Capture of a Harem
TANCRED and Fakredeen had been absent from Gindarics for two or three days, making an excursion in the neighbouring districts, and visiting several of those chieftains whose future aid might be of much importance to them. Away from the unconscious centre of many passions and intrigues, excited by the novelty of their life, sanguine of the ultimate triumph of his manoeuvres, and at times still influenced by his companion, the demeanour of the young Emir of Lebanon to his friend resumed something of its wonted softness, confidence, and complaisance. They were once more in sight of the wild palace-fort of Astarte; spurring their horses, they dashed before their attendants over the plain, and halted at the huge portal of iron, while the torches were lit, and preparations were made for the passage of the covered way.
When they entered the principal court, there were unusual appearances of some recent and considerable occurrence: groups of Turkish soldiers, disarmed, reclining camels, baggage and steeds, and many of the armed tribes of the mountain.
‘What is all this?’ inquired Fakredeen.
‘’Tis the harem of the Pasha of Aleppo,’ replied a warrior, ‘captured on the plain, and carried up into the mountains to our Queen of queens.’
‘The war begins,’ said Fakredeen, looking round at Tancred with a glittering eye.
‘Women make war on women,’ he replied.
‘’Tis the first step,’ said the Emir, dismounting; ‘I care not how it comes. Women are at the bottom of everything. If it had not been for the Sultana Mother, I should have now been Prince of the Mountain.’
When they had regained their apartments the lordly Keferinis soon appeared, to offer them his congratulations on their return. The minister was peculiarly refined and mysterious this morning, especially with respect to the great event, which he involved in so much of obscurity, that, after much conversation, the travellers were as little acquainted with the occurrence as when they entered the courtyard of Gindarics.
‘The capture of a pasha’s harem is not water spilt on sand, lordly Keferinis,’ said the Emir. ‘We shall hear more of this.’
‘What we shall hear,’ replied Keferinis, ‘is entirely an affair of the future; nor is it in any way to be disputed that there are few men who do not find it more difficult to foretell what is to happen than to remember what has taken place.’
‘We sometimes find that memory is as rare a quality as prediction,’ said Tancred.
‘In England,’ replied the lordly Keferinis; ‘but it is never to be forgotten, and indeed, on the contrary, should be entirely recollected, that the English, being a new people, have nothing indeed which they can remember.’
Tancred bowed.
‘And how is the most gracious lady, Queen of queens?’ inquired Fakredeen.
‘The most gracious lady, Queen of queens,’ replied Keferinis, very mysteriously, ‘has at this time many thoughts.’
‘If she require any aid,’ said Fakredeen, ‘there is not a musket in Lebanon that is not at her service.’
Keferinis bent his head, and said, ‘It is not in any way to be disputed that there are subjects which require for their management the application of a certain degree of force, and the noble Emir of the Lebanon has expressed himself in that sense with the most exact propriety; there are also subjects which are regulated by the application of a certain number of words, provided they were well chosen, and distinguished by an inestimable exactitude. It does not by any means follow that from what has occurred there will be sanguinary encounters between the people of the gracious lady, Queen of queens, and those that dwell in plains and cities; nor can it be denied that war is a means by which many things are brought to a final conjuncture. At the same time courtesy has many charms, even for the Turks, though it is not to be denied, or in any way concealed, that a Turk, especially if he be a pasha, is, of all obscene and utter children of the devil, the most entirely contemptible and thoroughly to be execrated.’
‘If I were the Queen, I would not give up the harem,’ said Fakredeen; ‘and I would bring affairs to a crisis. The garrison at Aleppo is not strong; they have been obliged to march six regiments to Deir el Kamar, and, though affairs are comparatively tranquil in Lebanon for the moment, let me send a pigeon to my cousin Francis El Kazin, and young Syria will get up such a stir that old Wageah Pasha will not spare a single man. I will have fifty bonfires on the mountain near Beiroot in one night, and Colonel Rose will send off a steamer to Sir Canning to tell him there is a revolt in the Lebanon, with a double despatch for Aberdeen, full of smoking villages and slaughtered women!’ and the young Emir inhaled his nargileh with additional zest as he recollected the triumphs of his past mystifications.
At sunset it was announced to the travellers that the Queen would receive them. Astarte appeared much gratified by their return, was very gracious, although in a different way, to both of them, inquired much as to what they had seen and what they had done, with whom they had conversed, and what had been said. At length she observed, ‘Something has also happened at Gindarics in your absence, noble princes. Last night they brought part of a harem of the Pasha of Aleppo captive hither. This may lead to events.’
‘I have already ventured to observe to the lordly Keferinis,’ said Fakredeen, ‘that every lance in the Lebanon is at your command, gracious Queen.’
