So they led him as near the curtains as they dared to go and set his face straight. Then with a great cry he rushed on. But he was caught and whirled about like a leaf in a wind, so that he fell. He rose and again rushed on, again to be whirled back. A third time he rose and rushed on, smiting with his blind man's staff. The blow fell, and stayed in mid-air, and there came a hollow sound as of a smitten shield, and the staff that dealt the blow was shattered. Then there was a noise like the noise of clashing swords, and the man instantly sank down dead, though the Wanderer could see no wound upon him.
"Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest again. "This one is fallen.
Let him who would win the Hathor draw near!"
Then the man who had fled from the host of the Apura rushed forward, crying on the Lion of his tribe. Back he was hurled, and back again, but at the third time once more there came the sound of clashing swords, and he too fell dead.
"Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest. "Another has fallen! Let him who would win the Hathor draw near!"
And now man after man rushed on, to be first hurled back and then slain of the clashing swords. And at length all were slain save the Wanderer alone.
Then the priest spake:
"Wilt thou indeed rush on to doom, thou glorious man? Thou hast seen the fate of many. Be warned and turn away."
"Never did I turn from man or ghost," said the Wanderer, and drawing his short sword he came near, warily covering his head with his broad shield, while the priests stood back to see him die. Now, the Wanderer had marked that none were touched till they stood at the very threshold of the doorway. Therefore he uttered a prayer to Aphrodite and came on slowly till his feet were within a bow's length of the threshold, and there he stood and listened. Now he could hear the very words of the song that the Hathor sang as she wove at her loom. So dread and sweet it was that for a while he thought no more on the Guardians of the Gate, nor of how he might win the way, nor of aught save the song. For she was singing shrill and clear in his own dear tongue, the tongue of the Ach?ans:
Paint with threads of gold and scarlet, paint the battles fought for me, All the wars for Argive Helen; storm and sack by land or sea;All the tale of loves and sorrows that have been and are to be.
Paint her lips that like a cup have pledged the lips of heroes all, Paint her golden hair unwhitened while the many winters fall, Paint the beauty that is mistress of the wide world and its thrall!
Paint the storms of ships and chariots, rain of arrows flying far, Paint the waves of Warfare leaping up at Beauty like a star, Like a star that pale and trembling hangs above the waves of War.
Paint the ancient Ilios fallen; paint the flames that scaled the sky, When the foe was in the fortress, when the trumpet and the cry Rang of men in their last onset, men whose hour had dawned to die.
Woe for me once loved of all men, me that never yet have known How to love the hearts that loved me. Woe for woe, who hear the moan Of my lovers' ghosts that perished in their cities overthrown.
Is there not, of Gods or mortals, oh, ye Gods, is there not one--One whose heart shall mate with my heart, one to love ere all be done, All the tales of wars that shall be for my love beneath the sun?
Now the song died away, and the Wanderer once more bethought him of the Wardens of the Gate and of the battle which he must fight. But as he braced himself to rush on against the unseen foe the music of the singing swelled forth again, and whether he willed it or willed it not, so sweet was its magic that there he must wait till the song was done. And now stronger and more gladly rang the sweet shrill voice, like the voice of one who has made moan through the livelong winter night, and now sees the chariot of the dawn climbing the eastern sky.
And thus the Hathor sang:
Ah, within my heart a hunger for the love unfelt, unknown, Stirs at length, and wakes and murmurs as a child that wakes to moan, Left to sleep within some silent house of strangers and alone.
So my heart awakes, and waking, moans with hunger and with cold, Cries in pain of dim remembrance for the joy that was of old;For the love that was, that shall be, half forgot and half foretold.
Have I dreamed it or remembered? In another world was I, Lived and loved in alien seasons, moved beneath a golden sky, In a golden clime where never came the strife of men that die.
But the Gods themselves were jealous, for our bliss was over great, And they brought on us division, and the horror of their Hate, And they set the Snake between us, and the twining coils of Fate.
And they said, "Go forth and seek each other's face, and only find Shadows of that face ye long for, dreams of days left far behind, Love the shadows and be loved with loves that waver as the wind."
Once more the sweet singing died away, but as the Wanderer grasped his sword and fixed the broad shield upon his arm he remembered the dream of Meriamun the Queen, which had been told him by Rei the Priest. For in that dream twain who had sinned were made three, and through many deaths and lives must seek each other's face. And now it seemed that the burden of the song was the burden of the dream.
