CHAPTER II

OF THE LAST MISERY OF HARMACHIS; OF THE CALLING DOWN OF THE HOLY ISIS BY
THE WORD OF FEAR; OF THE PROMISE OF ISIS; OF THE COMING OF ATOUA, AND OF
THE WORDS OF ATOUA

I crouched upon the floor gazing at the dead body of my father, who had
lived to curse me, the utterly accursed, while the darkness crept and
gathered round us, till at length the dead and I were alone in the black
silence. Oh, how tell the misery of that hour! Imagination cannot dream
it, nor words paint it forth. Once more in my wretchedness I bethought
me of death. A knife was at my girdle, with which I might cut the thread
of sorrow and set my spirit free. Free? ay, free to fly and face the
last vengeance of the Holy Gods! Alas! and alas! I did not dare to die.
Better the earth with all its woes than the quick approach of those
unimagined terrors that, hovering in dim Amenti, wait the advent of the
fallen.

I grovelled on the ground and wept tears of agony for the lost
unchanging past--wept till I could weep no more; but no answer came from
the silence--no answer but the echoes of my grief. Not a ray of hope! My
soul wandered in a darkness more utter than that which was about me--I
was forsaken of the Gods and cast out of men. Terror took hold upon me
crouching in that lonely place hard by the majesty of the awful Dead. I
rose to fly. How could I fly in this gloom?--And where should I fly who
had no place of refuge? Once more I crouched down, and the great fear
grew on me till the cold sweat ran from my brow and my soul was faint
within me. Then, in my last despair, I prayed aloud to Isis, to whom I
had not dared to pray for many days.

"O Isis! Holy Mother!" I cried; "put away Thy wrath, and of Thine
infinite pity, O Thou all-pitiful, hearken to the voice of the anguish
of him who was Thy son and servant, but who by sin hath fallen from the
vision of Thy love. O throned Glory, who, being in all things, hast of
all things understanding and of all griefs knowledge, cast the weight
of Thy mercy against the scale of my evil-doing, and make the balance
equal. Look down upon my woe, and measure it; count up the sum of my
repentance and take Thou note of the flood of sorrow that sweeps my soul
away. O Thou Holy, whom it was given to me to look upon face to face,
by that dread hour of commune I summon Thee; I summon Thee by the mystic
word. Come, then, in mercy, to save me; or, in anger, to make an end of
that which can no more be borne."