‘We have lances,’ said Astarte; ‘it is not of that I was thinking. Nor indeed do I care to prolong a quarrel for this capture. If the Pasha will renounce the tribute of the villages, I am for peace; if he will not, we will speak of those things of which there has been counsel between us. I do not wish this affair of the harem to be mixed up with what has preceded it. My principal captive is a most beautiful woman, and one, too, that greatly interests and charms me. She is not a Turk, but, I apprehend, a Christian lady of the cities. She is plunged in grief, and weeps sometimes with so much bitterness that I quite share her sorrow; but it is not so much because she is a captive, but because some one, who is most dear to her, has been slain in this fray. I have visited her, and tried to console her; and begged her to forget her grief and become my companion. But nothing soothes her, and tears flow for ever from eyes which are the most beautiful I ever beheld.’
‘This is the land of beautiful eyes,’ said Tancred, and Astarte almost unconsciously glanced at the speaker.
Cypros, who had quitted the attendant maidens immediately on the entrance of the two princes, after an interval, returned. There was some excitement on her countenance as she approached her mistress, and addressed Astarte in a hushed but hurried tone. It seemed that the fair captive of the Queen of the Ansarey had most unexpectedly expressed to Cypros her wish to repair to the divan of the Queen, although, the whole day, she had frequently refused to descend. Cypros feared that the presence of the two guests of her mistress might prove an obstacle to the fulfilment of this wish, as the freedom of social intercourse that prevailed among the Ansarey was unknown even among the ever-veiled women of the Maronites and Druses. But the fair captive had no prejudices on this head, and Cypros had accordingly descended to request the royal permission, or consult the royal will. Astarte spoke to Keferinis, who listened with an air of great profundity, and finally bowed assent, and Cypros retired.
Astarte had signified to Tancred her wish that he should approach her, while Keferinis at some distance was engaged in earnest conversation with Fakredeen, with whom he had not had previously the opportunity of being alone. His report of all that had transpired in his absence was highly favourable. The minister had taken the opportunity of the absence of the Emir and his friend to converse often and amply about them with the Queen. The idea of an united Syria was pleasing to the imagination of the young sovereign. The suggestion was eminently practicable. It required no extravagant combinations, no hazardous chances of fortune, nor fine expedients of political skill. A union between Fakredeen and Astarte at once connected the most important interests of the mountains without exciting the alarm or displeasure of other powers. The union was as legitimate as it would ultimately prove irresistible. It ensured a respectable revenue and a considerable force; and, with prudence and vigilance, the occasion would soon offer to achieve all the rest. On the next paroxysm in the dissolving empire of the Ottomans, the plain would be occupied by a warlike population descending from the mountains that commanded on one side the whole Syrian coast, and on the other all the inland cities from Aleppo to Damascus.
The eye of the young Emir glittered with triumph as he listened to the oily sentences of the eunuch. ‘Lebanon,’ he whispered, ‘is the key of Syria, my Keferinis, never forget that; and we will lock up the land. Let us never sleep till this affair is achieved. You think she does not dream of a certain person, eh? I tell you, he must go, or we must get rid of him: I fear him not, but he is in the way; and the way should be smooth as the waters of El Arish. Remember the temple to the Syrian goddess at Deir el Kamar, my Keferinis! The religion is half the battle. How I shall delight to get rid of my bishops and those accursed monks: drones, drivellers, bigots, drinking my golden wine of Canobia, and smoking my delicate Latakia. You know not Canobia, Keferinis; but you have heard of it. You have been at Bted-deen? Well, Bteddeen to Canobia is an Arab moon to a Syrian sun. The marble alone at Canobia cost a million of piastres. The stables are worthy of the steeds of Solomon. You may kill anything you like in the forest, from panthers to antelopes. Listen, my Keferinis, let this be done, and done quickly, and Canobia is yours.’
‘Do you ever dream?’ said Astrate to Tancred. ‘They say that life is a dream.’ ‘I sometimes wish it were. Its pangs are too acute for a shadow.’
‘But you have no pangs.’
‘I had a dream when you were away, in which I was much alarmed,’ said Astarte. ‘Indeed!’
‘I thought that Gindarics was taken by the Jews. I suppose you have talked of them to me so much that my slumbering memory wandered.’
‘It is a resistless and exhaustless theme,’ said Tancred; ‘for the greatness and happiness of everything, Gindarics included, are comprised in the principles of which they were the first propagators.’
‘Nevertheless, I should be sorry if my dream came to be true,’ said Astarte.
‘May your dreams be as bright and happy as your lot, royal lady!’ said Tancred.
‘My lot is not bright and happy,’ said the Queen; ‘once I thought it was, but I think so no longer.’
‘But why?’
‘I wish you could have a dream and find out,’ said the Queen. ‘Disquietude is sometimes as perplexing as pleasure. Both come and go like birds.’
‘Like the pigeon you sent to Damascus,’ said Tancred.
‘Ah! why did I send it?’
‘Because you were most gracious, lady.’
‘Because I was very rash, noble prince.’
‘When the great deeds are done to which this visit will lead, you will not think so.’
‘I am not born for great deeds; I am a woman, and I am content with beautiful ones.’
‘You still dream of the Syrian goddess,’ said Tan-cred.
‘No; not of the Syrian goddess. Tell me: they say the Hebrew women are very lovely, is it so?’
‘They have that reputation.’
‘But do you think so?’
