The Slayer of Souls

Her lowered eyes rested steadily on her ring-finger. "Yes," she said. "And I am not – unhappy, or – afraid."

She lifted her blue gaze to his; and, somehow, he thought of her barbaric name, Keuke, – and its Yezidee significance, "heavenly – azure."

"Are we really going away together?" she asked timidly.

"Certainly, if you wish."

"If you, also, wish it, Mr. Cleves."

He found himself saying with emphasis that he always wished to do what she desired. And he added, more gently:

"You are tired, Tressa – tired and lonely and unhappy."

"Tired, but not the – others."

"Not unhappy?"

"No."

"Aren't you lonely?"

"Not with you."

The answer came so naturally, so calmly, that the slight sensation of pleasure it gave him arrived only as an agreeable afterglow.

"We'll go South," he said… "I'm so glad that you don't feel lonely with me."

"Will it be warmer where we are going, Mr. Cleves?"

"Yes – you poor child! You need warmth and sunshine, don't you? Was it warm in Yian, where you lived so many years?"

"It was always June in Yian," she said under her breath.

She seemed to have fallen into a revery; he watched the sensitive face. Almost imperceptibly it changed; became altered, younger, strangely lovely.

Presently she looked up – and it seemed to him that it was not Tressa Norne at all he saw, but little Keuke – Heavenly Azure – of the Yezidee temple, as she dropped one slim knee over the other and crossed her hands above it.

"It was very beautiful in Yian," she said, " – Yian of the thousand bridges and scented gardens so full of lilies. Even after they took me to the temple, and I thought the world was ending, God's skies still remained soft overhead, and His weather fair and golden… And when, in the month of the Snake, the Eight Sheiks-el-Djebel came to the temple to spread their shrouds on the rose-marble steps, then, after they had departed, chanting the Prayers for the Dead, each to his Tower of Silence, we temple girls were free for a week… And once I went with Tchagane – a girl – and with Yulun – another girl – and we took our keutch, which is our luggage, and we went to the yaïlak, or summer pavilion on the Lake of the Ghost. Oh, wonderful, – a silvery world of pale-gilt suns and of moons so frail that the cloud-fleece at high-noon has more substance!"

Her voice died out; she sat gazing down at her spread fingers, on one of which gleamed her wedding-ring.

After a little, she went on dreamily:

"On that week, each three months, we were free… If a young man should please us…"

"Free?" he repeated.

"To love," she explained coolly.

"Oh." He nodded, but his face became rather grim.

"There came to me at the yaïlak," she went on carelessly, "one Khassar Noïane – Noïane means Prince – all in a surcoat of gold tissue with green vines embroidered, and wearing a green cap trimmed with dormouse, and green boots inlaid with stiff gold…

"He was so young … a boy. I laughed. I said: 'Is this a Yaçaoul? An Urdu-envoy of Prince Erlik?' – mocking him as young and thoughtless girls mock – not in unfriendly manner – though I would not endure the touch of any man at all.

"And when I laughed at him, this Eighur boy flew into such a rage! Kai! I was amazed.

"'Sou-sou! Squirrel!' he cried angrily at me. 'Learn the Yacaz, little chatterer! Little mocker of men, it is ten blows with a stick you require, not kisses!'

"At that I whistled my two dogs, Bars and Alaga, for I did not think what he said was funny.

"I said to him: 'You had better go home, Khassar Noïane, for if no man has ever pleased me where I am at liberty to please myself, here on the Lake of the Ghost, then be very certain that no boy can please Keuke-Mongol here or anywhere!'

"And at that – kai! What did he say – that monkey?" She looked at her husband, her splendid eyes ablaze with wrathful laughter, and made a gesture full of angry grace:

"'Squirrel!' he cries – 'little malignant sorceress of Yian! May everything high about you become a sandstorm, and everything long a serpent, and everything broad a toad, and everything – '

"But I had had enough, Victor," she added excitedly, "and I made a wild bee bite him on the lip! What do you think of such a courtship?" she cried, laughing. But Cleves's face was a study in emotions.

And then, suddenly, the laughing mask seemed to slip from the bewitching features of Keuke Mongol; and there was Tressa Norne – Tressa Cleves – disconcerted, paling a little as the memory of her impulsive confidence in this man beside her began to dawn on her more clearly.

"I – I'm sorry – " she faltered… "You'll think me silly – think evil of me, perhaps – "

She looked into his troubled eyes, then suddenly she took her face into both hands and covered it, sitting very still.

"We'll go South together," he said in an uncertain voice… "I hope you will try to think of me as a friend… I'm just troubled because I am so anxious to understand you. That is all… I'm – I'm troubled, too, because I am anxious that you should think well of me. Will you try, always?"

She nodded.

"I want to be your friend, always," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Cleves."

It was a strange spot he chose for Tressa – strange but lovely in its own unreal and rather spectral fashion – where a pearl-tinted mist veiled the St. Johns, and made exquisite ghosts of the palmettos, and softened the sun to a silver-gilt wafer pasted on a nacre sky.

It was a still country, where giant water-oaks towered, fantastic under their misty camouflage of moss, and swarming with small birds.

Among the trees the wood-ibis stole; without on the placid glass of the stream the eared grebe floated. There was no wind, no stirring of leaves, no sound save the muffled splash of silver mullet, the breathless whirr of a humming-bird, or the hushed rustle of lizards in the woods.

For Tressa this was the blessed balm that heals, – the balm of silence. And, for the first week, she slept most of the time, or lay in her hammock watching the swarms of small birds creeping and flitting amid the moss-draped labyrinths of the live-oaks at her very door.

It had been a little club house before the war, this bungalow on the St. Johns at Orchid Hammock. Its members had been few and wealthy; but some were dead in France and Flanders, and some still remained overseas, and others continued busy in the North.

And these two young people were quite alone there, save for a negro cook and a maid, and an aged negro kennel-master who wore a scarlet waistcoat and cords too large for his shrunken body, and who pottered, pottered through the fields all day, with his whip clasped behind his bent back and the pointers ranging wide, or plodding in at heel with red tongues lolling.

Twice Cleves went a little way for quail, using Benton's dogs; but even here in this remote spot he dared not move out of view of the little house where Tressa lay asleep.

So he picked up only a few brace of birds, and confined his sport to impaling too-familiar scorpions on the blade of his knife.