“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that formIn rarest beauty moulded,And meekly o’er thy still, white breastThe snowy hands were folded.Pale wert thou as the lily budsTwined ’mid thy raven tresses,And cold thy lip, and still thy heartTo all my wild caresses!”—Grace Greenwood.
“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that formIn rarest beauty moulded,And meekly o’er thy still, white breastThe snowy hands were folded.Pale wert thou as the lily budsTwined ’mid thy raven tresses,And cold thy lip, and still thy heartTo all my wild caresses!”—Grace Greenwood.
“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that form
In rarest beauty moulded,
And meekly o’er thy still, white breast
The snowy hands were folded.
Pale wert thou as the lily buds
Twined ’mid thy raven tresses,
And cold thy lip, and still thy heart
To all my wild caresses!”
—Grace Greenwood.
“Another hand is beckoning onAnother call is given,And glows once more with angel stepsThe path which reaches Heaven.”—Whittier.
“Another hand is beckoning onAnother call is given,And glows once more with angel stepsThe path which reaches Heaven.”—Whittier.
“Another hand is beckoning on
Another call is given,
And glows once more with angel steps
The path which reaches Heaven.”
—Whittier.
The beautiful residence of Mr. Hastings was situated in the suburbs of the city, so that Emily, although familiar with all the gayeties and fashionable delights of life in town, was constantly surrounded with all the sweet influences of Nature. The rippling of streams and the rustling of forest leaves were the music of home voices, and winding paths through green fields and woods, up sunny hill-sides and over mossy rocks, were dearer than the gay promenade in the city, or even the aristocratic drive with her father’s noble grays.
The day following that of her interview with Edgar, was bright with a warm May sunshine, and beautiful in all the just unfolded loveliness of spring. The breeze came whispering at her open window with an eloquence not to be resisted, and with a brain full of busy fancies, and a heart laden with sweet thoughts, she sauntered out into the delicious air. With a light quick step she walked along the graveled street, past cultivated grounds and noble dwellings, until she reached the green turf and wooded slopes beyond. And here where the fresh, glad life of Nature seemed kindred with her own, she loitered leisurely along grass-bordered lanes, and beneath grand old trees, dreaming of Edgar, of his genius and of his goodness, and of his love for her.
On her route, where a river curved around the foot of a gently sloping hill, in the shadow of old forest trees was made a rural cemetery—so beautiful with its quiet paths, and its cool shades, that the living loved to wander there; they who came not to watch beside the dead, as well as they who tended the flowers upon the graves of those they had lost.
Through a low ivy-covered gateway of stone, Emily entered the quiet place. There were no massive railings and lofty monuments, no superb carvings and costly devices, but love had made very beautiful this last resting-place of the dead—sweet flowers were blooming every where, and murmuring streams were guided along by the well-trodden paths. Here and there arose a simple shaft or a light column, and the graves of a household enclosed by a green hedge, or surrounded by shadowing trees.
As Emily passed through the familiar walks, she came suddenly upon a grave in a remote corner of the cemetery, beside which sat a solitary mourner. The spot was unenclosed, save by a few dark pines, and the outline of the grave upon the grassy turf distinctly visible. A small while slab lay upon the centre of the green mound, and at its head grew a rose-tree of wonderful beauty, bending till its weight of pure, white buds and blossoms, touched the long bright grass upon the grave.
Its simple loveliness touched the heart of Emily, and drawing near, she stooped down and read upon the pure marble—“Dear Elise.” Her young eyes filled with tears, and with an irresistible impulse she turned her face, full of tenderest sympathy toward her who sat beside the grave, and murmured,
“Was it your Elise?”
The woman, who had been unheeding until now, looked up at the sound of that earnest voice, and meeting a glance of such sorrowing gentleness, answered softly—
“Yes, my only, only child!”
There was something in the eye now first raised to hers, that eye sunken but still wonderfully beautiful—a half-remembered expression, that riveted Emily’s gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the woman, she said softly —
“Is it long since you laid her here?”
“Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were buds on the rose-tree when I brought it here.”
“And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to inhale the rich fragrance of the beautiful flower.
“Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed. Oh! how often have I watched her as she sat beside it at the window, with her proud head bending over her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than the brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise, how beautiful she was! I used to think that in all the wide world, there was not, there could never be a face so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my child, and God has taken her from me!”
She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive face of Emily, continued:
“I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark eyes and impassioned nature of the land of her birth. When my child was but two years old, I left my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my young American husband to his own land. And here, before many years, he died and left me, with a charge to watch over unceasingly, our marvelously beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent complexion and regular features, had also inherited his delicate constitution.
“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not, so that Elise were happy—so that I could but find her the books she loved, and save her slight hands from menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care, that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair around her noble head, and it was joy enough to look once into her soft eyes, and see her faint smile at my fond pride.
“Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with thoughts of beauty and of poetry, and she talked of things in which I could not sympathize; the world seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for her than for me. I felt that I could not understand my child—hers was a purer and a greater nature than mine, and I looked upon her with a reverent worship. I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected with the spirit within.”
“And was there never a portrait of your gifted, beautiful child?” interrupted Emily, in a quivering tone.
The question seemed to stir a deep fount of feeling—the stranger’s face flushed, and passionate tears gushed from her eyes.
“Ah, yes! but I may not have it—I may not see it long,” she cried. “Oh, my child, I must leave you forever!”
Emily was startled by this emotion, but in a few moments the mother became calm and continued:
“Not many weeks before Elise’s illness, as we were walking in the city, an artist observed my child, and followed her to our humble home. He praised her loveliness to me, in words which I cannot now remember, though I well recollect their import. He said her beauty was remarkable—was rare. In all his life he had never seen a face to compare with it, never an eye so glorious, so full of soul; he said such beauty should not be lost to the world, and he begged that I would let her sit to him, offering at the same time a liberal compensation.
