the ghost-music. The head against the wall began to move as if waking from sleep. The hands sank along the wall and fell by the sides. The earl gave a deep sigh, but still stood leaning his forehead against the wall.
Arctura turned, and they left the room.
She went down the stair, and on to the library. Its dark oak cases and old bindings reflected hardly a ray of the poor taper she carried; but the fire was not yet quite out. She set down the light, and looked at Donal in silence.
"What does it all mean?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"God knows!" she returned solemnly.
"Are we safe?" he asked. "May he not come here?"
"I do not think he will. I have seen him in many parts of the house, but never here."
Even as she spoke the door swung noiselessly open, and the earl entered. His face was ghastly pale; his eyes were wide open; he came straight towards them. But he did not see them; or if he did, he saw them but as phantoms of the dream in which he was walking--phantoms which had not yet become active in the dream. He drew a chair to the embers, in his fancy doubtless a great fire, sat for a moment or two gazing into them, rose, went the whole length of the room, took down a book, returned with it to the fire, drew towards him Arctura's tiny taper, opened the book, and began to read in an audible murmur.
Donal, trying afterwards to recall and set down what he had heard, wrote nothing better than this:--
In the heart of the earth-cave Lay the king.
Through chancel and choir and nave The bells ring.
Said the worm at his side, Sweet fool, Turn to thy bride;
Is the night so cool?
Wouldst thou lie like a stone till the aching morn Out of the dark be born?
Heavily pressed the night enorm, But he heard the voice of the worm, Like the sound of a muttered thunder low, In the realms where no feet go.
And he said, I will rise, I will will myself glad;
I will open my eyes, And no more sleep sad.
For who is a god But the man who can spring Up from the sod, And be his own king?
I will model my gladness, Dig my despair--And let goodness or badness Be folly's own care!
I will he content, And the world shall spin round Till its force be outspent.
It shall drop Like a top Spun by a boy, While I sit in my tent, In a featureless joy--Sit without sound, And toss up my world, Till it burst and be drowned In the blackness upcurled >From the deep hell-ground.
The dreams of a god Are the worlds of his slaves:
I will be my own god, And rule my own knaves!
He went on in this way for some minutes; then the rimes grew less perfect, and the utterance sank into measured prose. The tone of the speaker showed that he took the stuff for glowing verse, and regarded it as embodying his own present consciousness. One might have thought the worm would have a word to say in rejoinder; but no; the worm had vanished, and the buried dreamer had made himself a god--his own god! Donal stole up softly behind him, and peeped at the open book: it was the Novum Organum!
They glided out of the room, and left the dreamer to his dreams.
"Do you think," said Donal, "I ought to tell Simmons?"
"It would be better. Do you know where to find him?"
"I do not."
"I will show you a bell that rings in his room. He will think his lordship has rung it."
They went and rang the bell. In a minute or two they heard the steps of the faithful servant seeking his master, and bade each other good-night.
