Ardath

Ardath, by Marie Corelli

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Title: Ardath The Story of a Dead Self
Author: Marie Corelli
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ARDATH
THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF
BY MARIE CORELLI
AUTHOR OF "THELMA," ETC.


PART I.--SAINT AND SCEPTIC
"What merest whim Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame To one
who keeps within his steadfast aim A love immortal, an Immortal too!
Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true And never can be borne
of atomics That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies Leaving us
fancy-sick. No, I am sure My restless spirit never could endure To
brood so long upon one luxury. Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A
HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!"
KEATS.

CHAPTER I.
THE MONASTERY.
Deep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was
gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of
Dariel,--that terrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to hang
between the toppling frost-bound heights above and the black abysmal
depths below,--clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green and white,
drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks where, looming
largely out of the mist, the snow-capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose
coldly white against the darkness of the threatening sky. Night was
approaching, though away to the west a road gash of crimson, a
seeming wound in the breast of heaven, showed where the sun had set
an hour since. Now and again the rising wind moaned sobbingly
through the tall and spectral pines that, with knotted roots fast clenched
in the reluctant earth, clung tenaciously to their stony vantageground;
and mingling with its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse
roaring as of tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard
the sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to point on its
disastrous downward way. Through the wreathing vapors the steep,
bare sides of the near mountains were pallidly visible, their icy
pinnacles, like uplifted daggers, piercing with sharp glitter the density
of the low-hanging haze, from which large drops of moisture began
presently to ooze rather than fall. Gradually the wind increased, and
soon with sudden fierce gusts shook the pine- trees into shuddering
anxiety,--the red slit in the sky closed, and a gleam of forked lightning
leaped athwart the driving darkness. An appalling crash of thunder
followed almost instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly
grand echoes on all sides of the Pass, and then--with a swirling, hissing
rush of rain--the unbound hurricane burst forth alive and furious. On,
on! splitting huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws, swelling
the rivers into riotous floods that swept hither and thither, carrying with
them masses of rock and stone and tons of loosened snow--on, on! with
pitiless force and destructive haste, the tempest rolled, thundered, and
shrieked its way through Dariel. As the night darkened and the clamor
of the conflicting elements grew more sustained and violent, a sudden

sweet sound floated softly through the turbulent air--the slow,
measured tolling of a bell. To and fro, to and fro, the silvery chime
swung with mild distinctness--it was the vesper-bell ringing in the
Monastery of Lars far up among the crags crowning the ravine. There
the wind roared and blustered its loudest; it whirled round and round
the quaint castellated building, battering the gates and moving their
heavy iron hinges to a most dolorous groaning; it flung rattling
hailstones at the narrow windows, and raged and howled at every
corner and through every crevice; while snaky twists of lightning
played threateningly