Kitabı oku: «The Rise of Iskander», sayfa 5

CHAPTER 13

In the meantime let us not forget the Prince of Athens and the Lady Iduna. These adventurous companions soon lost sight of their devoted champion, and entered a winding ravine, which gradually brought them to the summit of the first chain of the Epirot mountains. From it they looked down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which several mule tracks led in various directions, and entered the highest barrier of the mountains, which rose before them covered with forests of chestnut and ilex. Nicæus chose the track which he considered least tempting to pursuit, and towards sunset they had again entered a ravine washed by a mountain stream. The course of the waters had made the earth fertile and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay and pleasant colours refreshed their wearied eye-sight, and the perfume of aromatic plants invigorated their jaded senses. Upon the bank of the river, too, a large cross of roughly-carved wood brought comfort to their Christian hearts, and while the holy emblem filled them with hope and consolation, and seemed an omen of refuge from their Moslemin oppressors, a venerable Eremite, with a long white beard descending over his dark robes, and leaning on a staff of thorn, came forth from an adjoining cavern to breathe the evening air and pour forth his evening orisons.

Iduna and Nicæus had hitherto prosecuted their sorrowful journey almost in silence. Exhausted with anxiety, affliction, and bodily fatigue, with difficulty the daughter of Hunniades could preserve her seat upon her steed. One thought alone interested her, and by its engrossing influence maintained her under all her sufferings, the memory of Iskander. Since she first met him, at the extraordinary interview in her father’s pavilion, often had the image of the hero recurred to her fancy, often had she mused over his great qualities and strange career. His fame, so dangerous to female hearts, was not diminished by his presence. And now, when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to him for all that she held dear, that she owed to his disinterested devotion, not only life, but all that renders life desirable, honour and freedom, country and kindred, that image was invested with associations and with sentiments, which, had Iskander himself been conscious of their existence, would have lent redoubled vigour to his arm, and fresh inspiration to his energy. More than once Iduna had been on the point of inquiring of Nicæus the reason which had induced alike him and Iskander to preserve so strictly the disguise of his companion. But a feeling which she did not choose to analyse struggled successfully with her curiosity: she felt a reluctance to speak of Iskander to the Prince of Athens. In the meantime Nicæus himself was not apparently very anxious of conversing upon the subject, and after the first rapid expressions of fear and hope as to the situation of their late comrade, they relapsed into silence, seldom broken by Nicæus, but to deplore the sufferings of his mistress, lamentations which Iduna answered with a faint smile.

The refreshing scene wherein they had now entered, and the cheering appearance of the Eremite, were subjects of mutual congratulation; and Nicæus, somewhat advancing, claimed the attention of the holy man, announcing their faith, imprisonment, escape, and sufferings, and entreating hospitality and refuge. The Eremite pointed with his staff to the winding path, which ascended the bank of the river to the cavern, and welcomed the pilgrims, in the name of their blessed Saviour, to his wild abode and simple fare.

The cavern widened when they entered, and comprised several small apartments. It was a work of the early Christians, who had found a refuge in their days of persecution, and art had completed the beneficent design of nature. The cavern was fresh, and sweet, and clean. Heaven smiled upon its pious inmate through an aperture in the roof; the floor was covered with rushes; in one niche rested a brazen cross, and in another a perpetual lamp burnt before a picture, where Madonna smiled with meek tenderness upon her young divinity.

The Eremite placed upon a block of wood, the surface of which he had himself smoothed, some honey, some dried fish and a wooden bowl filled from the pure stream that flowed beneath them: a simple meal, but welcome. His guests seated themselves upon a rushy couch, and while they refreshed themselves, he gently inquired the history of their adventures. As it was evident that the Eremite, from her apparel, mistook the sex of Iduna, Nicæus thought fit not to undeceive him, but passed her off as his brother. He described themselves as two Athenian youths, who had been captured while serving as volunteers under the great Hunniades, and who had effected their escape from Adrianople under circumstances of great peril and difficulty; and when he had gratified the Eremite’s curiosity respecting their Christian brethren in Paynim lands, and sympathetically marvelled with him at the advancing fortunes of the Crescent, Nicæus, who perceived that Iduna stood in great need of rest, mentioned the fatigues of his more fragile brother, and requested permission for him to retire. Whereupon the Eremite himself, fetching a load of fresh rushes, arranged them in one of the cells, and invited the fair Iduna to repose. The daughter of Hunniades, first humbling herself before the altar of the Virgin, and offering her gratitude for all the late mercies vouchsafed unto her, and then bidding a word of peace to her host and her companion, withdrew to her hard-earned couch, soon was buried in a sleep as sweet and innocent as herself.

But repose fell not upon the eye-lids of Nicæus in spite of all labours. The heart of the Athenian Prince was distracted by two most powerful of passions—Love and Jealousy—and when the Eremite, pointing out to his guest his allotted resting-place, himself retired to his regular and simple slumbers, Nicæus quitted the cavern, and standing upon the bank of the river, gazed in abstraction upon the rushing waters foaming in the moonlight. The Prince of Athens, with many admirable qualities, was one of those men who are influenced only by their passions, and who, in the affairs of life, are invariably guided by their imagination instead of their reason. At present all thought and feeling, all considerations, and all circumstances, merged in the overpowering love he entertained for Iduna, his determination to obtain her at all cost and peril, and his resolution that she should never again meet Iskander, except as the wife of Nicæus. Compared with this paramount object, the future seemed to vanish. The emancipation of his country, the welfare of his friend, even the maintenance of his holy creed, all those great and noble objects for which, under other circumstances, he would have been prepared to sacrifice his fortune and his life, no longer interested or influenced him; and while the legions of the Crescent were on the point of pouring into Greece to crush that patriotic and Christian cause over which Iskander and himself had so often mused, whose interests the disinterested absence of Iskander, occasioned solely by his devotion to Nicæus, had certainly endangered, and perhaps, could the events of the last few hours be known, even sacrificed, the Prince of Athens resolved, unless Iduna would consent to become his, at once to carry off the daughter of Hunniades to some distant country. Nor indeed, even with his easily excited vanity, was Nicæus sanguine of obtaining his purpose by less violent means. He was already a rejected suitor, and under circumstances which scarcely had left hope. Nothing but the sole credit of her chivalric rescue could perhaps have obtained for him the interest in the heart of Iduna which he coveted. For while this exploit proffered an irresistible claim to her deepest gratitude, it indicated also, on the part of her deliverer, the presence and possession of all those great qualities, the absence of which in the character and conduct of her suitor, Iduna had not, at a former period, endeavoured to conceal to be the principal came of his rejection. And now, by the unhappy course of circumstances, the very deed on which he counted, with sanguine hope, as the sure means of his success, seemed as it were to have placed him in a more inferior situation than before. The constant society of his mistress had fanned to all its former force and ardour, the flame which, apart from her, and hopeless, he had endeavoured to repress; while, on the other hand, he could not conceal from himself, that Iduna must feel that he had played in these rest proceeding but a secondary part; that all the genius and all the generosity of the exploit rested with Iskander, who, after having obtained her freedom by so much energy, peril, sagacity and skill, had secured it by a devoted courage which might shame all the knights of Christendom; perhaps, too, had secured it by his own life.

What if Iskander were no more? It was a great contingency. The eternal servitude of Greece, and the shameful triumph of the Crescent, were involved, perhaps, in that single event. And could the possession of Iduna compensate for such disgrace and infamy? Let us not record the wild response of passion.

It was midnight ere the restless Nicæus, more exhausted by his agitating reverie than by his previous exertions, returned into the cavern, and found refuge in sleep from all his disquietudes.

CHAPTER 14

The Eremite rose with the Sun; and while he was yet at matins, was joined by Iduna, refreshed and cheerful after her unusual slumbers. After performing their devotions, her venerable host proposed that they should go forth and enjoy the morning air. So, descending the precipitous bank of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the bed of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beautiful clumps of birch-trees and tall thin poplars, rose on each side among the rocks covered with bright mosses, and parasitical plants of gay and various colours. One side of the glen was touched with the golden and grateful beams of the rising sun, and the other was in deep shadow.

“Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in security;” said the Eremite, “for your enemies, if they have not already given up their pursuit, will scarcely search this sweet solitude.”

“It is indeed sweet, holy father,” said Iduna; “but the captive, who has escaped from captivity, can alone feel all its sweetness.”

“It is true,” said the Eremite; “I also have been a captive.”

“Indeed! holy father. To the Infidels?”

“To the Infidels, gentle pilgrim.”

“Have you been at Adrianople?”

“My oppressors were not the Paynim,” replied the Eremite, “but they were enemies far more dire, my own evil passions. Time was when my eye sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure.”

“God is merciful,” said Iduna, “and without His aid, the strongest are but shadows.”

“Ever think so,” replied the Eremite, “and you will deserve rather His love than His mercy. Thirty long years have I spent in this solitude, meditating upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in instruction. My hours are never heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other men.”

“You have seen much, holy father?”

“And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto thee, trust not in thyself.”

“It is a great truth,” remarked Iduna, “and leads to a higher one.”

“Even so,” replied the Eremite. “We are full of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream.”

Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the stream. “Every morn I rise only to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence,” he exclaimed. “Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my fish. To-day I can offer ye a fresh dainty. We will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here, gentle youth, and I will summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much he does not bear so contented a spirit as thyself.”

“He is older, and has seen more,” replied Iduna.

The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a mossy rock, listening to the awakening birds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this reverie, her name was called. She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nicæus.

“How fares my gentle comrade?” inquired the Prince of Athens.

“As well as I hope you are, dear Nicæus. We have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a host.”

“I think I may now congratulate you on your safety,” said the Prince. “This unfrequented pass will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit.”

“Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you,” said Iduna. “My joy would be complete if my father only knew of our safety, and if our late companion were here to share it.”

“Fear not for my friend,” replied Nicæus. “I have faith in the fortune of Iskander.”

“If any one could succeed under such circumstances, he doubtless is the man,” rejoined Iduna; “but it was indeed an awful crisis in his fate.”

“Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy thoughts.”

“We can give him only our thoughts,” said Iduna, “and when we remember how much is dependent on his life, can they be cheerful?”

“Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna,” replied Nicæus.

The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock, and threw it into the stream.

“Dear lady,” said the Prince of Athens, seating himself by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. “Pardon me, if an irrepressible feeling at this moment impels me to recur to a subject, which, I would fain hope, were not so unpleasing to you, as once unhappily you deemed it. O! Iduna, Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together; once more I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I perhaps violated my pledge, but I sought you in captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! Oh! Iduna, if possible, love me!”

She turned away her head, she turned away her streaming eyes. “It is impossible not to love my deliverers,” she replied, in a low and tremulous voice, “even could he not prefer the many other claims to affection which are possessed by the Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for this renewal of a most painful subject, perhaps not under any circumstances, but least of all under those in which we now find ourselves.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the prince, “I can no longer control my passion. My life, not my happiness merely, depends upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear with me, my beloved, bear with me! Were you Nicæus, you too would need forgiveness.”

“I beseech you, cease!” exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer voice; and, withdrawing her hand, she suddenly rose. “This is neither the time nor place for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, but a few days back, I was a hopeless captive, and that my life and fame are even now in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but still I perhaps need the hourly interposition of heavenly aid. Other than such worldly thoughts should fill my mind, and do. Dear Nicæus,” she continued, in a more soothing tone, “you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise: fulfil it in like spirit.”

He would have replied; but at this moment the staff of the Eremite sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark with rage and passion, the Prince of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the upper part of the glen, to conceal his anger and disappointment.

“Eat, gentle youth,” said the Eremite. “Will not thy brother join us? What may be his name?”

“Nicæus, holy father.”

“And thine?”

Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her confusion, she replied, “Iskander.”

“Nicæus,” called out the Eremite, “Iskander and myself await thee!”

Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when the prince returned with a smiling countenance, and joined in the meal, with many cheerful words.

“Now I propose,” said the Eremite, “that yourself and your brother Iskander should tarry with me some days, if, indeed, my simple fare have any temptation.”

“I thank thee, holy father,” replied Nicæus, “but our affairs are urgent; nor indeed could I have tarried here at all, had it not been for my young Iskander here, who, as you may easily believe, is little accustomed to his late exertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must proceed.”

“Bearing with us,” added Iduna, “a most grateful recollection of our host.”

“God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed,” replied the Eremite.

“My trust is indeed in Him,” rejoined Iduna.

CHAPTER 15

And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their refreshed horses, Nicæus and Iduna quitted, with many kind words, the cavern of the Eremite, and took their way along the winding bank of the river. Throughout the moonlit night they travelled, ascending the last and highest chain of mountains and reaching the summit by dawn. The cheerful light of morning revealed to them the happy plains of a Christian country. With joyful spirits they descended into the fertile land, and stopped at a beautiful Greek village, embowered in orchards and groves of olive-trees.

The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the Primate, or chief personage of the village, and was conducted to his house; but its master, he was informed, was without, supervising the commencement of the vintage. Leaving Iduna with the family of the Primate, Nicæus went in search of him. The vineyard was full of groups, busied in the most elegant and joyous of human occupations, gathering, with infinite bursts of merriment, the harvest of the vine. Some mounted on ladders, fixed against the festooning branches, plucked the rich bunches, and threw them below, where girls, singing in chorus, caught them in panniers, or their extended drapery. In the centre of the vineyard, a middle-aged man watched with a calm, but vigilant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally stimulated the indolent, or prompted the inexperienced.

“Christo,” said the Prince of Athens, when he had approached him. The Primate turned round, but evidently did not immediately recognise the person who addressed him.

“I see,” continued the prince, “that my meditated caution was unnecessary. My strange garb is a sufficient disguise.”

“The Prince Nicæus!” exclaimed the Primate. “He is, indeed, disguised, but will, I am sure, pardon his faithful servant.”

“Not a word, Christo!” replied the prince. “To be brief, I have crossed the mountains from Roumelia, and have only within this hour recognised the spot whither I have chanced to arrive. I have a companion with me. I would not be known. You comprehend? Affairs of state. I take it for granted that there are none here who will recognise me, after three years’ absence, in this dress.”

“You may feel secure, my lord,” replied Christo. “If you puzzled me, who have known you since you were no bigger than this bunch of grapes, you will quite confound the rest.”

“‘Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in order to give them an opportunity to prepare for my reception. In the meantime, it is necessary to send on a courier at once. You must manage all this for me, Christo. How are your daughters?”

“So, so, please your Highness,” replied Christo. “A man with seven daughters has got trouble for every day in the week.”

“But not when they are so pretty as yours are!”

“Poh! poh! handsome is that handsome does; and as for Alexina, she wants to be married.”

“Very natural. Let her marry, by all means.”

“But Helena wants to do the same.”

“More natural still; for, if possible, she is prettier. For my part, I could marry them both.”

“Ay, ay! that is all very well; but handsome is that handsome does. I have no objection to Alexina marrying, and even Helena; but then there is Lais—”

“Hah! hah! hah!” exclaimed the prince. “I see, my dear Christo, that my foster sisters give you a very proper portion of trouble. However, I must be off to my travelling companion. Come in as soon as you can, my dear fellow, and will settle everything. A good vintage to you, and only as much mischief as necessary.” So saying, the prince tripped away.

“Well! who would have thought of seeing him here!” exclaimed the worthy Primate. “The same gay dog as ever! What can he have been doing at Roumelia? Affairs of state, indeed! I’ll wager my new Epiphany scarf, that, whatever the affairs are, there is a pretty girl in the case.”