“Who are you?” she asked, whereon a soft voice answered out of the darkness, the voice of Jacob Meyer.
“Do you mind standing still for a few minutes, Miss Clifford? I have some paper here and I wish to make a sketch. You do not know how beautiful you look with that light above your head illuminating the shadows and the thorn-crowned crucifix beyond. You know, whatever paths fortune may have led me into, by nature I am an artist, and never in my life have I seen such a picture. One day it will make me famous.
‘How statue-like I see thee stand! The agate lamp within thy hand.’
That’s what I should put under it; you know the lines, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Meyer, but I am afraid you will have to paint your picture from memory, as I cannot hold up this lamp any longer; my arm is aching already. I do not know how you came here, but as you have followed me perhaps you will be so kind as to carry this water.”
“I did not follow you, Miss Clifford. Although you never saw me I entered the cave before you to take measurements.”
“How can you take measurements in the dark?”
“I was not in the dark. I put out my light when I caught sight of you, knowing that otherwise you would run away, and fate stood me in good stead. You came on, as I willed that you should do. Now let us talk. Miss Clifford, have you changed your mind? You know the time is up.”
“I shall never change my mind. Let me pass you, Mr. Meyer.”
“No, no, not until you have listened. You are very cruel to me, very cruel indeed. You do not understand that, rather than do you the slightest harm, I would die a hundred times.”
“I do not ask you to die; I ask you to leave me alone—a much easier matter.”
“But how can I leave you alone when you are a part of me, when—I love you? There, the truth is out, and now say what you will.”
Benita lifted the bucket of water; its weight seemed to steady her. Then she put it down again, since escape was impracticable; she must face the situation.
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Meyer, except that I do not love you or any living man, and I never shall. I thank you for the compliment you have paid me, and there is an end.”
“Any living man,” he repeated after her. “That means you love a dead man—Seymour, he who was drowned. No wonder that I hated him when first my eyes fell on him years ago, long before you had come into our lives. Prescience, the sub-conscious self again. Well, what is the use of loving the dead, those who no longer have any existence, who have gone back into the clay out of which they were formed and are not, nor evermore shall be? You have but one life; turn, turn to the living, and make it happy.”
“I do not agree with you, Mr. Meyer. To me the dead are still living; one day I shall find them. Now let me go.”
“I will not let you go. I will plead and wrestle with you as in the old fable my namesake of my own race wrestled with the angel, until at length you bless me. You despise me because I am a Jew, because I have had many adventures and not succeeded; because you think me mad. But I tell you that there is the seed of greatness in me. Give yourself to me and I will make you great, for now I know that it was you whom I needed to supply what is lacking in my nature. We will win the wealth, and together we will rule——”
“Until a few days hence we starve or the Matabele make an end of us. No, Mr. Meyer, no,” and she tried to push past him.
He stretched out his arms and stopped her.
“Listen,” he said, “I have pleaded with you as man with woman. Now, as you refuse me and as you alone stand between me and madness, I will take another course. I am your master, your will is servant to my will; I bid you obey me.”