Richmond Hill High School - Archway / Dome Yearbook (Richmond Hill, NY)

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-A A THE DOME TPLQQ 13 city will stand if men will but put the doom thought from their minds and cease to brood on punishments of unseen gods. The gods we have made bring the doom be' cause through all these crowding multitudes of years men have by their belief willed the Gods to willing the doom and their accumu' lated wills have now gathered into a real doomf Gott: Say no more, Montrore, hold thy peace. That any man should speak thus of the gods! Montrore: But if he be a true pro- phet ..... Gort: Silence, Montrore! Take not man's gods from him, for how can a come mon mortal live without his gods? Montrore: Nay, I think as I have often thought, that there is truth and wisdom and deep thought in this man's speeches. Gort: There is no truth in the mouth of a madman. Moiitrorez So sayeth Carnoe, the king's high priest now. Once, however, when the mad poet, Esnoth, prophecied a terrible dis' ease that should slowly rack the bones of the nobles, for that they would not listen to his mad melodies, then did Carnoe praise him and cry aloud on the platform before Yaguth that the god had inspired Esnoth's madness and in madness lay truth. And Carnoe prophecied fearful tortures that he should save them from, for only a little tithe to the gods. Only a little! A price' less sapphire armlet from this princeg a bowl of clear carved crystal from that oneg a blue and yellow enameled chest from the Lord of Aetilosg from the Duke of Celimais, a golden goblet with a diamond studded band around the rim. , That was all for the gods, of course. All to propitiate Yaguth and the little onyx god, Kitsan, and his agate hind, Sarnti Nolt of the angry eyes. Nay, Carnoe knoweth who drinks the wine of Gootoosh from the sacred diamond decorated cup, who eats candied violet and rose petal from the crysf tal bowl. Gort fshoclqed and frightened by this disrespect for age and ranlqj: Montrore, thou art mad, even as Esno-even as this new priest is mad. I knew thy father in his youth and he was ever falling a-dream with strange wild fancies. And thou wast ever an aloof mannered youth whose soul went questing among strange stars, forget' ting the common haunts of men. Thy poesy has turned thy soul. Come, think nomore of this mad priest, Zahorta. Come, the dawn will soon peer cautiously over those dark purple eastern mountains, Even now the stars begin to pale. Let us speak no longer of strange wierd gods and of the willings of men. Let us talk of pleasant remembered things: of how the sun shone on thy mother's ebon hair, where she stood all robed in violet among the yellow daffof dils that grow near the gate, to bid you god' speed on your way to soldiery, Dost thou recall the soft wave on her left temple and the tiny tear that never quite touched her eyelash? Or if that, perchance, should sadden thee, let us remember the times when thou wert a little child with questioning eyes who sat on my knee and eagerly fingered my huntf ing knife and thirsted after tales of dragon' slaughtering. Montrore fsadly and painfullyj: Oh, my friend Gort, I cannot think of old re- membered things for the words of Zahorta. I mind me of the things he spoke and I cannot forget that I have created my gods. By night, he ofttimes comes along the city walls and, in respect of his madness, they suffer him to pass unmolested. I have hoped that he would come here some night and talk long with me and make clear to me all the heavy doubts which choke my heart. Of this one thing am I certain, that if it be true that we can will the doom away, I shall do all in my power to make men will. Gort funhappilyj: Alas, lvlontrore, that thy father's son should ever find his soul so perplexed with futile questionings! CHC rubs his hand over his forehead., Ah, the air is heavy in the hush. It is a menacing quiet. Montrore fsoberlyj: It is fraught with doom thoughts! QA. noise is heard off right and suddenly a tall dark young man enters from that di' rection. He wears a long flowing white robe and his feet and head are bare. His long black curls hang over his shoulders. Brilliant blue eyes gleam beneath heavy, beetling brows and he carries his head high, as a man with a mission. He advances to Montrore and Gort. 'It is Zahorta, the young rnad priest. Montrore cannot take his eyes from his facej ' Zahorta: The dawn comes soon, oh captain, and yet methinks the air is too heavily fraught with the doom thoughts of the people and their gods. Gort f-making a gesture of repugnancej: Oh, Zahorta, why speakest thou thus to all the people, destroying mans innerafaith

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