“My heart was filled with a proud joy, but I let Elise decide for herself, and alter many urgent entreaties, she at length consented. Ah, I was very, very happy! I felt that her beauty was not to wither in unappreciation—the world would know of her loveliness—through the artist they might hear of her, and who could tell the happy days in store for my child. And I joyed also to know that now in the bright mornings she would be walking through the gay streets of the city, in the glad, fresh air, instead of bending wearily over her needle-work in our small dark room.
“For several mornings I accompanied Elise to the studio of the artist, though I could ill afford the time, but at length I found it utterly impossible, for our daily bread was to be earned, and Elise went alone. I sometimes fancied that when she returned at noon, she looked weary from her long walk, but she never complained, and I only thought her more beautiful than ever. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap her little green purse, heavy with silver, she said languidly —
“ ‘The picture does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head aches sadly—they say the portrait is very like me, mother.’
“I resolved to go with her to see it on the following day, but—oh, Father in Heaven! when the time came that I looked upon it first, my child lay here. I cannot tell you how she faded in my arms day by day—but, when I had seen her own rose-tree planted over the place of her rest, and had wept upon the green sod till the fountain of tears seemed dry, slowly and wearily I sought the studio of the painter, longing, yet almost fearing, to look upon her image there. Oh, what a vision met my gaze! I had thought to see her semblance—to trace a likeness to my loved Elise in the artist’s work; but there, full of life and beauty as though she had never left me, she stood before me. I wept over that picture tears more passionate than I had shed beside her grave, and I begged and received permission to visit it every day.
“A few nights after, on returning to my home, I found that my aged father, who had long been yearning to return to the land of his youth, had been making some arrangements with friends who were in a few months to sail for Italy, feeling that I would not refuse to go with him, now that my only tie to America, tolife, save him, was severed. A week before I would have said yes—would have left the dear grave of my buried Elise, and gone with my father to die in the land of our birth; but now I seemed held by a living tie—I felt as if my child were with me here, and I must take her, or my heart would break. I told my father and his friends this; we were all poor, but theyloved me, and by the sale of many little articles—somehow dear, God only knows, we raised money enough to buy the picture, at the price which I had often heard from Elise the artist demanded for a portrait.
“I could not have believed my stricken heart capable of the joy that throbbed through all its pulses, as I entered the painter’s room with my treasure-laden purse in my hand. I know my voice faltered—but oh, Heaven! how it died within me when I heard a firm denial of my request! Tears and pleadings—all a mother’s agony availed not; for some purpose of his own, some artists’ exhibition—what, I could not wholly comprehend—he would have the picture for his own—he would not yield it up, but coldly and calmly persisted in his refusal. Day after day I have been to him, but in vain. The time of our departure is drawing near, and I know that duty to my father demands that I leave him not to go down the way of life alone. I must go—I must leave my child, that blessed, pictured face forever!”
The woman’s frame trembled violently, and passionately exclaiming—“Oh, Loring, Edgar Loring!” she laid her face upon the grave and wept convulsively.
Emily had been listening, her upturned eyes wet with tears, and when the last, wild exclamation of the stranger reached her ear, she started quickly, a deadly faintness came over her heart, a paleness to her cheek, and she too drooped her young head, bowed with a sudden wretchedness, upon the grave before her. Swiftly thought after thought, memory after memory crowded upon her brain, all forcing with an anguish unalterable, the fearful dread that Edgar was cold and selfish—Edgar was untrue. That picture of Elise, with the deep eyes so like the mother’s beside her—yes, she had seen it, and Edgar had told her it was an ideal work—and oh, mockery! thatherloveliness was remembered in the vision. And she felt that a fearful moment in her life was now come: it was only necessary to prove the identity of the picture she had seen with that of the stranger’s child, to convict Edgar of the basest falsehood; and he who could deceive a heart young and trusting as hers, of what was he not capable!
Then awoke the latent power, the unrevealed energy of her spirit, and with an intense effort she calmed the tumultuous heavings of her heart, and strove to bring back her own quiet smile to those quivering lips. For some moments neither spoke, and when Emily lifted her head from the sod where the mother still lay, her face was calm, save a bright, uneasy flush upon her cheek. Lightly she touched the prostrate form before her, and said gently —
“I know this artist, and it may be that I can do something for you; describe to me this picture—I think that I have seen it.”
Then minutely, Mrs. Revere (for my readers must know it was she,) described the face of her Elise—and the faint ray of hope died out in the breast of Emily. Calmly she gathered from the mother all needful information—her name and residence and time of sailing, then giving her own address, and uttering words of hope and consolation, arose and left the spot.
There was no joy in the sunshine, no music in the song of birds, as she wended her way homeward over the very ground where a few hours before she had passed lightly, restless for very happiness. Reaching her home she slowly ascended to her own room, and closing the door, flung herself upon a couch and buried her face in its crimson cushions. Not till then did she know how great had been the strength exerted to keep down her rising tears, to command her trembling voice, to hide from other eyes her bitter sorrow. Long and passionately she wept now, but it was a weeping over the awakening from a dream. Edgar was cold-hearted—Edgar was false! That which she had thought to be the beautiful struggle of genius toward perfection, was but a selfish ambition. Andshehad been trifled with—duped—and as the humiliating thought rushed upon her, she lifted her sweet head, and the proud flush crimsoned cheek, neck and brow.
Emily’s love for Edgar was but in its early bloom—scarcely known even to herself; yet her pure, true soul would have risen above even a stronger, deeper, more engrossing passion. She had not loved the being now revealed to her, but “a creature of her dreams,” invested with all the beauty and nobleness which he seemed to possess; and it was with her young faith in human goodness still unshaken, that she mourned over the vanishing of this first, and dearest vision of her womanhood.
Emily did not meet the family at tea that evening, she “had a headache, and required rest”—but at night when her beloved mother came fondly to inquire if she were ill, she flung herself into her arms and told her all: all Edgar’s flattery and half-revealed love, all his falsehood, all the sad story of the childless mother, and besought her advice and aid in the course upon which she was now resolved.
Happy for that young heart that it could breathe out its first sorrow against a mother’s fond cheek—that the pillow of that stricken head was a mother’s loving bosom.
