THE SHADOW IN THE SUNLIGHT
The torn web fell--the last veil of the Strange Hathor. It fell, and all its unravelled threads of glittering gold and scarlet rippled and coiled about the Wanderer's feet, and about the pillars of the loom.
The web was torn, the veil was rent, the labour was lost, the pictured story of loves and wars was all undone.
But there, white in the silvery dusk of the alabaster shrine, there was the visible Helen, the bride and the daughter of Mystery, the World's Desire!
There shone that fabled loveliness of which no story was too strange, of which all miracles seemed true. There, her hands folded on her lap, her head bowed--there sat she whose voice was the echo of all sweet voices, she whose shape was the mirror of all fair forms, she whose changeful beauty, so they said, was the child of the changeful moon.
Helen sat in a chair of ivory, gleaming even through the sunshine of her outspread hair. She was clothed in soft folds of white; on her breast gleamed the Starstone, the red stone of the sea-deeps that melts in the sunshine, but that melted not on the breast of Helen.
Moment by moment the red drops from the ruby heart of the star fell on her snowy raiment, fell and vanished,--fell and vanished,--and left no stain.
The Wanderer looked on her face, but the beauty and the terror of it, as she raised it, were more than he could bear, and he stood like those who saw the terror and the beauty of that face which changes men to stone.
For the lovely eyes of Helen stared wide, her lips, yet quivering with the last notes of song, were wide open in fear. She seemed like one who walks alone, and suddenly, in the noonday light, meets the hated dead; encountering the ghost of an enemy come back to earth with the instant summons of doom.
For a moment the sight of her terror made even the Wanderer afraid.
What was the horror she beheld in this haunted shrine, where was none save themselves alone? What was with them in the shrine?
Then he saw that her eyes were fixed on his golden armour which Paris once had worn, on the golden shield with the blazon of the White Bull, on the golden helm, whose visor was down so that it quite hid his eyes and his face--and then at last her voice broke from her:
"/Paris! Paris! Paris!/ Has Death lost hold of thee? Hast thou come to drag me back to thee and to shame? Paris, dead Paris! Who gave thee courage to pass the shadows of men whom on earth thou hadst not dared to face in war?"
Then she wrung her hands, and laughed aloud with the empty laugh of fear.
A thought came into that crafty mind of the Wanderer's, and he answered her, not in his own voice, but in the smooth, soft, mocking voice of the traitor, Paris, whom he had heard forswear himself in the oath before Ilios.
"So, lady, thou hast not yet forgiven Paris? Thou weavest the ancient web, thou singest the ancient songs--art thou still unkind as of old?"
"Why art thou come back to taunt me?" she said, and now she spoke as if an old familiar fear and horror were laying hold of her and mastering her again, after long freedom. "Was it not enough to betray me in the semblance of my wedded lord? Why dost thou mock?"
"In love all arts are fair," he answered in the voice of Paris. "Many have loved thee, Lady, and they are all dead for thy sake, and no love but mine has been more strong than death. There is none to blame us now, and none to hinder. Troy is down, the heroes are white dust; only Love lives yet. Wilt thou not learn, Lady, how a shadow can love?"
She had listened with her head bowed, but now she leaped up with blazing eyes and face of fire.
"Begone!" she said, "the heroes are dead for my sake, and to my shame, but the shame is living yet. Begone! Never in life or death shall my lips touch the false lips that lied away my honour, and the false face that wore the favour of my lord's."
For it was by shape-shifting and magic art, as poets tell, that Paris first beguiled Fair Helen.
Then the Wanderer spoke again with the sweet, smooth voice of Paris, son of Priam.
"As I passed up the shrine where thy glory dwells, Helen, I heard thee sing. And thou didst sing of the waking of thy heart, of the arising of Love within thy soul, and of the coming of one for whom thou dost wait, whom thou didst love long since and shalt love for ever more.
And as thou sangest, I came, I Paris, who was thy love, and who am thy love, and who alone of ghosts and men shall be thy love again. Wilt thou still bid me go?"
"I sang," she answered, "yes, as the Gods put it in my heart so I sang --for indeed it seemed to me that one came who was my love of old, and whom alone I must love, alone for ever. But thou wast not in my heart, thou false Paris! Nay, I will tell thee, and with the name will scare thee back to Hell. He was in my heart whom once as a maid I saw driving in his chariot through the ford of Eurotas while I bore water from the well. He was in my heart whom once I saw in Troy, when he crept thither clad in beggar's guise. Ay, Paris, I will name him by his name, for though he is long dead, yet him alone methinks I loved from the very first, and him alone I shall love till my deathlessness is done--Odysseus, son of Laertes, Odysseus of Ithaca, he was named among men, and Odysseus was in my heart as I sang and in my heart he shall ever be, though the Gods in their wrath have given me to others, to my shame, and against my will."
Now when the Wanderer heard her speak, and heard his own name upon her lips, and knew that the Golden Helen loved him alone, it seemed to him as though his heart would burst his harness. No word could he find in his heart to speak, but he raised the visor of his helm.
She looked--she saw and knew him for Odysseus--even Odysseus of Ithaca. Then in turn she hid her eyes with her hands, and speaking through them said:
