A House of Pomegranates | Page 5

of them and let me go.' But
Avarice shook her head. 'They are my servants,' she answered.
And Death said to her, 'What hast thou in thy hand?'
'I have three grains of corn,' she answered; 'what is that to thee?'
'Give me one of them,' cried Death, 'to plant in my garden; only one of
them, and I will go away.'
'I will not give thee anything,' said Avarice, and she hid her hand in the
fold of her raiment.
And Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water,
and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great multitude,
and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her, and the
water-snakes ran by her side.
And when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat
her breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried aloud. 'Thou
hast slain a third of my servants,' she cried, 'get thee gone. There is war
in the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to
thee. The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle.
They have beaten upon their shields with their spears, and have put on
their helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee, that thou shouldst tarry
in it? Get thee gone, and come here no more.'
'Nay,' answered Death, 'but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will
not go.'
But Avarice shut her hand, and clenched her teeth. 'I will not give thee
anything,' she muttered.
And Death laughed, and took up a black stone, and threw it into the
forest, and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came Fever in a robe of
flame. She passed through the multitude, and touched them, and each
man that she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she
walked.
And Avarice shuddered, and put ashes on her head. 'Thou art cruel,' she
cried; 'thou art cruel. There is famine in the walled cities of India, and
the cisterns of Samarcand have run dry. There is famine in the walled
cities of Egypt, and the locusts have come up from the desert. The Nile
has not overflowed its banks, and the priests have cursed Isis and Osiris.

Get thee gone to those who need thee, and leave me my servants.'
'Nay,' answered Death, 'but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will
not go.'
'I will not give thee anything,' said Avarice.
And Death laughed again, and he whistled through his fingers, and a
woman came flying through the air. Plague was written upon her
forehead, and a crowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered
the valley with her wings, and no man was left alive.
And Avarice fled shrieking through the forest, and Death leaped upon
his red horse and galloped away, and his galloping was faster than the
wind.
And out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and
horrible things with scales, and the jackals came trotting along the sand,
sniffing up the air with their nostrils.
And the young King wept, and said: 'Who were these men, and for
what were they seeking?'
'For rubies for a king's crown,' answered one who stood behind him.
And the young King started, and, turning round, he saw a man habited
as a pilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver.
And he grew pale, and said: 'For what king?'
And the pilgrim answered: 'Look in this mirror, and thou shalt see him.'
And he looked in the mirror, and, seeing his own face, he gave a great
cry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and
from the trees of the garden and pleasaunce the birds were singing.
And the Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and made
obeisance to him, and the pages brought him the robe of tissued gold,
and set the crown and the sceptre before him.
And the young King looked at them, and they were beautiful. More
beautiful were they than aught that he had ever seen. But he
remembered his dreams, and he said to his lords: 'Take these things
away, for I will not wear them.'
And the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they
thought that he was jesting.
But he spake sternly to them again, and said: 'Take these things away,
and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will
not wear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of
Pain, has this my robe been woven. There is Blood in the heart of the

ruby, and