Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348

Our next selection shall be “The God and the Bayaderé”—a poem which is little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern land, yet, withal, most delicately handled.

The God and the Bayaderé.

An Indian Legend

IMahadeh, earth’s lord, descendingTo its mansions comes again,That, like man with mortals blending,He may feel their joy and pain;Stoops to try life’s varied changes,And with human eyes to see,Ere he praises or avenges,What their fitful lot may be.He has pass’d through the city, has look’d on them all;He has watch’d o’er the great, nor forgotten the small,And at evening went forth on his journey so free.IIIn the outskirts of the city,Where the straggling huts are piled,At a casement stood a prettyPainted thing, almost a child.“Greet thee, maiden!” “Thanks—art weary?Wait, and quickly I’ll appear!”“What art thou?”—“A Bayaderé,And the home of love is here.”She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,And offers him flowers as she undulates near.IIIO’er the threshold gliding lightlyIn she leads him to her room.“Fear not, gentle stranger; brightlyShall my lamp dispel the gloom.Art thou weary? I’ll relieve thee—Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;All thou askest I can give thee—Rest, or song, or joy impart.”She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he seesThrough deep degradation a right-loving heart.IVAnd he asks for service menial,And she only strives the more,Nature’s impulse now is genialWhere but art prevail’d before.As the fruit succeeds the blossom,Swells and ripens day by day,So, where kindness fills the bosom,Love is never far away.But he, whose vast motive was deeper and higher,Selected, more keenly and clearly to try her,Love, follow’d by anguish, and death, and dismay.VAnd her rosy cheeks he presses,And she feels love’s torment sore,And, thrill’d through by his caresses,Weeps, that never wept before.Droops beside him, not dissembling,Or for passion or for gain,But her limbs grow faint and trembling,And no more their strength retain.Meanwhile the still hours of the night stealing by,Spread their shadowy woof o’er the face of the sky,Bringing love and its festival joys in their train.VILately roused, her arms around him,Waking up from broken rest,Dead upon her breast she found him,Dead—that dearly-cherish’d guest!Shrieking loud, she flings her o’er him,But he answers not her cry;And unto the pile they bore him,Stark of limb and cold of eye.She hears the priests chanting—she hears the death-song,And frantic she rises, and bursts through the throng.“Who is she? what seeks she? why comes she so nigh?”VIIBut the bier she falleth over,And her shrieks are loud and shrill—“I will have my lord, my lover!In the grave I seek him still.Shall that godlike frame be wastedBy the fire’s consuming blight?Mine it was—yea mine! though tastedOnly one delicious night!”But the priests, they chant ever—“We carry the old,When their watching is over, their journeys are told;We carry the young, when they pass from the light!VIII“Hear us, woman! Him we carryWas not, could not be, thy spouse.Art thou not a Bayaderé?So hast thou no nuptial vows.Only to death’s silent hollowWith the body goes the shade;Only wives their husbands follow:Thus alone is duty paid.Strike loud the wild turmoil of drum and of gong!Receive him, ye gods, in your glorious throng—Receive him in garments of burning array’d!”IXHarsh their words, and unavailing,Swift she threaded through the quire,And with arms outstretch’d, unquailingLeap’d into the crackling fire.But the deed alone sufficeth—Robed in might and majesty,From the pile the god arisethWith the ransom’d one on high.Divinity joys in a sinner repenting,And the lost ones of earth, by immortals relenting,Are borne upon pinions of fire to the sky!

Let us now take a poem of the Hartz mountains, containing no common allegory. Every man is more or less a Treasure-seeker—a hater of labour—until he has received the important truth, that labour alone can bring content and happiness. There is an affinity, strange as it may appear, between those whose lot in life is the most exalted, and the haggard hollow-eyed wretch who prowls incessantly around the crumbling ruins of the past, in the belief that there lies beneath their mysterious foundations a mighty treasure, over which some jealous demon keeps watch for evermore. But Goethe shall read the moral to us himself.

The Treasure-seeker

IMany weary days I suffer’d,Sick of heart and poor of purse;Riches are the greatest blessing—Poverty the deepest curse!Till at last to dig a treasureForth I went into the wood—“Fiend! my soul is thine for ever!”And I sign’d the scroll with blood.IIThen I drew the magic circles,Kindled the mysterious fire,Placed the herbs and bones in order,Spoke the incantation dire.And I sought the buried metalWith a spell of mickle might—Sought it as my master taught me;Black and stormy was the night.IIIAnd I saw a light appearingIn the distance, like a star;When the midnight hour was tolling,Came it waxing from afar:Came it flashing, swift and sudden;As if fiery wine it were,Flowing from an open chalice,Which a beauteous boy did bear.IVAnd he wore a lustrous chaplet,And his eyes were full of thought,As he stepp’d into the circleWith the radiance that he brought.And he bade me taste the goblet;And I thought—“It cannot be,That this boy should be the bearerOf the Demon’s gifts to me!”V“Taste the draught of pure existenceSparkling in this golden urn,And no more with baneful magicShalt thou hitherward return.Do not dig for treasures longer;Let thy future spellwords beDays of labour, nights of resting;So shall peace return to thee!”

Pass we away now from the Hartz to Heidelberg, in the company of our glorious poet. We all know the magnificent ruins of the Neckar, the feudal turrets which look down upon one of the sweetest spots that ever filled the soul of a weary man with yearning for a long repose. Many a year has gone by since the helmet of the warder was seen glancing on these lofty battlements, since the tramp of the steed was heard in the court-yard, and the banner floated proudly from the topmost turret; but fancy has a power to call them back, and the shattered stone is restored in an instant by the touch of that sublimest architect:—

The Castle on the Mountain

There stands an ancient castleOn yonder mountain height,Where, fenced with door and portal,Once tarried steed and knight.But gone are door and portal,And all is hush’d and still;O’er ruin’d wall and rafterI clamber as I will.A cellar with many a vintageOnce lay in yonder nook;Where now are the cellarer’s flagons,And where is his jovial look?No more he sets the beakersFor the guests at the wassail feast;Nor fills a flask from the oldest caskFor the duties of the priest.No more he gives on the staircaseThe stoup to the thirsty squires,And a hurried thanks for the hurried giftReceives, nor more requires.For burn’d are roof and rafter,And they hang begrimed and black;And stair, and hall, and chapel,Are turn’d to dust and wrack.Yet, as with song and cittern,One day when the sun was bright,I saw my love ascendingWith me the rocky height;From the hush and desolationSweet fancies did unfold,And it seem’d as we were livingIn the merry days of old.As if the stateliest chambersFor noble guests were spread,And out from the prime of that glorious timeA youth a maiden led.And, standing in the chapel,The good old priest did say,“Will ye wed with one another?”And we smiled and we answer’d “Yea!”We sung, and our hearts they boundedTo the thrilling lays we sung,And every note was doubledBy the echo’s catching tongue.And when, as eve descended,We left the silence still,And the setting sun look’d upwardOn that great castled hill;Then far and wide, like lord and bride,In the radiant light we shone—It sank; and again the ruinsStood desolate and lone!

We shall now select, from the songs that are scattered throughout the tale of Wilhelm Meister, one of the most genial and sweet. It is an in-door picture of evening, and of those odorous flowers of life which expand their petals only at the approach of Hesperus.

Philine’s Song

Sing not thus in notes of sadnessOf the loneliness of night;No! ’tis made for social gladness,Converse sweet, and love’s delight.As to rugged man his wife is,As his fairest half decreed,So dear night the half of life is,And the fairest half indeed.Canst thou in the day have pleasure,Which but breaks on rapture in,Scares us from our dreams of leisureWith its glare and irksome din?But when night is come, and glowingIs the lamp’s attemper’d ray,And from lip to lip are flowingLove and mirth, in sparkling play;When the fiery boy, that wildlyRushes in his wayward mood,Calms to rest, disporting mildly,By some trivial gift subdued;When the nightingale is trillingSongs of love to lovers’ ears,Which, to hearts with sorrow thrilling,Seem but sighs and waken tears;Then, with bosom lightly springing,Dost thou listen to the bell,That, with midnight’s number ringing,Speaks of rest and joy so well?Then, dear heart, this comfort borrowFrom the long day’s lingering light—Every day hath its own sorrow,Gladness cometh with the night!

We are somewhat puzzled as to the title which we ought to prefix to our next specimen. Goethe rather maliciously calls it “Gegenwart,” which may be equivalent to the word “Presentiality,” if, indeed, such a word belongs to the English language. We, therefore, prefer dedicating it to our own ladye love; and we could not find for her any where a sweeter strain, unless we were to commit depredation upon the minor poems of Ben Jonson or of Shakspeare.

To my Mistress

All that’s lovely speaks of thee!When the glorious sun appeareth,’Tis thy harbinger to me:Only thus he cheereth.In the garden where thou go’st,There art thou the rose of roses,First of lilies, fragrant mostOf the fragrant posies.When thou movest in the dance,All the stars with thee are moving,And around thee gleam and glance,Never tired of loving.Night!—and would the night were here!Yet the moon would lose her duty,Though her sheen be soft and clear,Softer is thy beauty!Fair, and kind, and gentle one!Do not moon, and stars, and flowersPay that homage to their sunThat we pay to ours?Sun of mine, that art so dear—Sun, that art above all sorrow!Shine, I pray thee, on me hereTill the eternal morrow.

Another little poem makes us think of “poor Ophelia.” We suspect that Goethe had the music of her broken ballad floating in his mind, when he composed the following verses:—

The Wild Rose

A boy espied, in morning light,A little rosebud blowing.’Twas so delicate and bright,That he came to feast his sight,And wonder at its growing.Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,Rosebud brightly blowing!I will gather thee—he cried—Rosebud brightly blowing!Then I’ll sting thee, it replied,And you’ll quickly start asideWith the prickle glowing.Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,Rosebud brightly blowing!But he pluck’d it from the plain,The rosebud brightly blowing!It turn’d and stung him, but in vain—He regarded not the pain,Homewards with it going.Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,Rosebud brightly blowing!

We are sure that the votaries of Wordsworth will thank us for the next translation, which embodies a most noble idea. See how the eye of the poet is scanning the silent march of the heavens, and mark with what solemn music he invests the stately thought!

A Night Thought

I do not envy you, ye joyless stars,Though fair ye be, and glorious to the sight—The seaman’s hope amidst the ’whelming storm,When help from God or man there cometh none.No! for ye love not, nor have ever loved!Through the broad fields of heaven, the eternal hoursLead on your circling spheres unceasingly.How vast a journey have ye travell’d o’er,Since I, upon the bosom of my love,Forgot all memory of night or you!

Let us follow up these glorious lines with a conception worthy of Æschylus—indeed an abstract of his master-subject. It were out of place here to dilate upon the mythical grandeur of Prometheus, and the heroic endurance of his character, as depicted by the ancient poet. To our mind and ear, the modern is scarcely inferior.

Prometheus

Curtain thy heavens, thou Jove, with clouds and mist,And, like a boy that moweth thistles down,Unloose thy spleen on oaks and mountain-tops;Yet canst thou not deprive me of my earth,Nor of my hut, the which thou didst not build,Nor of my hearth, whose little cheerful flameThou enviest me!I know not aught within the universeMore slight, more pitiful than you, ye Gods!Who nurse your majesty with scant suppliesOf offerings wrung from fear, and mutter’d prayers,And needs must starve, were’t not that babes and beggarsAre hope-besotted fools!When I was yet a child, and knew not whenceMy being came, nor where to turn its powers,Up to the sun I bent my wilder’d eye,As though above, within its glorious orb,There dwelt an ear to listen to my plaint,A heart, like mine, to pity the oppress’d.Who gave me succourAgainst the Titans in their tyrannous might?Who rescued me from death—from slavery?Thou!—thou, my soul, burning with hallow’d fire,Thou hast thyself alone achieved it all!Yet didst thou, in thy young simplicity,Glow with misguided thankfulness to himThat slumbers on in idlesse there above!I reverence thee?Wherefore? Hast thou everLighten’d the sorrows of the heavy-laden?Thou ever stretch’d thy hand to still the tearsOf the perplex’d in spirit?Was it notAlmighty Time, and ever-during Fate—My lords and thine—that shaped and fashion’d meInto the man I am?Belike it was thy dream,That I should hate life—fly to wastes and wilds,For that the buds of visionary thoughtDid not all ripen into goodly flowers?Here do I sit, and mouldMen after mine own image—A race that may be like unto myself,To suffer, weep; to enjoy, and to rejoice;And, like myself, unheeding all of thee!

We shall close this Number with a ballad of a different cast, but, lest the transition should be too violent, we shall interpolate the space with a very beautiful lyric. We claim no merit for this translation, for, to say the truth, we could not have done it half so well. Perhaps the fair hand that penned it, will turn over the pages of Maga in distant Wales, and a happy blush over-spread her cheek when she sees, enshrined in these columns, the effort of her maiden Muse.

New Love, New Life

Heart—my heart! what means this feeling?Say what weighs thee down so sore?What new life is this revealing!What thou wert, thou art no more.All once dear to thee is vanish’d,All that marr’d thy peace is banish’d,Gone thy trouble and thine ease—Ah! whence come such woes as these?Does the bloom of youth bright-gleaming—Does that form of purest light—Do these eyes so sweetly beaming,Chain thee with resistless might?When the charm I’d wildly sever—Man myself to fly for ever—Ah! or yet the thought can stir,Back my footsteps fly to her.With such magic meshes laden,All too closely round me cast,Holds me that bewitching maiden,An unwilling captive fast.In her charméd sphere delaying,Must I live, her will obeying—Ah! how great the change in me!Love—O love, do set me free!

One other mood of love, and we leave the apprentice of Cornelius Agrippa to bring up the rear. Goethe is said to have been somewhat fickle in his attachments—most poets are—but here is one instance where passion appears to have prevailed over absence.

Separation

I think of thee whene’er the sun is glowingUpon the lake;Of thee, when in the crystal fountain flowingThe moonbeams shake.I see thee when the wanton wind is busy,And dust-clouds rise;In the deep night, when o’er the bridge so dizzyThe wanderer hies.I hear thee when the waves, with hollow roaring,Gush forth their fill;Often along the heath I go exploring,When all is still.I am with thee! Though far thou art and darkling,Yet art thou near.The sun goes down, the stars will soon be sparkling—Oh, wert thou here!

If we recollect right—for it is a long time since we studied the occult sciences—Wierius, in his erudite volume “De Prestigiis Demonum,” recounts the story which is celebrated in the following ballad. Something like it is to be found in the biography of every magician; for the household staff of a wizard was not complete without a famulus, who usually proved to be a fellow of considerable humour, but endowed with the meddling propensities of a monkey. Thus, Doctor Faustus of Wittenburg—not at all to be confounded with the illustrious printer—had a perfect jewel in the person of his attendant Wagner; and our English Friar Bacon was equally fortunate in Miles, his trusty squire. Each of these gentlemen, in their master’s absence, attempted a little conjuring on their own account; but with no better success than the nameless attendant of Agrippa, whom Goethe has sought to immortalize. There is a great deal of grotesque humour in the manufacture, agility, and multiplication of the domestic Kobold.

The Magician’s Apprentice

Huzzah, huzzah! His back is fairlyTurn’d about, the wizard old;And I’ll now his spirits rarelyTo my will and pleasure mould!His spells and orgies—ha’n’t IMark’d them all aright?And I’ll do wonders, sha’n’t I?And deeds of mickle might.Bubble, bubble;Fast and faster!Hear your master,Hear his calling—Water! flow in measures double,To the bath in torrents falling!Ho, thou batter’d broomstick! take yeThis old seedy coat, and wear it—Ah, thou household drudge, I’ll make yeDo my bidding; ay, and fear it.Stand on legs, old tramper!Here’s a head—I’ve stuck it—Now be off—hey, scamperWith the water-bucket!Bubble, bubble;Fast and faster!Hear your master,Hear his calling—Water! flow in measure double,To the bath in torrents falling!See, ’tis off—’tis at the river—In the stream the bucket flashes;Now ’tis back—and down, or everYou can wink; the burden dashes.Again, again, and quicker!The floor is in a swim,And every stoup and bickerIs running o’er the brim.Stop, now stop!For you’ve grantedAll I wantedWell and neatly—Gracious me! I’m like to drop—I’ve forgot the word completely!Oh, the word, so strong and baleful,To make it what it was before!There it skips with pail on pailful—Would thou wert a broom once more!Still new streams he scatters,Round and ever round me—Oh, a hundred watersRushing in have bound me!No—no longerCan I bear it.No, I swear it!Gifts and graces!Woe is me, my fears grow stronger,Look what grinnings, what grimaces!Wilt thou, offspring of the devil,Soak the house to please thy funning?Even now, above the levelOf the door the water’s running.Broom accurst, that will notHear, although I roar!Stick! be now, and fail not,What thou wert before!You will joke me?I’ll not bear it,No, I swear it!I will catch you;And with axe, if you provoke me,In a twinkling I’ll dispatch you.Back it comes—will nought prevent it?If I only turn me to thee,Soon, O Kobold! thou’lt repent it,When the steel goes crashing through thee.Bravely struck, and surely!There it goes in twain;Now I move securely,And I breathe again!Woe and wonder!As it parted,Up there started,’Quipp’d aright,Goblins twain that rush asunder.Help, oh help, ye powers of might!Deep and deeper grows the waterOn the stairs and in the hall,Rushing in with roar and clatter—Lord and master, hear me call!Ah, here comes the master—Sore, sir, is my straight;I raised this spirit fasterFar than I can lay’t.“To your hole!As you were, beBroom! and there beStill; for noneBut the wizard can control,And make you on his errands run!”

THE GREAT DROUGHT

In the spring and summer of 1844 rain began to fail, and the first things that perished for want of water died that year. But the moisture of the earth was still abundant, and the plants which took deep root found sustenance below; so that the forest trees showed an abundance of foliage, and the harvest in some kinds was plentiful. Towards the autumn rain returned again, and every thing appeared to be recovering its former order; but the dry winter, the dry spring, dry summer of the next year, told upon the face of creation. Many trees put forth small and scanty leaves, and many perished altogether; whole species were cut off; for instance, except where they were artificially preserved, one could not find a living ash or beech—few were kept alive by means of man; for water began to be hoarded for the necessaries of life. The wheat was watered, and, where such a thing was possible, the hay-fields also; but numbers of animals died, and numbers were killed this year—the first from thirst, and the last to reduce the consumers of the precious element. Still the rich commanded the necessaries, and many of the luxuries of life; and the arts which required a consumption of water were carried on as yet, and continued in practice even longer than prudence warranted: so strong was the force of habit, and the pressure of the artificial necessities which they supplied. The railroads were as yet in activity, and when water failed along the line, it was brought from the sea by the rich companies concerned in the traffic; only the fares were raised, and the trains which ran for pleasure merely, were suspended. But, in the midst of business and interest, there was a deep gloom. Projects which affected the fortunes of nations were in suspense, because there was no rain. Cares for the succession of crowns, and the formation of constitutions, might all be futile, if there should be no rain: and it seemed as if there never would be any; for this was now the third year, and the earth had not received a shower. And now, ceasing to be supplied from their usual sources, the springs and rivers withered and shrank. Water became in many places not dear, but unattainable. The greatest people of the land left it, and used their wealth in chasing the retreating element from place to place on the earth. In some cases, among these luxurious spirits there were scenes of extravagant revelry still; they had no employment except to live, and they endeavoured to make the act of living as exciting as their old amusements had been. But accounts of foreign countries came more and more rarely to England; for when the fourth rainless year arrived, drought and famine had slain three-fourths of its inhabitants, and commerce and agriculture were alike suspended. When a vessel came as far up in the mouth of a river as the sinking waters permitted, it brought tidings of desolation from whatever port it had left. Stories began to spread of dry land in parts of the ocean where it had never been seen before; marks which had stood in the deep of the sea might now be walked round at all times of the tide, and thick crusts of salt were beginning to spread upon tracts of the great deep. These tidings from foreign lands came at long intervals, and at long intervals was a ship sent from any English haven. The few dwellers of the coast knew not if there were still any dwellers of the interior: for England was become like the desert; and there were no beasts to carry one across it, and no water to be hoarded in skins for the passage. Traffic of every kind ceased; industry was gone; the secrets of science, and the cultivated mind of the philosopher, were all bent to the production of water; and many a precious object was resolved back into its elements, and afforded a scanty supply to a few parched mouths. The lingering inhabitants had the produce of past years only to live upon, which nothing replenished as it diminished, and to   renew which the baked earth was wholly incompetent.

In the heart of this desert, there was a family which had hitherto survived the destruction of life around them. It consisted of a father and mother, and two young children, Charles and Alice; the last of whom, the girl, was but a few months old when the Great Drought began. They had lived in Derbyshire, near the range of low hills called the Peak; and they and other inhabitants of that region had found water longer than many others, from the sides of the hills, and from excavations which they had made in the rocks. The strong hope and expectation of rain had kept them lingering on as long as any supply lasted; and Paulett, who in the days when ranks existed, had been a great landlord, had used both his knowledge and his influence to supply the wants of the people, and to postpone their destruction. But those days were gone by; his possessions were so much dust: he wanted water, and nobody wanted any thing else. He was a mere man now, like those who are born naked and die naked, and had to struggle with the needs of nature, even as every one else. Meantime his education availed him; and the resources which it taught him prolonged the lives of his family and himself. But he was soon obliged to limit himself to this sole care; for the supply he obtained was scanty, and he knew how precarious it must be. He had explored the cavern of the Peak with great attention, and he bored the rock in various places, and used means suggested by his knowledge of natural causes, which had procured a slender flow of water into a basin which he had made. The fury of thirsty men for water was so great, that he was obliged to keep his secret with the utmost care; and towards the end of the fourth year, he removed his wife and children to the cavern itself, and blocked up the entrance, in such a manner that he could defend it against any chance survivor. There was no want of the luxuries of furniture in the cavern—all the splendours of the land were at the command of those who would take them; and Paulett brought there whatever had adorned his home when the earth was a fit dwelling-place for man. There was velvet and down to lie upon; there were carpets on which the little Alice could roll; there were warm dresses, and luxurious ornaments of the toilette; whatever could be used for comfort he had brought, and all other precious things he had left in his open house, locking himself and his family up with only water. At first there would come sometimes a miserable man or woman, tracing the presence of living creatures, and crying for water. Paulett or his wife supplied several, and when they had been refreshed, they revealed the secret to others; or, being strengthened themselves, felt the desperate desire of life revive, and attempted violence to get at the treasure. After this the inhabitants of the cavern fell back to mere self-preservation; and the father and mother were able to harden their hearts against others, by looking at the two creatures whom they had born into the world, and who depended upon them. But, indeed, life seemed to shrink rapidly to nothing over the face of the country. It was very rare to see a moving form of any kind—skeletons of beasts and men were in plenty, and their white bones lay on the arid soil; or even their withered shapes, dried by the air and the sun, were stretched out on the places where they had ceased to suffer: but life was most rare, and it became scarcely necessary to use any precaution against an invader of their store. The dreadful misery was, that this store diminished. The heart of the earth seemed drying, and was ceasing to be capable of yielding moisture, even to the utmost wrenching of science. There was so little one hot day, that Paulett and Ellen scarcely moistened their lips after their meal of baked corn, and warned their children that the draught they received was the only one that could be given them. Charles was now seven years old, and had learned to submit, but his longing eyes pleaded for more; little Alice was clamorous, and the mother felt tears overflow her eyes to think that there was no possibility of yielding to that childish peevishness, and that the absolute non-existence of water must punish her poor child’s wilfulness. When Paulett had set his   instruments to work, to renew if possible the supply, and when Ellen had removed the silver cups and dishes which had held their corn and water, he and she sat down at the mouth of the cavern, and the little ones got their playthings, and placed them on piece of rock not far off. The mouth of the cave is lofty, and there is a sort of terrace running along one side, at the foot of which lay the channel of the stream, that was now dry. The view is down the first reach of a narrow valley, which turns presently afterwards, and so shuts out the world beyond from sight; and the hill on each side rises high, and from its perpendicularity seems even higher than it is. The shade of the cavern was deep and cool, but the sky glowed with the heat and light of the sun, and there was not a cloud to hinder him from burning up the earth. The hill-sides, the channel where the brook had flowed, the stones of the cave, were all equally bare; there was no sound of voice, or bird, or insect—no cool drop from the ceiling of the cave—no moisture even in the coolness of the shadow. Ellen leaned her head on her husband, and Paulett pressed his arm round her—both of them were thinking of the basin empty of water.