of happy insects, whose hum of intense joy was musically loud.  But the form of the life-seeking sorcerer lay rigid and stark; blind to the bloom of the wild flowers, deaf to the glee of the insects—­one hand still resting heavily on the rim of the emptied caldron, and the face still hid behind the Black Veil.  What! the wondrous elixir, sought with such hope and well-nigh achieved through such dread, fleeting back to the earth from which its material was drawn to give bloom, indeed—­but to herbs; joy indeed—­but to insects!

And now, in the flash of the sun, slowly wound up the slopes that led to the circle, the same barbaric procession which had sunk into the valley under the ray of the moon.  The armed men came first, stalwart and tall, their vests brave with crimson and golden lace, their weapons gayly gleaming with holiday silver.  After them, the Black Litter.  As they came to the place, Ayesha, not raising her head, spoke to them in her own Eastern tongue.  A wail was her answer.  The armed men bounded forward, and the bearers left the litter.

All gathered round the dead form with the face concealed under the Black Veil; all knelt, and all wept.  Far in the distance, at the foot of the blue mountains, a crowd of the savage natives had risen up as if from the earth; they stood motionless leaning on their clubs and spears, and looking toward the spot on which we were—­ strangely thus brought into the landscape, as if they too, the wild dwellers on the verge which Humanity guards from the Brute, were among the mourners for the mysterious Child of mysterious Nature!  And still, in the herbage, hummed the small insects, and still, from the cavern, laughed the great kingfisher.  I said to Ayesha, “Farewell! your love mourns the dead, mine calls me to the living.  You are now with your own people, they may console you—­say if I can assist.”

“There is no consolation for me!  What mourner can be consoled if the dead die forever?  Nothing for him is left but a grave; that grave shall be in the land where the song of Ayesha first lulled him to sleep.  Thou assist me—­thou, the wise man of Europe!  From me ask assistance.  What road wilt thou take to thy home?”

“There is but one road known to me through the maze of the solitude—­that which we took to this upland.”

“On that road Death lurks, and awaits thee!  Blind dupe, couldst thou think that if the grand secret of life had been won, he whose head rests on my lap would have yielded thee one petty drop of the essence which had filched from his store of life but a moment?  Me, who so loved and so cherished him—­me he would have doomed to the pitiless cord of my servant, the Strangler, if my death could have lengthened a hairbreadth the span of his being.  But what matters to me his crime or his madness?  I loved him, I loved him!”

She bowed her veiled head lower and lower; perhaps under the veil her lips kissed the lips of the dead.  Then she said whisperingly: