Moonchild

Pantokratora, theropoian kai eremopoian, e misonta, oikian efstathousan[1] calling upon "her that dwelleth in the void place, the inane, terrible, inexorable, maker of horror and desolation, hater of the house that prospereth," and devoting "the signified and sealed, named and unnamed" to destruction. Then he turned to Balloch, and bade him act. Three minutes later the surgeon gave a curse, and blanched, as a scream, despite herself, burst from the bitten lips of the brave woman who lay upon the altar. "Why couldn't you let me give an anaesthetic?" he said angrily. "What's wrong? Is it bad?" "It's damned ugly. Curse it; not a thing here that I need!" But he needed nothing; he had done more even than he guessed. Mrs. Douglas, her face suddenly drawn and white, lifted her head with infinite effort towards her husband. "I've always loved you," she whispered, "and I love you now, as — I — die." Her head dropped with a dull crack upon the slab. No one can say if she heard the reply of Douglas: "You sow! you've bitched the whole show!" For she had uttered the supreme name of Love, in love; and the spell dissolved more swiftly than a dream. There was no Hecate, no sorcerer even, for [275] the moment; nothing but two murderers, and the corpse of a martyr between them. Douglas did not waste a single word of abuse on Balloch. "This is for you to clear up," he said, with a simplicity that cut deeper than sneer or snarl, and walked out of the cellar. Balloch, left to himself, became hysterical. In his act he recognized the first-fruits of the divine possession; his offering to the goddess had been stupendous indeed. All his exaltation returned: now would Hecate favour him above all men. Well, he had but to take the body upstairs. The old woman understood these things; he would certify the death; there would be no fuss made over a poor prostitute. He would return at once to London, and open up the negotiations with "A.B." [276]