——
“The lips that breathe the burning vowBy falsehood base unstained must be;The heart to which mine own shall bow,Must worship Honor more than me!”—Mrs. Osgood.
“The lips that breathe the burning vowBy falsehood base unstained must be;The heart to which mine own shall bow,Must worship Honor more than me!”—Mrs. Osgood.
“The lips that breathe the burning vow
By falsehood base unstained must be;
The heart to which mine own shall bow,
Must worship Honor more than me!”
—Mrs. Osgood.
The next morning found Emily and her father in the atelier of Edgar Loring. The artist was not in, but the boy in attendance, to whom they were well known, brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate that Edgar was not present, for Emily, unpracticed at concealment, found it impossible not to betray emotion when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at the same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour when she saw it first. But speedily she regained her composure, and the artist soon entered the room. He looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder yet, when he saw how they were engaged.
“You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining your very beautiful picture in your absence,” said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has a very earnest desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I should be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?”
Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged, his love strengthened by this mark of preference, and; after a short silence, during which countless thoughts; hurried through his brain, he replied —
“I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition, and I had formed no design as to its subsequent disposal, but I cannot decline the honor which you and Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers. I would wish, however, previously to giving it up, that it might be exhibited according to my intention—the rooms open on Monday next.”
Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to sail in a little more than two weeks—they must have the picture at that time if ever, and he said:
“I am aware that this is a painting of a high order, and I am willing to pay you whatever you demand, but I wish immediately to become its possessor. It can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but at the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take it, if at all.”
Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in the elegant saloons of Mr. Hastings, his picture would be seen by quite as many critical and appreciative eyes as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that the fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation of the greatest value.
The arrangement was at length completed, and Emily and her father departed, leaving Edgar flushed and excited with what seemed his wonderful success. He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a little cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity of her conscious love in the presence of her father, and proud and joyous in the near approach of the triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed the day in new visions of glory for the future.
That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that Elise Revere kneeled before him, with her pale face upturned to his, pleading him to have pity on her lone and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full moonlight flooded the room, and lay brightest on a table by his couch, where bloomed in a vase rare flowers—the gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing the flowers to his lips, crushed down the remorseful feeling which had almost struggled into life, and rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him.
The days passed away, and Edgar did not see Emily—she had gone into the country with a sick friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home, a beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise Revere in the exhibition room, had attracted crowds of admirers, and the young artist’s praises had been spoken by many lips. During this time also, Emily had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and gratitude could hardly find expression. She had insisted that the sum raised by herself and her few Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose to which it was first appropriated, and Emily felt that it was best to allow their hearts this consolation.
The morning of Monday had come, and with it came also the beautiful portrait of Elise. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for one brief hour, Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture. Sad, sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger face had grown very dear, and it was with a mournful regret that she looked her last into those deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice blessed. Many emotions were weighing at her heart, for she felt how far better would it have been that her young head had been laid beneath the green sod that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting heart should have been buried in the cold selfishness of Edgar Loring’s soul.
The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf—passengers were hurrying on board, captain and mate were vociferating orders, flags were flying, waters glancing—all wore the bright and joyous air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of grays came dashing down to the pier—Mr. Hastings and Emily alighted, and were followed from the box by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board ship.
Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched by the tears which gushed from the happy eyes of that mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which murmured thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted, Emily and Mrs. Revere, like the friends of years, and not as acquaintances of a few short weeks, and over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in the early summer over the lone grave of Elise, and sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy and warm upon the pale marble that bore her name.
Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian and her aged parent, and to care for the much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells, and the father and daughter entered their carriage and drove away.
When Emily reached home, she found an elegant note from Edgar Loring, requesting permission to call upon her that evening. Ah! a few short weeks ago, how her heart would have fluttered at those words! Now, going up to her room she seated herself at her beautiful escritoir, and penned the following words —
“Mr. Loring—I have this moment come in, and found your note awaiting me. A previous engagement will prevent my receiving the honor of a call from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a check for $200, which my father requests me to forward to you in payment forthe portrait of Elise Revere.Emily Hastings.”
“Mr. Loring—I have this moment come in, and found your note awaiting me. A previous engagement will prevent my receiving the honor of a call from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a check for $200, which my father requests me to forward to you in payment forthe portrait of Elise Revere.
Emily Hastings.”
In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left the city—he had gone to seek his fortunes in the far South.
VIEW OF BURLINGTON VERMONT.FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING
VIEW OF BURLINGTON VERMONT.FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING
MYRRAH OF TANGIERS.[1]
A TRAGEDY.
———
BY CAROLINE C——.
———
A luxury of summer greenIs on the southern plain,And water-flags, with dewy screen,Protect the ripening grain.Upon the sky is not a cloudTo mar the golden glow,Only the palm-tree is allowedTo fling its shade below.And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,The winding river glides,And every ray in heaven makesIts mirror of its tides.And yet it is a place of scath —A place of sacrifice;Heavy with woman’s parting breath,Weary with mourner’s cries.Proud, beautiful, one boweth downBeneath a deep despair;Youth lingers on her lovely cheek —Itonlylingers there.She will command herself, and braveThe doom by fate assigned;In natures high as hers, the heartIs mastered by the mind.L. E. L.
A luxury of summer greenIs on the southern plain,And water-flags, with dewy screen,Protect the ripening grain.Upon the sky is not a cloudTo mar the golden glow,Only the palm-tree is allowedTo fling its shade below.And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,The winding river glides,And every ray in heaven makesIts mirror of its tides.And yet it is a place of scath —A place of sacrifice;Heavy with woman’s parting breath,Weary with mourner’s cries.Proud, beautiful, one boweth downBeneath a deep despair;Youth lingers on her lovely cheek —Itonlylingers there.She will command herself, and braveThe doom by fate assigned;In natures high as hers, the heartIs mastered by the mind.L. E. L.
A luxury of summer green
Is on the southern plain,
And water-flags, with dewy screen,
Protect the ripening grain.
Upon the sky is not a cloud
To mar the golden glow,
Only the palm-tree is allowed
To fling its shade below.
And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,
The winding river glides,
And every ray in heaven makes
Its mirror of its tides.
And yet it is a place of scath —
A place of sacrifice;
Heavy with woman’s parting breath,
Weary with mourner’s cries.
Proud, beautiful, one boweth down
Beneath a deep despair;
Youth lingers on her lovely cheek —
Itonlylingers there.
She will command herself, and brave
The doom by fate assigned;
In natures high as hers, the heart
Is mastered by the mind.
L. E. L.
“Itis near sunrise, father,” said a gay young voice, and a fair hand tapped lightly on the door of the apartment where the old man slept.
Her call was answered in a moment by the venerable Jew, who came forth, prepared for the customary morning walk to the holy synagogue.
“Thou lookest not well, my father! thy face is pale. I fear these early walks are too much for thee.”
“Nay, child, our duty should never fatigue or weary us in its performance—it is time for us to depart when that happens. But, in truth, I had a heavy night, dreaming of thy dead mother. It was sad to waken and find, as, alas! so many other mornings I have, that she cannot return again.”
“We shall meet her hereafter,” said Myrrah, striving to speak cheerfully; “you should think of that this beautiful morning. The very air seems full of hope. Even I, who have proved such a dull companion these many days, feel as though there were new life in me to-day—as though some joyful thing were about to happen.”
“Were thy dreams of Othniel, then, my child?”
A deep blush was the only answer returned to the gently uttered question—for Myrrah turned all her attention just then to busily assisting the old man down the steep stairway, and the moment after they entered, arm in arm, the quiet street; then, as if fearing a recurrence to the subject of her dream and presentiment, the daughter hurriedly again expressed her fears lest the morning exercise should prove too much for his feeble health. But again the old man replied slowly and decisively,
“For many years I have stood, morning and evening, to worship in our synagogue, to ask the blessing of God, and to pray His coming; this day, and every day while life and strength are spared me, must I also go, Myrrah; perchance this very morning may at last be vouchsafed as a promise of His approach, for whose appearance we have waited so long.”
And the old man, Raguel, with his beautiful daughter, moved onward in the path leading to the place of worship.
But more heavily than he was wont the father leaned upon the arm of his child. At last they reached the synagogue, and stood, as was their custom, under the pleasant shade-trees to rest, and to compose their minds for a moment before entering the sacred place.
Their prayers were made. From the “chambers of the east” came forth only the rising sun—the Messiah, the Counsellor, the Mighty King, the Prince of Peace, for whose presence and aid they so longed, came not; neither was there a sign given of his approach. Again were the hearts of youthful worshipers drawn to adoration of things earthly, as the lovely Myrrah stood once more with them to pray; again were the sighs of Jewish girls breathed almost audibly, as they gazed upon her, and caught their own lover’s eyes turned in watchful admiration to the place where she knelt; for well did they know that none among them could compare with the daughter and sole heiress of the wealthy and excellent Raguel.
With a leisure step the two set out on their return home through the rapidly-filling street. It was a sweet morning. A light breeze swept from the sea over the old town, wafting onward the fragrance of the blossomingtrees and plants, whichfilledthe air with their rich perfume. The sun rose in splendor, and the brightness which, as the smile of heaven spread over the earth, increased the light-heartedness of the young Jewess, as she moved on so soberly, so cheerfully, and with so much dignity of manner, with her father.
It was a pleasant home to which they were returning. A home of peace, and joy, and love, and Myrrah was its bright and never-failing star. Light-hearted as a bird—cheerful, unwavering in her affection and reverence for the aged father, she was, indeed, a model daughter and maiden for all Tangiers.
The morning repast, prepared by the old servant who had lived since Myrrah’s birth in her father’s employ, being made, the two at once repaired to the small but beautiful garden, which bore no little resemblance, on a small scale, to the Paradise Eden one is wont to conceive of. A stranger, passing through the small, mean street in which Raguel lived, would never have imagined, as he cast his eye carelessly on the unpromising, dismally high and dark-looking house, which stood close upon the side-walk, of the taste and elegance which reigned within those walls. Costly adornments filled the beautifully-finished rooms, which were befitting a palace; and the caskets of the Jewess held many a gem which a queen had not disdained to wear. But it was in the little garden, in the pleasant shade of whose trees the devoted pair invariably spent their mornings when the weather proved fine, that the most perfect arrangement of taste in the laying out of the limited grounds, in the disposal of the shrubs, and trees, and flowering plants, that the guiding hand of a woman essentially refined, was to be seen.
Ensconced in the luxurious chair, which Myrrah wheeled into the silent place, consecrated to the voices of singing-birds, and the fragrance of beauteous flowers, and the sweet sounds of his dear child’s voice, the hours passed swiftly on in blissful tranquillity to the old man. It was in such hours that Myrrah sat at her father’s feet, and read aloud in tones so musical and entrancing, the records their fathers of the old time had left, of God’s dealings with his loved people; of the marvelous creation—of the faithful and beloved Abraham, of Joseph, and of Jacob—of Daniel, and David, and Absalom—of the long line of kings and princes—of holy women, of prophets, and priests, and all their wondrous deeds, wrought through the power which God gave to them—of the first and momentous transgressions of the tempted, tempting Eve—of the too easily beguiled Adam—of the blessed hope which from the day of their fall from the height of excellence and purity, had been kindled, and had lived within the hearts of all the faithful until that day when they still looked with fond and hopeful and anxious eyes for His coming who would bruise the serpent’s head.
And when the old man grew sad, as the blessed promises were reiterated in his ears, whose fulfillment he had so long looked and sighed for, the reader’s melodious voice would grow fainter and fainter, the holy book be closed again, and with still softer tones, accompanied by her harp, she would sing of the great coming salvation—of the rescue which was surely drawing nigh, till the color would deepen on his aged, furrowed cheek, his eye grow bright again, and the trembling hand would be laid in blessing on his darling’s head.
