Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/115

102 cannot eat it. I am a Nazarene. Thou shalt have the flesh, and I the bread, Glaucus.’

“She had forgotten I was a disciple of Pythagoras. She ate—I gave her drink—and still I was famished.

‘Thou dost not eat thy flesh,’ she said, with an effort to smile. ‘Ah! I had forgotten, thou didst tell me that thou hadst never tasted flesh, and all the bread—all is gone. Oh, wretch that I am! I have killed thee. Thou wilt perish of hunger whilst I am full. Oh, woe is me!’

‘Dearest, fear not! I hunger not. Sorrow hath taken away desire for food.’

“I felt the mad wolves gnawing in my vitals then.

“And then came another night. I had placed her on my one knee as before, with her hands resting on the other, on which lay our chains. One arm was round her form, the other hand gripped the chains lest they should slip. She slumbered. The stars grew dim; I was awakened by a wild shriek and a jerk at my fetters. I had fallen asleep, the hand relaxed its hold, a movement of hers had thrown the chains from my knee towards the ground. The whole weight of the united mass was jerked on her slender wrists. What wonder that wild scream of anguish! She had fainted. I carried her to the fountain to bathe her bleeding arms. The stream was less! She recovered, and expressed such sorrow for having awoke me, that my eyes filled with tears. She kissed them away, and again we sat as before, till morning once more broke.

“I had noticed the previous day that all round the room there were openings near the bottom of the wall reaching to the floor about a span high. There came through one of these a large rake, which pulled the straw from under our feet, then a large fleece of wool on the end of a pole with which the floor was washed; and soon after a large bundle of straw was flung down from the opening in the roof. There was system in all this: we should be there some time: God only knew how long.

“How I longed for evening—for food. She talked to me of her youth, and then of her change of faith; never had she been so dear to me as at that moment. All the longings of my nature after purity and truth had been chilled by contact with the professors of the various religions. I was half inclined to think there was no truth or purity in any worship, in any God. But then she taught me of the God of the Nazarenes—of the Man-God Christus; told me of his deeds, his life of benevolence, his cruel death. I could not deny that truth was here, here was purity; and as she talked to me I felt I could believe. I was a believer in the Prophet of Nazareth from that time.

“At last evening came. We both watched intently the mirror. The light flashed a moment on its surface, it turned, the bread and flesh were there, the mirror closed again.

‘Glaucus, thou shalt have thy share of bread to-night.’ She broke it in halves: there was less bread than the day before. She saw it, too.

“We ate our bread in silence. I gave her the last portion of mine. She kissed me, and devoured it most eagerly, and looked at the flesh—it was raw!

‘Not yet, dearest!’ I said, ‘not yet.’

“She understood me, and we lay down again for the night.

“Days and nights passed. Each day saw the fresh straw, each night there was less bread. One night there was no bread, and but little flesh. That night I saw first!

“She lay asleep, breathing quickly, with the fever-flush upon her cheek; not a sound save her breathing, the murmuring of the salt stream at our feet, and the trickling of the wine fountain. I saw then—I could not look at her. I could not endure that she should be there so still. I woke her with kisses.

‘What dost thou want, Glaucus?’ she said, peevishly, ‘thou hast awakened me to pain. I was dreaming of home, and had forgotten these, and thou hast put them on again. Thine are soft, thou dost not feel them; let me sleep.’

“I murmured not at her reproach, and again she slept, and again came. I shut my eyes, was still before them; I looked up at the stars,  hid them: I could not see for.

“Morning came—she awoke fevered and dry. ‘Water, Glaucus, or I perish!’ I led her to the fountain. The stream had become drops!

“I held my hand, as drop by drop it fell into the palm, and then put it to her lips.

‘More, Glaucus, more! Stay, let me come.’

“She put her lips to the aperture, while I held her fetters, and drank; then sank into my arms exhausted with the effort. The day passed in a sort of torpor.

“Evening came—no bread, and less flesh. was nearer.

‘Glaucus, I must eat! Christus, forgive me! but I must eat. Give me the flesh.’

“I gave it her. She tore it from my reluctant hand like a wild animal, and with her teeth and nails rent it into shreds, which she bolted whole. Ye gods! what a sight for these poor eyes it was!

‘Eat, my Glaucus,’ she said, fiercely, ‘eat, I say.’

‘But thou’lt not have enough, Virginia.’

‘True: Thou, Glaucus, shalt eat to-morrow.’

“Eat tomorrow! I kissed her lips, still wet with the juicy flesh, and tasted—Oh, it was life! To-morrow! to-morrow! would it never come?

“That night I saw more clearly than ever. I could not look at her as she slept, was so clearly there.

“Morning again—again the fountain—the water drop, drop, drop! The wine gurgled in its plenty, we both heard it, had heard it, it always ran so.

‘No love; not yet, not yet.’

“Evening again. With what horrible intensity we watched the mirror. It moved—it turned; there was flesh—less than before.

“She seized it, and had it to her mouth in a moment, and threw herself on the floor to take the weight of her chains off her hands.

‘Virginia, I perish: give me to eat!’

“She tore off a morsel, and dropped it in the straw. I seized it and ate it. It was fulness of life: more I must have.