They left him far behind, but at last he rounded the sheer shoulder of crystalline basalt, that leapt up in colossal hexagonal columns toward the bright castle, and came to the east side of the mountain.
The men were again in view, sitting still upon their camels and looking apprehensively back, when Price came around the mountain. They delayed a little longer, and then retreated again. They rode directly into the mountain.
Again Price followed. At the top of a short slope he saw a square black tunnel in the cliff, the opening of a horizontal shaft driven straight into the basalt.
He started up the lava slope. The hejin fell weakly to its knees, and refused to get up again. Price got out of the saddle, took the golden ax and the yellow oval shield, and started on afoot.
A heavy clang of metal reached his ears, and he saw that the mouth of the tunnel had vanished. In its place was a square of bright gold, inlaid in the black mountain wall.
It was madness. He knew that he had driven himself harder than a man, by rights, can go. He knew that he could not longer trust his senses. Perhaps, after all, there had been no tunnel. The men who fled might have been figments of delirium.
But he reeled on up the slope, in the bright mail of Iru, with the ax and the buckler of the old king of Anz.
He came to the yellow square in the basaltic mountain’s flank. His eyes had not deceived him; there had been a tunnel. Golden gates had closed it. He saw the seam down the middle, the massive hinges on either side. Broad panels of yellow gold, twenty feet high, smooth, polished so that he could see his reflection in them.
He paused an instant, wondering. Was this Price Durand? This thin, stern figure, with staring, sunken, glassy eyes. With black, swollen lips. With madness and death upon a wild and haggard face. Was Price Durand this gaunt specter in golden mail, carrying the arms of a king centuries dust?
The wonder at himself came and fled, like any idea of his desert-maddened brain—like any idea save the one that did not change, the single idea that he must find Aysa.
Then his croaking voice was demanding in Arabic that the golden doors be opened. He heard a subdued stirring beyond the xanthic panels, but they did not move.
He whispered the ax-song of Iru, and hammered upon the mocking golden valves with the battle-ax. And yet they did not open.
Still he beat upon the gates, and shrilled dry-voiced curses, and croaked Aysa’s name. And shining silence taunted him.
Then the dominating purpose that had driven him through terrible days was broken. His reason found sanctity in madness from suffering in a land too cruel for life. And Price was left the creature of delirium.
13. THE GOLDEN LAND
THROUGH several days Price drifted lazily back from temporary insanity into slow awareness. He was among Arabs. Arabs who dressed oddly, and spoke a curious archaic dialect. They were his friends, or rather, awe-struck worshippers. They called him Iru.
He recalled vaguely that somewhere he had heard this strange dialect before. He had even heard the name Iru. But it was several days before he remembered the circumstances of his hearing either.
He lay upon rugs and cushions in a long room, dark and cool, with smoothly plastered mud walls. A guard of the strange Arabs was always near him. And a man who seemed their leader had come many times to see him.
Yarmud was his name. A typical Arab, tall, thin-lipped, hawk-nosed. Price liked him. His dark eyes were straight and piercing. He carried himself with a simple, reserved dignity. Upon his lean, brown face was fierce, stern pride, almost regal.
Yarmud plainly was the ruler of these Arabs; yet he appeared to defer to Price as if to a greater potentate.
Price slept most of the time. He made no exertion save to drink the water and camel’s milk, to eat the simple fare, that his hosts offered him where he lay. He did not try to question them, or even to think. The hardships of his
The men were again in view, sitting still upon their camels and looking apprehensively back, when Price came around the mountain. They delayed a little longer, and then retreated again. They rode directly into the mountain.
Again Price followed. At the top of a short slope he saw a square black tunnel in the cliff, the opening of a horizontal shaft driven straight into the basalt.
He started up the lava slope. The hejin fell weakly to its knees, and refused to get up again. Price got out of the saddle, took the golden ax and the yellow oval shield, and started on afoot.
A heavy clang of metal reached his ears, and he saw that the mouth of the tunnel had vanished. In its place was a square of bright gold, inlaid in the black mountain wall.
It was madness. He knew that he had driven himself harder than a man, by rights, can go. He knew that he could not longer trust his senses. Perhaps, after all, there had been no tunnel. The men who fled might have been figments of delirium.
But he reeled on up the slope, in the bright mail of Iru, with the ax and the buckler of the old king of Anz.
He came to the yellow square in the basaltic mountain’s flank. His eyes had not deceived him; there had been a tunnel. Golden gates had closed it. He saw the seam down the middle, the massive hinges on either side. Broad panels of yellow gold, twenty feet high, smooth, polished so that he could see his reflection in them.
He paused an instant, wondering. Was this Price Durand? This thin, stern figure, with staring, sunken, glassy eyes. With black, swollen lips. With madness and death upon a wild and haggard face. Was Price Durand this gaunt specter in golden mail, carrying the arms of a king centuries dust?
The wonder at himself came and fled, like any idea of his desert-maddened brain—like any idea save the one that did not change, the single idea that he must find Aysa.
Then his croaking voice was demanding in Arabic that the golden doors be opened. He heard a subdued stirring beyond the xanthic panels, but they did not move.
He whispered the ax-song of Iru, and hammered upon the mocking golden valves with the battle-ax. And yet they did not open.
Still he beat upon the gates, and shrilled dry-voiced curses, and croaked Aysa’s name. And shining silence taunted him.
Then the dominating purpose that had driven him through terrible days was broken. His reason found sanctity in madness from suffering in a land too cruel for life. And Price was left the creature of delirium.
13. THE GOLDEN LAND
THROUGH several days Price drifted lazily back from temporary insanity into slow awareness. He was among Arabs. Arabs who dressed oddly, and spoke a curious archaic dialect. They were his friends, or rather, awe-struck worshippers. They called him Iru.
He recalled vaguely that somewhere he had heard this strange dialect before. He had even heard the name Iru. But it was several days before he remembered the circumstances of his hearing either.
He lay upon rugs and cushions in a long room, dark and cool, with smoothly plastered mud walls. A guard of the strange Arabs was always near him. And a man who seemed their leader had come many times to see him.
Yarmud was his name. A typical Arab, tall, thin-lipped, hawk-nosed. Price liked him. His dark eyes were straight and piercing. He carried himself with a simple, reserved dignity. Upon his lean, brown face was fierce, stern pride, almost regal.
Yarmud plainly was the ruler of these Arabs; yet he appeared to defer to Price as if to a greater potentate.
Price slept most of the time. He made no exertion save to drink the water and camel’s milk, to eat the simple fare, that his hosts offered him where he lay. He did not try to question them, or even to think. The hardships of his
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