On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the precious books, they opened at the pages on which were recorded the beautiful and touching story of Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband. As with tremulous voice she read of the sudden and awful bereavement of the young, loving wife in the strange country, another listener approached, and stood, until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great trees. The new comer was also young, and his features bore witness that he was a descendant of the ancient Jews. But there was a gallant boldness, not often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb, and the manner in which it was worn, in the very attitude he had chosen.
With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the unconscious reader, his ear drunk in the sweet sounds of her voice, eagerly as the parched traveler in the desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an angel were singing to him, and in the delight with which he heard her voice, he lost the burden of the song she sung.
“Thus hast thou been to me always, my beloved, blessed child,” said Raguel, fondly, as Myrrah read the brave, heroic choice of Ruth; “since thy mother’s death thou hast been my chief blessing in this strange land.”
“But thou, dear father, thou art mine own; thou hast been to me all the joy, thebestjoy I have ever known. It is no deed of charity to keep always with thee, for I should die to leave thee—there is nothing I should care to live for, wert thou gone.”
“Nay, child, say not that. I know that many a time thou hast refused to join thy young friends in their merry-making, solely that thou mightest be with me, thy stupid, dull old father. But this cannot be always, Myrrah, for I am old, and my Master will call me hence while thou art yet young.”
“Father! father!” Myrrah exclaimed, “do not speak so! God will not take thee from me. Hewill notleave me alone!”
“Notalone, Myrrah, darling, I trust Thou hast not surely forgotten Othniel? I would that he were here to day with us. He wanders long.”
“He will come soon, I know. I would he were here now—he is so skillful, and might easily restore thy health, dear father.”
“It is not in him, nor in any human physician to do that; but I long to see him; then I should be at rest, for thou, my child, wouldst have a comforter, and a steady friend if —”
“Say it not, oh Father! what is even he to me when compared withthee!”
“Thy blessing, father—myfather!” exclaimed the youth, coming out swiftly from the shade, his countenance and his voice betraying the strong agitation of his spirit. “I have come home for thy blessing!” and the young man knelt down at the old Jew’s feet.
“My Othniel!” cried Myrrah, in joyous astonishment, her tears suddenly giving way to the brightest of smiles.
“My son! my son, thou hast come at last! ten thousand blessings be upon thy head.”
[1]Founded on fact.
[1]
Founded on fact.
——
Darkness and silence crept through the prison-house of Tangiers. Darkness, which spread terror through the heart of many a poor, helpless criminal; silence, that fell with heavy, crushing weight on the convicts who knew that when on the morrow that stillness was broken, and the city should be roused again, they would be led forth to die the felon’s shameful death, in presence of the jeering multitude.
In a cell separate from the rest, slept one who had on the morning of that day awakened in freedom, the joy and comfort of her old father’s home. Rude hands had forced her to this dreary place, and left her as a criminal, secured by bolts and bars. And sheslept. Yes, though she knew the rigor with which punishment was visited on the transgressor, guilty of the sin laid to her charge. Yes, though her old father were alone in their beautiful home; yes, though the damp, cold stones were all the couch spread beneath her dainty form!
Look upon the youthful captive as she slumbers so peacefully. There are traces of tears upon her cheeks, though her lip wears a gay smile. Then shehadwept before she slept? Ay, for thoughts of the sorrow and fear which she knew harassed the beloved ones at home, troubled her; but now she smiled, for the good spirits reigning in dream-land, had assured her of a future full of bliss. How beautiful is Myrrah in her sleep. The large and languid eyes which fascinated the gazer as they turned upon him, are hid, and you will not therefore be dazzled as you look on the clear and beautiful olive complexion, the sweetness of expression, and the regularity of the features; the delicate bloom of the round cheek; the heavy mass of black and shining hair; the slight, girlish form, these, and the unmistakable evidences of youth, would increase the interest of a stranger, and make us, who have aforetime made her acquaintance, gaze with an increase of sorrow on the young creature who is accused of a crime punishable with death.
The malice of a bitter enemy had brought the Jewess to that doleful situation. Orien Fez, the rich son of a rich Mahommedan, had persecuted her with the most unwelcome attentions, despite the contempt in which her people were held by his own. He would fain make her his wife, for his love was so strong as to overcome all prejudice, and in a land far distant from their own, he would have joyed to convince her happiness would await them. In that blessed clime her God should be the only object of his worship; he would suffer himself to be despised of all men, if she would in return only bless him with the assurance of her love.
But Myrrah heard all the youth’s protestations with an uninterested ear. There was no love in her heart for the descendant of a race which ever delighted in oppressing the descendants of Abraham. And for Orien, the Moor, her heart had no predilection. He was a handsome youth, to be sure, and the son of a man who stood high among his people; and it was a mystery to himself, howheshould love so passionately the daughter of the Jew. And it seemed no less strange and unnatural to the young girl, when she remembered the great and never-disguised contempt and aversion with which her people were regarded by the followers of Mahomet.
Orien could boast of but little acquaintance with Myrrah; his love had not been aroused by her virtues, or a knowledge of her surpassing excellence of heart and disposition; her exceeding beauty was the great attraction, which he could not withstand.
Many times chance had thrown the girl for a moment in his way, and the Moor had never failed to take the advantage of such moments to whisper words of ardent love, to which any reply was very seldom deigned. This silence and affectation of scorn, as he thought it, but increased the passion of the lover—his nature delighted in overcoming obstacles, and his determination was only strengthened by the cold reserve and dignity of Myrrah.
One night, as she was passing along the street in that quiet quarter of the city where her people lived, Orien, who had wandered there in the hope of catching but a glimpse of her face or person, appeared suddenly by her side.
“I have something to say to thee,” he exclaimed, abruptly; “thou knowest my name.”
“Yes, thou art son of the great Mazarin Fez—what dostthouhere to-night?”
“To tell thee this. For a twelvemonth thou hast been more than sunlight to me. I have lived in shade and gloom, only when thou chanced to be near me. Listen now; I pray thee haste not so quickly. I am willing, ready, even this very night, if thou will it, to renounce my people, my station, my God, for thee! The shame and dishonor that is heaped upon the Jew, I am ready, glad to take upon myself if thou —”
“Nay, stop,” said Myrrah, indignantly pausing, and looking her suitor in the face, “there isnostain upon my people for thee to take upon thyself. The shame and the dishonor which crushes them belong tothypeople who impose it. There is no love in the hearts of the daughters of Judah for the oppressors of their fathers.”
“Forgive me,” was the humble answer, “teach me words that I may plead my love without offending thee; be mine, Myrrah, and we will hasten to seek out a home where the cruel injustice of my fathers cannot visit yours. Bemy wife, I will prove thy willing, humble slave forever!”
“Thou art speaking madly, Orien Fez. I tell thee I have fear of thee! Are thy people wont to become the slaves of mine? I love thee not.”
“Yes, I will bear even this, any thing from thee, if thou wilt only love me. I will deck thee with jewels that shall make thee look a queen; there shall be none preferred before thee. Would it not be joy to dwell where man has no power to crush, where thy place might be among the most honored of the earth? Oh, there are lands fairer than ours, more beautiful, more blessed, where the flowers of love wave foreverin eternal sunshine of bliss—wilt thou not seek that land with me?”
“I have heard thee out, and thou talkest but foolishness! I doubt thy truth. And even were I well assured of that, dost thou think there are not ties binding me here dearer than thou canst even conceive, with all thy professions of love? Go, thou hast madly deceived thyself; mayest thou have a speedy awakening, Orien Fez, for I will not listen again to such words as thou hast uttered to-night.”
They had reached her home, and Myrrah had disappeared within the heavy doors, which opened as by magic at her approach, ere her last words were fully uttered.
Stung with madness at this peremptory dismissal of his suit, and the scornful tone the Jewess had used to him who had so humbled himself before her, Orien turned in a rage away from the house, and slowly retraced his steps. There was something frightful in the calmness of his mien, and in the glittering of his bright eyes; he knew then that the daughter of that most despised of all people, would never give him a hearing again; that she despised his offer, even his, the proud and wealthy and powerful Orien. Ha! she should at least be brought to her senses—he would assure her whose were the words she had so lightly set at naught. So, to his rest he went, to dream of the sweet voice which haunted him incessantly, to think upon her marvelous beauty, which to his eye never seemed even so perfect, as when she turned toward him, and so proudly and indignantly repelled the pleadings of his love.
To the embraces of affection which more than satisfied her brave heart, Myrrah went from the presence of Orien Fez. But she did not make known to the beloved ones awaiting her there, the persecuting attentions of the Moor; she was confident in her own power to repel his advances, and dreaded awaking anxious thoughts for her in her old father. And Othniel, she knew his fiery spirit, how his indignation would kindle into a rash flame against the man who, belonging to the host of oppressors, should dare sue for the love of his beloved; therefore she spoke not tohimof the Moor.
A happy group was that gathered under old Raguel’s roof. The father, who cherished with unmeasured affection the only child which the dreadful pestilence had spared to him; Othniel, the traveler, the betrothed of the maiden, who was to the old man’s heart already a cherished son. He had come back from a long wandering in the East, to claim of the father his child, for early in their youth the two had vowed to love one another; and as time passed on, it saw them cherishing no regret for their childish vows. As he approached the years of manhood, a desire to see the wonders of the East had seized upon Othniel, and for a few years he had traveled through all the Holy Land, in Egypt, and over the deserts, until at last wearied and longing for the embrace and the presence of those left behind, he had hastened to the dearly remembered old town on the shore of the blue sea. Since his return, his home had been made with Raguel and Myrrah; and the day was speedily approaching when the children of the old man’s heart were to be made one. But the sunshine of that home had been wanting without the cheerful voice, the songs, the smiles of Myrrah—her presence was the crowning joy that gave to all the others worth.
And, lo! that hope of the old man’s heart, that blessing of young Othniel sleeps this night in a prison, and armed men are keeping guard about her cell! Look,nowwithin the maiden’s home.
The gray-haired father, whose face bears heavy marks of age and sickness, lies smitten with sore anguish upon his couch; his heavy moans are sad to hear, for no light sorrow had brought tears to his eyes, or wrung from him words of complaint. Pacing to and fro through the beautiful chamber is the despairing lover of the maiden. He, too, has wept, but his tears are wiped away now, and anger and hopeless grief are written on his countenance. It would seem that Othniel’s rich and striking apparel had been assumed in mockery of his own agony—but it was not so. Hope and joy were never before so bright in his heart, as on that morning, when he donned the embroidered robes, and arrayed himself for the bridal. Yes, for the bridal! Myrrah and Othniel were on that day to have been made one.
See, now, as he moves so madly through the room, his garments have become entangled in the chords of Myrrah’s harp; hear the soft, sighing sound that escapes from the instrument, as in a moment, calmed and subdued, the youth bends down to disengage his robe; that breath of music causes the father’s tears to flow afresh, and Othniel, again unmanned, flings himself upon the door, and gives way to the uncontrollable grief.
In another chamber is prepared the wedding-feast; a rich banquet, “fit for the gods,” served up in costliest style, awaiting the bidden guests, and the happy bride and bridegroom.
Above, in her own apartment, where Myrrah arrayed herself on that morn so full of hope, is a profusion of the choice and rich appareling with which the daughters of wealth are wont to array themselves. Jewels, and beautiful array, the proudest might covet, left in wild confusion, show that the mistress of all that splendor had gone forth in haste, alas! not to the altar, as she had dreamed! for the bridal train had proceeded but a little way toward the synagogue, where the priest awaited them, when Myrrah was suddenly arrested in the name of the public authorities, on charge of having proved traitor to a solemn oath which she had taken, and the dismayed party, instead of proceeding to the place of worship, was hurried, with little ceremony, before the cadi.
