Prisoners of Chance

Their yells reverberating to the vaulted roof, the smoking torches gyrating wildly above them, the throng of crazed fanatics were now upon their feet, crowding toward the platform, every tongue clamoring in incessant demand. All was confusion, a medley of noise and motion, tossing arms, and painted faces. Finally, I caught a glimpse of Naladi's red robe scarcely ten feet away, and behind her the countenance of De Noyan, still contemptuously smiling at that shrieking rabble. God! my face burned, my grasp tightened on the club. Yet I lay motionless, knowing well the time of sacrifice was not yet.

The woman stood at the edge of the rock platform, gazing intently down, a silent, motionless statue, her red robe sweeping to her feet, and below her the crimson drapery; the flaring torches in the hands of her barbaric followers cast their light full upon her. I stared at the strange creature, comprehending something of the power of passion such as she could exercise over De Noyan, causing him to forget all honor in her presence. Saint Andrew! she was a witch, a hell-cat, whose smile was death. Ay! and she was smiling then, a smile of cruel, unrelenting triumph, gazing down upon the howling slaves who should do her pleasure. She knew them well, every superstition, every wild impulse, and she played contemptuously on their savagery. Not fear, but command, was stamped upon her features; she ruled by legerdemain, by lie and trick, and she stood, the supreme she-devil, the master spirit in that raging hell. It seemed to me my heart would burst as I waited, seeing nothing then of Eloise amid the crush, and compelled to gaze on that dominant scarlet figure.

The cries of the multitude ceased, and a black-draped priest shouted unintelligible words. Naladi listened, extending one hand. Then her thin lips spoke a single sentence in the sharp tone of command. Instantly burst forth a fierce roar of disapproval; war-clubs pounded the floor, spears rattled as they were brandished overhead, while above the din I caught, again and again, the shriek, "Français! Français!" The Queen shook her head, her fair face darkening, and glanced aside into the questioning eyes of De Noyan. Below them the tumult increased, the mass surging forward and staring upward, every voice yelping that one term of hate, "Français!" There was no doubting the dread menace--they were demanding French victims for the torture of sacrifice; they clamored for white blood with which to sprinkle the altar. I could dimly perceive now a dozen crouching slaves against the farther wall, the whites of their eyes showing in terror, and--oh, God!--there, to the right of them, alone, except for her burly guards, kneeling on the rock floor, with face hidden in her hands, was Eloise. I half rose to my feet, my whole body pulsating with agony. What was to be the ending? What was that mad woman's purpose? Could she control the fierce blood-lust of those savage fanatics? If she cared to do so, would she dare test her power in so desperate a game? If one must be sacrificed which would she spare, De Noyan or his hapless wife? Looking at her, cold, cynical, lustful, her eyes still turned on his face, I felt no doubt. Let the foul fiend choose! by all the gods, Cairnes should brain her where she stood, and, Heaven helping me to do the deed, the one I loved should never die by torture!