Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.

“Speak!” he said.

“Speak!” quavered Fortin.

Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he stripped off the mask and threw back the man’s head.  We were looking into the eye sockets of a skull.  Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked.  The skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the ground before us.  From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted a torrent of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the thing shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog.  Little bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering its wings.

It was a death’s-head moth.

* * * * *

I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions—­for she never knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, since she has promised not to read this book.  I wish I might tell you about the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted.  I wish that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar hunt in Quimperle, and how the hounds raced the quarry right through the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman.  But I am becoming garrulous and Lys is calling me to come and hear the king say that he is sleepy.  And his highness shall not be kept waiting.

THE KING’S CRADLE SONG

      Seal with a seal of gold
      The scroll of a life unrolled;
    Swathe him deep in his purple stole;
    Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal,
      Drops of gold in each scented fold.

    Crimson wings of the Little Death,
    Stir his hair with your silken breath;
    Flaming wings of sins to be,
    Splendid pinions of prophecy,
      Smother his eyes with hues and dyes,
    While the white moon spins and the winds arise,
      And the stars drip through the skies.

      Wave, O wings of the Little Death! 
      Seal his sight and stifle his breath,
    Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed;
    From north to north, from west to west,
      Wave, O wings of the Little Death! 
    Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies,
      And the ghosts of God arise.

Lazarus

BY LEONID ANDREYEV

TRANSLATED BY ABRAHAM YARMOLINSKY

     From Lazarus and the Gentleman from San Francisco.  Published by
     The Stratford Company.  By permission of the publishers.

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