One was there in presence of the man of power, only too ready with his false accusation. Orien Fez, discovering that there was in the person of a preferred lover, an impassable barrier to the accomplishment of his hopes, had conceived in his base heart a fiendish plan by which he might avenge himself, and this was its first betrayal. That very morning the charge had been made, to which he had solemnly sworn, to this effect, that Myrrah, daughter of the Jew Raguel, had to him, and in hearing of his witnesses, declared herfirm and unalterable belief in Mahommedanism—had, with her own lips, declared faith in the abominable creed, “there is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet.” That since that time she had proved false to her vow, having returned to the worship of the God of the Jews—a transgression which the laws of the land held to be punishable with death.
On being asked if she had any reply to make to this statement, the astonished prisoner, striving to quiet her indignation, simply stated that the accusation was altogether false—that she hadnever, on any occasion, professed faith, either by thought, or word, or deed, in other religion than that which her people had unwaveringly held for so many years; further words than this statement prudence prevented her speaking.
There was a vast difference in the social position of the accuser and accused, which augured not well for the state of feeling with which this cause would be judged. Orien Fez was a representative of the higher class of Moors, and, as has been stated, wealthy and influential. The prisoner was the daughter of a despised race—rich, also, it is true; but even the wealth of her parent increased the professed contempt and enmity with which he was regarded by the oppressors—for riches possessed by any of his scorned and hated brethren was invariably attributed to other than honest means of acquirement.
An unprejudiced eye had seen, in the appearance of Orien, the craft and subtlety of the Evil One; had seen in that glittering eye, and the triumphant smile, other cause for the accusation which he had made, than merely an honest desire that the honor of his religion and its professors should be kept bright. In the young Jewess, on the contrary, was a look of conscious innocence, a brave indignation, which of themselves had proved her guiltless of the sin attributed to her. But the cadi was not prepared to find blamelessness in a Jew, when a Moor was the accuser, though his shrewdness had more than half penetrated to the truth of the matter already, therefore he said,
“This case demands the most serious attention; it is no light thing to condemn one to death, but neither must the guilty go free. The matter shall be referred to the pasha—we will care for thy daughter, Jew; she shall be safely kept for trial on another day. When thou art notified, accuser, Orien Fez, and ye, his witnesses, appear without delay before the pasha, on pain of severe and rigorous punishment.”
It was thus that Myrrah was imprisoned—thus that the diabolical Moor sought his revenge.
——
The following week—and, oh, how lonely and drearily it had passed to parent, child, and lover; they brought the accused before the pasha for trial. It was a public trial, and a multitude had come together to witness the proceedings—for the accusation of Orien Fez, his high position among the people of Tangiers on the one hand, and the beauty of the young prisoner, the affecting circumstances attending her arrest, on the other, were sufficient causes to attract more than usual attention.
Arrayed still in the bridal garments, the dazzling jewels and splendid apparel, Myrrah stood before the pasha, facing the bold, and villainous, and unrelenting accuser.
Old Raguel and Othniel were also there. Since her first examination before the cadi, Myrrah had not been permitted an interview with them; and the sight of the poor old man, who seemed to her to have grown ten years older in those few days, and the pale and haggard countenance of the loved Othniel, quite overwhelmed the young girl; for a moment her head was bent, and her slight form strove in the tempest of grief—but strength came to her again, and she stood up once more calm and self-possessed, to be tried for life!
Again was the false charge preferred—again the answer of the captive was demanded.
“What sayest thou to this charge, maiden?”
“That it is false—that I am not guilty,” was the firm reply.
“What! dost thou deny having ever professed thy faith in our great Prophet? Wherefore, then should these witnesses declare against thee—are they thine enemies?”
“I know naught save this—they arefalsewitnesses. Until the day when the accusation was first made, I had never seen them—I know them not. Orien Fez Ihaveseen before; and I believe that enmity, which has nothing to do with my religion or thine, has made him bring this false charge against me.”
“Thou standest alone, woman, and mere assertions cannot avail. These witnesses are truthful believers—but thou, we know not what thou art.”
“She is a woman who, during the fifteen years I have ministered in the synagogue of Tangiers, has remained constant in the worship of the God of her fathers,” hurriedly exclaimed the venerable priest, almost weeping, who had come to listen with all a father’s affection and fear, while the daughter of his heart was on trial.
“I am a true woman,” added the sweet voice of Myrrah. “From whence shall I bring evidence to satisfy you that I lie not? Are not the words of my people always set at naught? You will not believe me, yet have I ever remained faithful to my God—none other have I ever professed to serve.”
“Thou knowest the punishment awarded to those guilty of sin such as this of which thou art accused—it is death, death of torture—to be burned at the stake, and the body to be scattered to the winds of heaven. Confess now—it is not too late; mercy may yet extend a pardoning hand; profess anew thy faith in Mahomet;repeatthy belief, ‘There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet!’ ”
There was a moment’s pause, a silence like that in the halls of death, then Myrrah said slowly,
“Thou dost urge me to speak that which my lips have never yet spoken—that which they dare not speak; wouldst thou have me declare my faith, that thy prophet is afalseprophet? Wouldst thou have me say, that to the God of AbrahamaloneI bend my knee and my heart?”
A murmur of surprise and indignation went up from the Moors who were gathered there, while the voiceof many a Jew was heard in earnest declaration, “Pasha, she is innocent—she is innocent.”
Raguel looked with mournful approval on his child as she spoke so undauntedly; but boldly as her avowal was made, Myrrah dared not look upon the father, nor on that other, dearer to her than life—Othniel.
The pasha was silent, he dreaded the utterance of the awful sentence. Few who had witnessed his mode of conducting criminal cases, had suspected there was a particle of feeling in the bloody-minded man; but now he paused, and looked with sorrowful interest on the prisoner, and his voice trembled, when at last he said,
“Death, then, can alone await thee! Consider this. Thou art young, and I need not say thou art very beautiful. Thy marriage garments are comely—the robes of life befit thee well. Canst thou falter in the choice between life and awful death, joy and the lonely grave?”
