All-Story Weekly, March 1, 1919 — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee SL ite: wa My gaze ran back. This end of the room was draped with the exquisitely colored, graceful curtains looped with gorgeous gar-, - Jands. Between curtains and table, where sat Larry and the nine, a circular platform, perhaps ten yards in diameter, raised itself a few feet above the floor, its gleaming surface half-covered with ‘the luminous petals, fragrant, delicate. On each side, below it, were low carven stools. The curtains parted and softly en- tered girls bearing their flutes, their harps, the curiously emotion-exciting, octaved drums. They sank into their places. They touched their instruments; a faint, lan- guorous measure throbbed through the rosy air. The stage was set! play? Now about the tables passed other dusky- haired maids, fair bosoms bare, their scanty kirtles looped high, pouring out the wines for the feasters. And gradually into the voices of these crept the olden recklessness, the gaiety—but Lugur sat silent, brooding; his face like that of some fallen god; and I sensed behind the prisoning bars of his calm a monstrous striving of. evil, strug- gling to be free. My eyes sought O’Keefe. Whatever it had been that Von Hetzdorp had said, clearly it now filled his mind — even to the exclusion of the wondrous woman beside him. His eyes were stern, cold— and now and then, as he turned them to- What was to be the ward the German, filled with a curious speculation. Yolara watched him, frowned, _ gave a low order to the Hebe behind her. The girl disappeared, entered again with a ewer that seemed cut of amber. The priestess poured from it into Larry’s glass a clear liquid that shook with tiny sparkles of light.: She raised the glass to her lips, handed it to him. ‘Half-smiling, half-ab- stractedly, he took it, touched his own lips where hers had kissed; drained it. A nod from Yolara and the maid refilled his é goblet. At once there was a swift transformation in the Irishman. His abstraction vanished; the watchfulness, the sternness fled; his eyes sparkled. He looked upon Yolara with seemingly a = vision; leaned caressingly THE CONQUEST OF THE MOON POOL. S sae == <a Wz Ka ai SS ne = * = me =~ 3 = ae Ne > he — a. OS =e Sa Se a oN oN Fn SN Para os 3 ge << mt > wa rs — toward her; flashed triumphantly; her chiming laughter in it was not that clear drink that filled Larry’s! And again he drained his own; 467 whispered. fier blue eyes = ome! + rang. She raised her own glass—but with- as a od and, lifting it, filled once more, caught the — baleful eyes of Lugur, and ‘raised the glass to him mockingly. I watched him — anxiously; noted that Von Hetzdorp, too, was leaning forward — apprehensively. Yolara swayed close—al- luring, tempting. And wildly, ever more wildly, gay grew Larry. drink, I thought, cold fear gathering at my heart, it was too potent for him. And this Circe—again the thought came to me—why was this Circe, whom I had thought tamed, leading him into—drunkenness! And where was that strength of the O’Keefe upon which I had so leaned? He arose, face all reckless gaiety, rollick= ing deviltry’ “A toast!” he cried in English, “ to the Shining One—and may the hell where it belongs soon claim it!” He had used their own word for their god—all else had been in his own tongue, and so, fortunately, they did not under-— stand. But the intent of the contempt in his action they did recognize—and a dead, a fearful silence fell upon, them all. Lugur’s eyes blazed, little sparks of crimson in their green. Yolara reached up, caught at O’Keefe. He seized the soft hand; caressed it; his gaze grew far away, somber. ‘The Shining One.” though to himself. “ An’ now again I see the faces of those who dance with it. It is the Fires of Mora—come, God alone knows how—from Erin—to this: place. The Fires of Mora!’”’ He contemplated the hushed folk before him; and then from his ‘lips came that weirdest, most haunting of the lyric legends of Erin—the Curse of Mora: “The fretted fires of Mora blew o’er him in the night ; He thrills no more to loving, nor weeps for cast delight. For when those flames have bitten, both grief and E joy take flight— For when those flames have bitten, both joy and grief take flight!” ‘ Whatever that | He spoke low, as Again Yolara tried to draw him 2 sin * oe San 06 So