‘I have known some distinguished for their beauty.’
‘Do they resemble the statue in our temple?’
‘Their style is different,’ said Tancred; ‘the Greek and the Hebrew are both among the highest types of the human form.’
‘But you prefer the Hebrew?’
‘I am not so discriminating a critic,’ said Tancred; ‘I admire the beautiful.’
‘Well, here comes my captive,’ said the Queen; ‘if you like, you shall free her, for she wonderfully takes me. She is a Georgian, I suppose, and bears the palm from all of us. I will not presume to contend with her: she would vanquish, perhaps, even that fair Jewess of whom, I hear, you are so enamoured.’
Tancred started, and would have replied, but Cypros advanced at this moment with her charge, who withdrew her veil as she seated herself, as commanded, before the Queen. She withdrew her veil, and Fakredeen and Tancred beheld Eva!
Eva a Captive
IN ONE of a series of chambers excavated in the mountains, yet connected with the more artificial portion of the palace, chambers and galleries which in the course of ages had served for many purposes, sometimes of security, sometimes of punishment; treasuries not unfrequently, and occasionally prisons; in one of these vast cells, feebly illumined from apertures above, lying on a rude couch with her countenance hidden, motionless and miserable, was the beautiful daughter of Besso, one who had been bred in all the delights of the most refined luxury, and in the enjoyment of a freedom not common in any land, and most rare among the Easterns.
The events of her life had been so strange and rapid during the last few days that, even amid her woe, she revolved in her mind their startling import. It was little more than ten days since, under the guardianship of her father, she had commenced her journey from Damascus to Aleppo. When they had proceeded about half way, they were met at the city of Horns by a detachment of Turkish soldiers, sent by the Pasha of Aleppo, at the request of Hillel Besso, to escort them, the country being much troubled in consequence of the feud with the Ansarey. Notwithstanding these precautions, and although, from the advices they received, they took a circuitous and unexpected course, they were attacked by the mountaineers within half a day’s journey of Aleppo; and with so much strength and spirit, that their guards, after some resistance, fled and dispersed, while Eva and her attendants, after seeing her father cut down in her defence, was carried a prisoner to Gindarics.
Overwhelmed by the fate of her father, she was at first insensible to her own, and was indeed so distracted that she delivered herself up to despair. She was beginning in some degree to collect her senses, and to survey her position with some comparative calmness, when she learnt from the visit of Cypros that Fakredeen and Tancred were, by a strange coincidence, under the same roof as herself. Then she recalled the kind sympathy and offers of consolation that had been evinced and proffered to her by the mistress of the castle, to whose expressions at the time she had paid but an imperfect attention. Under these circumstances she earnestly requested permission to avail herself of a privilege, which had been previously offered and refused, to become the companion, rather than the captive, of the Queen of the Ansarey; so that she might find some opportunity of communicating with her two friends, of inquiring about her father, and of consulting with them as to the best steps to be adopted in her present exigency.
The interview, from which so much was anticipated, had turned out as strange and as distressful as any of the recent incidents to which it was to have brought balm and solace. Recognised instantly by Tancred and the young Emir, and greeted with a tender respect, almost equal to the surprise and sorrow which they felt at beholding her, Astarte, hitherto so unexpectedly gracious to her captive, appeared suddenly agitated, excited, haughty, even hostile. The Queen had immediately summoned Fakredeen to her side, and there passed between them some hurried and perturbed explanations; subsequently she addressed some inquiries to Tancred, to which he replied without reserve. Soon afterwards, Astarte, remaining intent and moody, the court was suddenly broken up; Keferinis signifying to the young men that they should retire, while Astarte, without bestowing on them her usual farewell, rose, and, followed by her maidens, quitted the chamber. As for Eva, instead of returning to one of the royal apartments which had been previously allotted to her, she was conducted to what was in fact a prison.
There she had passed the night and a portion of the ensuing day, visited only by Cypros, who, when Eva would have inquired the cause of all this mysterious cruelty and startling contrast to the dispositions which had preceded it, only shook her head and pressed her finger to her lip, to signify the impossibility of her conversing with her captive.
It was one of those situations where the most gifted are deserted by their intelligence; where there is as little to guide as to console; where the mystery is as vast as the misfortune; and the tortured apprehension finds it impossible to grapple with irresistible circumstances.
In this state, the daughter of Besso, plunged in a dark reverie, in which the only object visible to her mind’s eye was the last glance of her dying father, was roused from her approaching stupor by a sound, distinct, yet muffled, as if some one wished to attract her attention, without startling her by too sudden an interruption. She looked up; again she heard the sound, and then, in a whispered tone, her name——
‘Eva!’
‘I am here.’
‘Hush!’ said a figure, stealing into the caverned chamber, and then throwing off his Syrian cloak, revealing to her one whom she recognised.
‘Fakredeen,’ she said, starting from her couch, ‘what is all this?’
The countenance of Fakredeen was distressed and agitated; there was an expression of alarm, almost of terror, stamped upon his features.
‘You must follow me,’ he said; ‘there is not a moment to lose; you must fly!’
‘Why and whither?’ said Eva. ‘This capture is one of plunder not of malice, or was so a few hours back. It is not sorrow for myself that overwhelmed me. But yesterday, the sovereign of these mountains treated me with a generous sympathy, and, if it brought me no solace, it was only because events have borne, I fear, irremediable woe. And now I suddenly find myself among my friends; friends, who, of all others, I should most have wished to encounter at this moment, and all is changed. I am a prisoner, under every circumstance of harshness, even of cruelty, and you speak to me as if my life, my immediate existence, was in peril.’
‘It is.’
‘But why?’
Fakredeen wrung his hands, and murmured, ‘Let us go.’
‘I scarcely care to live,’ said Eva; ‘and I will not move until you give me some clue to all this mystery.’
‘Well, then, she is jealous of you; the Queen, Astarte; she is jealous of you with the English prince, that man who has brought us all so many vexations.’ ‘Is it he that has brought us so many vexations?’ replied Eva. ‘The Queen jealous of me, and with the English prince! ‘Tis very strange. We scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences together, when all was disturbed and broken up. Jealous of me! Why, then, was she anxious that I should descend to her divan? This is not the truth, Fakredeen.’
‘Not all; but it is the truth; it is, indeed. The Queen is jealous of you: she is in love with Tancred; a curse be on him and her both! and somebody has told her that Tancred is in love with you.’ ‘Somebody! When did they tell her?’ ‘Long ago; long ago. She knew, that is, she had been told, that Tancred was affianced to the daughter of Besso of Damascus; and so this sudden meeting brought about a crisis. I did what I could to prevent it; vowed that you were only the cousin of the Besso that she meant; did everything, in short, I could to serve and save you; but it was of no use. She was wild, is wild, and your life is in peril.’
Eva mused a moment. Then, looking up, she said, ‘Fakredeen, it is you who told the Queen this story. You are the somebody who has invented this fatal falsehood. What was your object I care not to inquire, knowing full well, that, if you had an object, you never would spare friend or foe. Leave me. I have little wish to live; but I believe in the power of truth. I will confront the Queen and tell her all. She will credit what I say; if she do not, I can meet my fate; but I will not, now or ever, entrust it to you.’
Thereupon Fakredeen burst into a flood of passionate tears, and, throwing himself on the ground, kissed Eva’s feet, and clung to her garments which he embraced, sobbing, and moaning, and bestowing on her endless phrases of affection, mixed with imprecations on his own head and conduct.
‘O Eva! my beloved Eva, sister of my soul, it is of no use telling you any lies! Yes, I am that villain and that idiot who has brought about all this misery, misery enough to turn me mad, and which, by a just retribution, has destroyed all the brilliant fortunes which were at last opening on me. This Frank stranger was the only bar to my union with the sovereign of these mountains, whose beauty you have witnessed, whose power, combined with my own, would found a kingdom. I wished to marry her. You cannot be angry with me, Eva, for that. You know very well that, if you had married me yourself, we should neither of us have been in the horrible situation in which we now find ourselves. Ah! that would have been a happy union! But let that pass. I have always been the most unfortunate of men; I have never had justice done me. Well, she loved this prince of Franguestan. I saw it; nothing escapes me. I let her know that he was devoted to another. Why I mentioned your name I cannot well say; perhaps because it was the first that occurred to me; perhaps because I have a lurking suspicion that he really does love you. The information worked.
My own suit prospered. I bribed her minister. He is devoted to me. All was smiling. How could I possibly have anticipated that you would ever arrive here! When I saw you, I felt that all was lost. I endeavoured to rally affairs, but it was useless. Tan-cred has no finesse; his replies neutralised, nay, destroyed, all my counter representations. The Queen is a whirlwind. She is young; she has never been crossed in her life. You cannot argue with her when her heart is touched. In short, all is ruined;’ and Fakredeen hid his weeping face in the robes of Eva. ‘What misery you prepare for yourself, and for all who know you!’ exclaimed Eva. ‘But that has happened which makes me insensible to further grief.’
‘Yes; but listen to what I say, and all will go right. I do not care in the least for my own disappointment. That now is nothing. It is you, it is of you only that I think, whom I wish to save. Do not chide me: pardon me, pardon me, as you have done a thousand times; pardon and pity me. I am so young and really so inexperienced; after all, I am only a child; besides, I have not a friend in the world except you. I am a villain, a fool; all villains are. I know it. But I cannot help it. I did not make myself. The question now is, How are we to get out of this scrape? How are we to save your life?’
‘Do you really mean, Fakredeen, that my life is in peril?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said the Emir, crying like a child.
‘You do not know the power of truth, Fakredeen. You have no confidence in it. Let me see the Queen.’
‘Impossible!’ he said, starting up, and looking very much alarmed.
‘Why?’
‘Because, in the first place, she is mad. Keferinis, that is, her minister, one of my creatures, and the only person who can manage her, told me this moment that it was a perfect Kamsin, and that, if he approached her again, it would be at his own risk; and, in the second place, bad as things are, they would necessarily be much worse if she saw you, because (and it is of no use concealing it any longer) she thinks you already dead.’
‘Dead! Already dead!’
‘Yes.’
‘And where is your friend and companion?’ said Eva. ‘Does he know of these horrors?’
‘No one knows of them except myself. The Queen sent for me last night to speak to me of the subject generally. It was utterly vain to attempt to disabuse her; it would only have compromised all of us. She would only have supposed the truth to be an invention for the moment. I found your fate sealed. In my desperation, the only thing that occurred to me was to sympathise with her indignation and approve of all her projects. She apprised me that you should not live four-and-twenty hours. I rather stimulated her vengeance, told her in secresy that your house had nearly effected my ruin, and that there was no sacrifice I would not make, and no danger that I would not encounter, to wreak on your race my long-cherished revenge. I assured her that I had been watching my opportunity for years. Well, you see how it is, Eva; she consigned to me the commission which she would have whispered to one of her slaves. I am here with her cognisance; indeed, by this time she thinks ‘tis all over. You comprehend?’
‘You are to be my executioner?’
‘Yes; I have undertaken that office in order to save your life.’
‘I care not to save my life. What is life to me, since he perhaps is gone who gave me that life, and for whom alone I lived!’
‘O Eva! Eva! don’t distract me; don’t drive me absolutely mad! When a man is doing what I am for your sake, giving up a kingdom, and more than a kingdom, to treat him thus! But you never did me justice.’ And Fakredeen poured forth renewed tears. ‘Keferinis is in my pay; I have got the signet of the covered way. Here are two Mamlouk dresses; one you must put on. ‘Without the gates are two good steeds, and in eight-and-forty hours we shall be safe, and smiling again.’
‘I shall never smile again,’ said Eva. ‘No, Fakredeen,’ she added, after a moment’s pause, ‘I will not fly, and you cannot fly. Can you leave alone in this wild place that friend, too faithful, I believe, whom you have been the means of leading hither?’
‘Never mind him,’ said the Emir. ‘I wish we had never seen him. He is quite safe. She may keep him a prisoner perhaps. What then? He makes so discreet a use of his liberty that a little durance will not be very injurious. His life will be safe enough. Cutting off his head is not the way to gain his heart. But time presses. Come, my sister, my beloved Eva! In a few hours it may not be in my power to effect all this. Come, think of your father, of his anxiety, his grief. One glimpse of you will do him more service than the most cunning leech.’
Eva burst into passionate tears. ‘He will never see us again. I saw him fall; never shall I forget that moment!’ and she hid her face in her hands.
‘But he lives,’ said Fakredeen. ‘I have been speaking to some of the Turkish prisoners. They also saw him fall; but he was borne off the field, and, though insensible, it was believed that the wound was not fatal. Trust me, he is at Aleppo.’ ‘They saw him borne off the field?’ ‘Safe, and, if not well, far from desperate.’ ‘O God of my fathers!’ said Eva, falling on her knees; ‘thine is indeed a mercy-seat!’
‘Yes, yes; there is nothing like the God of your fathers, Eva. If you knew the things that are going on in this place, even in these vaults and caverns, you would not tarry here an instant. They worship nothing but graven images, and the Queen has fallen in love with Tancred, because he resembles a marble statue older than the times of the pre-Adamite Sultans. Come, come!’
‘But how could they know that he was far from desperate?’
‘I will show you the man who spoke to him,’ said Fakredeen; ‘he is only with our horses. You can ask him any questions you like. Come, put on your Mamlouk dress, every minute is golden.’
‘There seems to me something base in leaving him here alone,’ said Eva. ‘He has eaten our salt, he is the child of our tents, his blood will be upon our heads.’
‘Well, then, fly for his sake,’ said Fakredeen; ‘here you cannot aid him; but when you are once in safety, a thousand things may be done for his assistance. I could return, for example.’
‘Now, Fakredeen,’ said Eva, stopping him, and speaking in a solemn tone, ‘if I accompany you, as you now require, will you pledge me your word, that the moment we pass the frontier you will return to him.’
‘I swear it, by our true religion, and by my hopes of an earthly crown.’
Message of the Pasha
THE sudden apparition of Eva at Gindarics, and the scene of painful mystery by which it was followed, had plunged Tancred into the greatest anxiety and affliction. It was in vain that, the moment they had quitted the presence of Astarte, he appealed to Fakredeen for some explanation of what had occurred, and for some counsel as to the course they should immediately pursue to assist one in whose fate they were both so deeply interested. The Emir, for the first time since their acquaintance, seemed entirely to have lost himself. He looked perplexed, almost stunned; his language was incoherent, his gestures those of despair. Tancred, while he at once ascribed all this confused demeanour to the shock which he had himself shared at finding the daughter of Besso a captive, and a captive under circumstances of doubt and difficulty, could not reconcile such distraction, such an absence of all resources and presence of mind, with the exuberant means and the prompt expedients which in general were the characteristics of his companion, under circumstances the most difficult and unforeseen.
When they had reached their apartments, Fakredeen threw himself upon the divan and moaned, and, suddenly starting from the couch, paced the chamber with agitated step, wringing his hands. All that Tan-cred could extract from him was an exclamation of despair, an imprecation on his own head, and an expression of fear and horror at Eva having fallen into the hands of pagans and idolaters.
It was in vain also that Tancred endeavoured to communicate with Keferinis. The minister was invisible, not to be found, and the night closed in, when Tancred, after fruitless counsels with Baroni, and many united but vain efforts to open some communication with Eva, delivered himself not to repose, but to a distracted reverie over the present harassing and critical affairs.
When the dawn broke, he rose and sought Fakredeen, but, to his surprise, he found that his companion had already quitted his apartment. An unusual stillness seemed to pervade Gindarics this day; not a person was visible. Usually at sunrise all were astir, and shortly afterwards Keferinis generally paid a visit to the guests of his sovereign; but this day Keferinis omitted the ceremony, and Tancred, never more anxious for companions and counsellors, found himself entirely alone; for Baroni was about making observations, and endeavouring to find some clue to the position of Eva.
Tancred had resolved, the moment that it was practicable, to solicit an audience of Astarte on the subject of Eva, and to enter into all the representations respecting her which, in his opinion, were alone necessary to secure for her immediately the most considerate treatment, and ultimately a courteous release.
The very circumstance that she was united to the Emir of Canobia by ties so dear and intimate, and was also an individual to whom he himself was indebted for such generous aid and such invaluable services, would, he of course assumed, independently of her own interesting personal qualities, enlist the kind feelings of Astarte in her favour. The difficulty was to obtain this audience of Astarte, for neither Fakredeen nor Keferinis was to be found, and no other means of achieving the result were obvious.
About two hours before noon, Baroni brought word that he had contrived to see Cypros, from whom he gathered that Astarte had repaired to the great temple of the gods. Instantly, Tancred resolved to enter the palace, and if possible to find his way to the mysterious sanctuary. That was a course by no means easy; but the enterprising are often fortunate, and his project proved not to be impossible. He passed through the chambers of the palace, which were entirely deserted, and with which he was familiar, and he reached without difficulty the portal of bronze, which led to the covered way that conducted to the temple, but it was closed. Baffled and almost in despair, a distant chorus reached his ear, then the tramp of feet, and then slowly the portal opened. He imagined that the Queen was returning; but, on the contrary, pages and women and priests swept by without observing him, for he was hidden by one of the opened valves, but Astarte was not there; and, though the venture was rash, Tancred did not hesitate, as the last individual in the procession moved on, to pass the gate. The portal shut instantly with a clang, and Tancred found himself alone and in comparative darkness. His previous experience, however, sustained him. His eye, fresh from the sunlight, at first wandered in obscurity, but by degrees, habituated to the atmosphere, though dim, the way was sufficiently indicated, and he advanced, till the light became each step more powerful, and soon he emerged upon the platform, which faced the mountain temple at the end of the ravine: a still and wondrous scene, more striking now, if possible, when viewed alone, with his heart the prey of many emotions. How full of adventure is life! It is monotonous only to the monotonous. There may be no longer fiery dragons, magic rings, or fairy wands, to interfere in its course and to influence our career; but the relations of men are far more complicated and numerous than of yore; and in the play of the passions, and in the devices of creative spirits, that have thus a proportionately greater sphere for their action, there are spells of social sorcery more potent than all the necromancy of Merlin or Friar Bacon.
Tancred entered the temple, the last refuge of the Olympian mind. It was race that produced these inimitable forms, the idealised reflex of their own peculiar organisation. Their principles of art, practised by a different race, do not produce the same results. Yet we shut our eyes to the great truth into which all truths merge, and we call upon the Pict, or the Sarmatian, to produce the forms of Phidias and Praxiteles.
Not devoid of that awe which is caused by the presence of the solemn and the beautiful, Tancred slowly traced his steps through the cavern sanctuary. No human being was visible. Upon his right was the fane to which Astarte led him on his visit of initiation. He was about to enter it, when, kneeling before the form of the Apollo of Antioch, he beheld the fair Queen of the Ansarey, motionless and speechless, her arms crossed upon her breast, and her eyes fixed upon her divinity, in a dream of ecstatic devotion.
The splendour of the ascending sun fell full upon the statue, suffusing the ethereal form with radiancy, and spreading around it for some space a broad and golden halo. As Tancred, recognising the Queen, withdrew a few paces, his shadow, clearly defined, rested on the glowing wall of the rock temple. Astarte uttered an exclamation, rose quickly from her kneeling position, and, looking round, her eyes met those of Lord Montacute. Instantly she withdrew her gaze, blushing deeply.
‘I was about to retire,’ murmured Tancred.
‘And why should you retire?’ said Astarte, in a soft voice, looking up.
‘There are moments when solitude is sacred.’
‘I am too much alone: often, and of late especially, I feel a painful isolation.’
She moved forward, and they re-entered together the chief temple, and then emerged into the sunlight. They stood beneath the broad Ionic portico, beholding the strange scene around. Then it was that Tancred, observing that Astarte cared not to advance, and deeming the occasion very favourable to his wishes, proceeded to explain to her the cause of his venturing to intrude on her this morning. He spoke with that earnestness, and, if the phrase may be used, that passionate repose, which distinguished him. He enlarged on the character of Besso, his great virtues, his amiable qualities, his benevolence and unbounded generosity; he sought in every way to engage the kind feelings of Astarte in favour of his family, and to interest her in the character of Eva, on which he dilated with all the eloquence of his heart. Truly, he almost did justice to her admirable qualities, her vivid mind, and lofty spirit, and heroic courage; the occasion was too delicate to treat of the personal charms of another woman, but he did not conceal his own deep sense of obligation to Eva for her romantic expedition to the desert in his behalf.
‘You can understand then,’ concluded Tancred, ‘what must have been my astonishment and grief when I found her yesterday a captive. It was some consolation to me to remember in whose power she had fallen, and I hasten to throw myself at your feet to supplicate for her safety and her freedom.’
‘Yes, I can understand all this,’ said Astarte, in a low tone.
Tancred looked at her. Her voice had struck him with pain; her countenance still more distressed him. Nothing could afford a more complete contrast to the soft and glowing visage that a few moments before he had beheld in the fane of Apollo. She was quite pale, almost livid; her features, of exquisite shape, had become hard and even distorted; all the bad passions of our nature seemed suddenly to have concentred in that face which usually combined perfect beauty of form with an expression the most gentle, and in truth most lovely.
‘Yes, I can understand all this,’ said Astarte, ‘but I shall not exercise any power which I may possess to assist you in violating the laws of your country, and outraging the wishes of your sovereign.’
‘Violating the laws of my country!’ exclaimed Tancred, with a perplexed look.
‘Yes, I know all. Your schemes truly are very heroic and very flattering to our self-love. We are to lend our lances to place on the throne of Syria one who would not be permitted to reside in your own country, much less to rule in it?’
‘Of whom, of what, do you speak?’
‘I speak of the Jewess whom you would marry,’ said Astarte, in a hushed yet distinct voice, and with a fell glance, ‘against all laws, divine and human.’
‘Of your prisoner?’
‘Well you may call her my prisoner; she is secure.’
‘Is it possible you can believe that I even am a suitor of the daughter of Besso?’ said Tancred, earnestly. ‘I wear the Cross, which is graven on my heart, and have a heavenly mission to fulfil, from which no earthly thought shall ever distract me. But even were I more than sensible to her charms and virtues, she is affianced, or the same as affianced; nor have I the least reason to suppose that he who will possess her hand does not command her heart.’
‘Affianced?’
‘Not only affianced, but, until this sad adventure, on the very point of being wedded. She was on her way from Damascus to Aleppo, to be united to her cousin, when she was brought hither, where she will, I trust, not long remain your prisoner.’
The countenance of Astarte changed; but, though it lost its painful and vindictive expression, it did not assume one of less distress. After a moment’s pause, she murmured, ‘Can this be true?’
‘Who could have told you otherwise?’
‘An enemy of hers, of her family,’ continued Astarte, in a low voice, and speaking as if absorbed in thought; ‘one who admitted to me his long-hoarded vengeance against her house.’
Then turning abruptly, she looked Tancred full in the face, with a glance of almost fierce scrutiny. His clear brow and unfaltering eye, with an expression of sympathy and even kindness on his countenance, met her searching look.
‘No,’ she said; ‘it is impossible that you can be false.’
‘Why should I be false? or what is it that mixes up my name and life with these thoughts and circumstances?’
‘Why should you be false? Ah! there it is,’ said Astarte, in a sweet and mournful voice. ‘What are any of us to you!’ And she wept.
‘It grieves me to see you in sorrow,’ said Tancred, approaching her, and speaking in a tone of kindness.
‘I am more than sorrowful: this unhappy lady——’ and the voice of Astarte was overpowered by her emotion.
‘You will send her back in safety and with honour to her family,’ said Tancred, soothingly. ‘I would fain believe her father has not fallen. My intendant assures me that there are Turkish soldiers here who saw him borne from the field. A little time, and their griefs will vanish. You will have the satisfaction of having acted with generosity, with that good heart which characterises you; and as for the daughter of Besso, all will be forgotten as she gives one hand to her father and the other to her husband.’
‘It is too late,’ said Astarte in an almost sepulchral voice.
‘What is that?’
‘It is too late! The daughter of Besso is no more.’
‘Jesu preserve us!’ exclaimed Tancred, starting. ‘Speak it again: what is it that you say?’
Astarte shook her head.
‘Woman!’ said Tancred, and he seized her hand, but his thoughts were too wild for utterance, and he remained pallid and panting.
‘The daughter of Besso is no more; and I do not lament it, for you loved her.’
‘Oh, grief ineffable!’ said Tancred, with a groan, looking up to heaven, and covering his face with his hands: ‘I loved her, as I loved the stars and sunshine.’ Then, after a pause, he turned to Astarte, and said, in a rapid voice, ‘This dreadful deed; when, how, did it happen?’
‘Is it so dreadful?’
‘Almost as dreadful as such words from woman’s lips. A curse be on the hour that I entered these walls!’
‘No, no, no!’ said Astarte, and she seized his arm distractedly. ‘No, no! No curse!’
‘It is not true!’ said Tancred. ‘It cannot be true! She is not dead.’
‘Would she were not, if her death is to bring me curses.’
‘Tell me when was this?’
‘An hour ago, at least.’
‘I do not believe it. There is not an arm that would have dared to touch her. Let us hasten to her. It is not too late.’
‘Alas! it is too late,’ said Astarte. ‘It was an enemy’s arm that undertook the deed.’
‘An enemy! What enemy among your people could the daughter of Besso have found?’
‘A deadly one, who seized the occasion offered to a long cherished vengeance; one who for years has been alike the foe and the victim of her race and house. There is no hope!’
‘I am indeed amazed. Who could this be?’
‘Your friend; at least, your supposed friend, the Emir of the Lebanon.’
‘Fakredeen?’
‘You have said it.’
‘The assassin and the foe of Eva!’ exclaimed Tancred, with a countenance relieved yet infinitely perplexed. ‘There must be some great misconception in all this. Let us hasten to the castle.’
‘He solicited the office,’ said Astarte; ‘he wreaked his vengeance, while he vindicated my outraged feelings.’
‘By murdering his dearest friend, the only being to whom he is really devoted, his more than friend, his foster-sister, nursed by the same heart; the ally and inspiration of his life, to whom he himself was a suitor, and might have been a successful one, had it not been for the custom of her religion and her race, which shrink from any connection with strangers and with Nazarenes.’
‘His foster-sister!’ exclaimed Astarte.
At this moment Cypros appeared in the distance, hastening to Astarte with an agitated air. Her looks were disturbed; she was almost breathless when she reached them; she wrung her hands before she spoke.
‘Royal lady!’ at length she said, ‘I hastened, as you instructed me, at the appointed hour, to the Emir Fakredeen, but I learnt that he had quitted the castle.
Then I repaired to the prisoner; but, woe is me! she is not to be found.’
‘Not to be found!’
‘The raiment that she wore is lying on the floor of her prison. Methinks she has fled.’
‘She has fled with him who was false to us all,’ said Astarte, ‘for it was the Emir of the Lebanon who long ago told me that you were affianced to the daughter of Besso, and who warned me against joining in any enterprise which was only to place upon the throne of Syria one whom the laws of your own country would never recognise as your wife.’
‘Intriguer!’ said Tancred. ‘Vile and inveterate intriguer!’
‘It is well,’ said Astarte. ‘My spirit is more serene.’
‘Would that Eva were with any one else!’ said Tancred, thoughtfully, and speaking, as it were, to himself.
‘Your thoughts are with the daughter of Besso,’ said Astarte. ‘You wish to follow her, to guard her, to restore her to her family.’
Tancred looked round and caught the glance of the Queen of the Ansarey, mortified, yet full of affection.
‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that it is time for me to terminate a visit that has already occasioned you, royal lady, too much vexation.’
Astarte burst into tears.
‘Let me go,’ she said, ‘you want a throne; this is a rude one, yet accept it. You require warriors, the Ansarey are invincible. My castle is not like those palaces of Antioch of which we have often talked, and which were worthy of you, but Gindarics is impregnable, and will serve you for your headquarters until you conquer that world which you are born to command.’
‘I have been the unconscious agent in petty machinations,’ said Tancred. ‘I must return to the desert to recover the purity of my mind. It is Arabia alone that can regenerate the world.’
At this moment Cypros, who was standing apart, waved her scarf, and exclaimed, ‘Royal lady, I perceive in the distance the ever-faithful messenger;’ whereupon Astarte looked up, and, as yet invisible to the inexperienced glance of Tancred, recognised what was an infinitely small dusky speck, each moment becoming more apparent, until at length a bird was observed by all of them winging its way towards the Queen.
‘Is it the ever-faithful Karaguus,’ said Astarte; ‘or is it Ruby-lips that ever brings good news?’
‘It is Karaguus,’ said Cypros, as the bird drew nearer and nearer; ‘but it is not Karaguus of Damascus. By the ring on its neck, it is Karaguus of Aleppo.’
The pigeon now was only a few yards above the head of the Queen. Fatigued, but with an eye full of resolution, it fluttered for a moment, and then fell upon her bosom. Cypros advanced and lifted its weary wing, and untied the cartel which it bore, brief words, but full of meaning, and a terrible interest.
‘The Pasha, at the head of five thousand regular troops, leaves Haleb to-morrow to invade our land.’
‘Go,’ said Astarte to Tancred; ‘to remain here is now dangerous. Thanks to the faithful messenger, you have time to escape with ease from that land which you scorned to rule, and which loved you too well.’
‘I cannot leave it in the hour of peril,’ said Tancred. ‘This invasion of the Ottomans may lead to results of which none dream. I will meet them at the head of your warriors!’