“My child! my child!” cried Raguel, “God is merciful! He will forgive thee! Do not choose death—can I live without thee? Myrrah! Myrrah,live!”
A deathly paleness overspread the face of the poor, tempted young creature; she wept. But ere long the weakness passed again. Looking mildly upon her accusers and the judges, she said, solemnly,
“Yeknowthat life is very sweet to me, for I am young—that it is very fair to me, ye know, for there are some ties binding me to the dear world, very hard to break. I have said that the charge spoken against me is untrue; and the God of heaven knows that I have spoken honestly to you. It is He who hath given me strength in this hour to declare that death, even the horrible death you have said awaits me, is to be chosen rather than life and recreancy to my religion—it is He who will support me in the fiery trial.”
“My daughter,” exclaimed Raguel, “oh, take back those words! God surely will forgive thee. I cannot lose thee! Wilt thou not choose as they desire, then thou art still mine own? Thou hast not thought, Myrrah, thou canst not guess the death of torture that awaits thee.”
“I know it all, dear father. But God will give me strength. The sin and the shame of this deed rests not on us. No! thy long life of integrity and steadfastness to the faith of our fathers shall not be shamed by me. Thou couldst not desire it, my father!”
“Oh, Myrrah, formysake, then!” cried Othniel, for the first time speaking, as he approached hurriedly and threw himself at her feet. “Retract that determination while the pasha will permit thee. Wilt thou leave me to die of grief; or more awful fate, to live alone without thee in this dark world? Take back thy word. I entreat thee, believe in their prophet, and live!”
There were no tearless eyes in that people gathered in the pasha’s presence; in breathless interest turned they all to the young girl, hoping to see her stern determination giving way to these appeals. Myrrah turned her gaze from him, the passionate appealing of Othniel’s dark eyes was more than she could bear, but her will bore her up gloriously, though the voice, which shook as the aspen, told how poor human nature suffered in that conflict between the pleadings of love and the stern sense of duty.
“Othniel, it is between my God and thee I am called to determine. Thou canst not secure to me life and thyself even one day, butHecan give me, when one short pang is passed, an eternity of bliss; andthoumayest share it, my father! Othniel, would ye have me choose for time—for earth?”
There came no answer to the noble girl’s appeal. None dared to offer one persuading word when this solemn reply of the Jewess was made.
“Hast thou chosen, maiden?” said the pasha at length, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“I have,” was the reply; “thy people are not my people, I dare not confess thy God, and in so doing forsake and deny mine own.”
When this answer was given, the pasha, by a violent exertion mastered his emotion, and arose, saying,
“Let the prisoner be conveyed to the dungeon; on the morrow, at sunset, she must pay the death-penalty. Her own words have sealed her fate. Thus perish the enemies and mockers of our holy religion; thus shall the heathen learn that there is no God but God, and that Mahomet is his prophet!”
These words were pronounced in a loud, stern voice; but the heart of the man of power failed within him, as he looked on the beautiful victim of the rigid laws of his country; and therefore it was that he caused to be made known to the father and the betrothed that the prison door would be open to them (contrary to the usual custom) all the following day.
——
And how were passed the flying hours of that last day, granted to the young and the beloved, on earth? In desperate and wild, but vain appeals, to her love of life—in still more mournful entreaties by her devotion to them who were the joy of her existence, that she would suffer them to bear her confession of penitence and faith to the pasha.
It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one moment pleading her by every consideration, to take the words of the Mussulman upon her lips, even if her heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking God that He gave to her strength to remain firm in the face of every temptation. It was pitiful to see the hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours, clasping her hands within his own, and folding her so often to his bosom in a wordless embrace.
Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as have no other source but broken hearts; such sighs were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives utterance to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing; such prayers ascended, as the heart of man can alone conceive when every earthly hope has failed, when the terrors of death, and the more terrible agonies of life surround the helpless soul!
Once, when a chance word had called to mind the now almost forgotten, but despised and hated Orien Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing to Othniel the only cause she could conceive of his malice against her. But the reflection that such knowledge wouldonly spur her beloved on to the committal of deeds which would end fatally to him, while it could not possibly avail even if made known to the prejudiced mind of the pasha, in securing her pardon and liberation—made her hesitate, and finally resolve in carrying that slight clue to the cause of her arrest, into the silence and oblivion of the grave.
Only once did she take the name of the accuser on her lips, and then it was to implore Othniel to forgive him his part in their calamity, and to leave him to the mercy of God.
And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all the evil passions which have to do with life, died that day within him—the future time, after that woful night on which he thought with agony, heaven with Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a thought of blessedness—a dream, a hope which the merciful spirit of God breathed into his soul when it laid in the dust of despair.
The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then came forth from the prison cell Othniel, and on his arm was leaning the stricken father, Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last upon the fair young idol which he worshiped with a reverence approaching that which he held for his Maker.
He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him on the iron door, which would open again ere long thatshemight be led forth to—death. He made no resistance as they went with him to his deserted dwelling. A sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have passed away—he even smiled as they led him through the cheerful rooms of the home that was always made blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was to be in one’s home again, away from the dark and frightful prison. There was a bird of splendid plumage caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion of which bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of Othniel in days long since gone by. The noise of the intruders on the silence of the house, startled the little warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious flood of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation of delight he threw himself upon the couch near by, and listened in rapt astonishment and joy to the exquisite songster.
Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and hastened away in the direction of the prison once more.
The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the mournful cause which brought them there.
A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his unutterable sorrow was too great to bear.
Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to the altar, was to be offered up.
Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged father, and for his unworthy self.
And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone, and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude had gone.
At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream, he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not pass.
Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black, hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength, he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings, until he stood with the great multitude.
For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consumeher. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushedthrough the dense, astonished mass, that gave way right and left before him; past the ranks of vigilant soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of the awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the pale, loving, and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and destroyed by the hand of power.
In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her.
“Othniel!”
“Myrrah!”
None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone.
A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven, knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence.