The great Alba held a council with his chief officers in an open place in the middle of the conquered city, and, by means of interpreters, sent question after question to the Turkish prisoners as to the fate of the beautiful woman who had been seen animating them on the ramparts, and who was certainly the most exquisite enchantress that had ever visited the earth. Nothing very distinct was to be gained from the answers, for although the interrogated all knew of the the beautiful Zelinda as a noble lady versed in magic lore, and acknowledged by the whole people, they were utterly unable to state from whence she had come to Tunis and whither she had now fled. When at last they began to threaten the prisoners as obstinate, an old Dervish, hitherto unnoticed, pressed forward and said, with a gloomy smile, “Whoever has a desire to seek the lady may set out when he chooses; I will conceal nothing from him of what I know of her direction, and I know something. But I must first of all receive the promise that I shall not be compelled to accompany as guide. My lips otherwise will remain sealed forever, and you may do with me as you will.”
He looked like one who intended to keep his word, and Alba, pleased with the firmness of the man, which harmonized well with his own mind, gave him the desired assurance, and the Dervish began his relation. He was once, he said, wandering in the almost infinite desert of Sahara, impelled perhaps by rash curiosity, perhaps by higher motives; he had lost his way there, and had at last, wearied to death, reached one of those fertile islands of that sea of sand which are called oases. Then followed, sparkling with oriental vivacity, a description of the wonderful things seen there, now filling the hearts of his hearers with sweet longing, and then again making their hair stand on end with horror, though from the strange pronunciation of the speaker and the flowing rapidity of his words the half was scarcely understood. The end of all this at length was that Zelinda dwelt on that oasis, in the midst of the pathless sand-plains of the desert, surrounded by magic horrors; and also, as the Dervish knew for certain, that she had left about half an hour ago on her way thither. The almost contemptuous words with which he concluded his narration plainly showed that he desired nothing more earnestly than to seduce some Christians to undertake a journey which must terminate inevitably in their destruction. At the same time he added a solemn oath that everything was truly as he had stated it, and he did this in a firm and grave manner, as a man who knows that he is speaking the most indubitable truth. Surprised and thoughtful, the circle of officers held their council round him.
Then Heimbert stepped forward with an air as if of request; he had just received a summons to leave the burning palace, where he had been seeking his friend, and had been appointed to the place of council because it was necessary to arrange the troops here in readiness for any possible rising in the conquered city. “What do you wish, my young hero?” said Alba, recognizing him as he appeared. “I know your smiling, blooming countenance well. You were but lately sheltering me like a protecting angel. I am so sure that you make no request but what is honorable and knightly that anything you may possibly desire is granted beforehand.” “My great Duke,” replied Heimbert, with cheeks glowing with pleasure, “if I may then venture to ask a favor, will you grant me permission to follow the beautiful Zelinda at once in the direction which this wonderful Dervish has pointed out?” The great general bowed in assent, and added, “So noble an adventure could not be consigned to a more noble knight!”
“I do not know that!” said an angry voice from the throng. “But well do I know that to me above all others this adventure belongs, even were it assigned as a reward for the capture of Tunis. For who was the first on the height and within the city?” “That was Don Fadrique Mendez,” said Heimbert, taking the speaker by the hand and leading him before the general. “If I now for his sake must forfeit my promised reward, I must patiently submit; for he has rendered better service than I have done to the emperor and the army.”
“Neither of you shall forfeit his reward,” said the great Alba. “Each has permission from this moment to seek the maiden in whatever way it seems to him most advisable.”
And swift as lightning the two young captains quitted the circle of officers in opposite directions.
A sea of sand, stretching out in the distant horizon, without one object to mark its extensive surface, white and desolate in its vastness—such is the scene which proclaims the fearful desert of Sahara to the eye of the wanderer who has lost himself in these frightful regions. In this also it resembles the sea, that it casts up waves, and often a misty vapor bangs over its surface. But there is not the soft play of waves which unite all the coasts of the earth; each wave as it rolls in bringing a message from the remotest and fairest island kingdoms, and again rolling back as it were with an answer, in a sort of love-flowing dance. No; there is here only the melancholy sporting of the hot wind with the faithless dust which ever falls back again into its joyless basin, and never reaches the rest of the solid land with its happy human dwellings. There is here none of the sweet cool sea-breeze in which kindly fairies seem carrying on their graceful sport, forming blooming gardens and pillared palaces—there is only a suffocating vapor, rebelliously given back to the glowing sun from the unfruitful sands.
Hither the two youths arrived at the same time, and paused, gazing with dismay at the pathless chaos before them. Zelinda’s track, which was not easily hidden or lost, had hitherto obliged them almost always to remain together, dissatisfied as Fadrique was at the circumstance, and angry as were the glances he cast at his unwelcome companion. Each had hoped to overtake Zelinda before she had reached the desert, feeling how almost impossible it would be to find her once she had entered it. That hope was now at an end; and although in answer to the inquiries they made in the Barbary villages on the frontier, they heard that a wanderer going southward in the desert and guiding his course by the stars would, according to tradition, arrive at length at a wonderfully fertile oasis, the abode of a divinely beautiful enchantress, yet everything appeared highly uncertain and dispiriting, and was rendered still more so by the avalanches of dust before the travellers’ view.
The youths looked sadly at the prospect before them, and their horses snorted and started back at the horrible plain, as though it were some insidious quicksand, and even the riders themselves were seized with doubt and dismay. Suddenly they sprung from their saddles, as at some word of command, unbridled their horses, loosened their girths, and turned them loose on the desert, that they might find their way back to some happier dwelling place. Then, taking some provision from their saddle-bags, they placed it on their shoulders, and casting aside their heavy riding boots they plunged like two courageous swimmers into the trackless waste.
With no other guide than the sun by day, and by night the host of stars, the two captains soon lost sight of each other, and all the sooner, as Fadrique avoided intentionally the object of his aversion. Heimbert, on the other hand, had no thought but the attainment of his aim; and, full of joyful confidence in God’s assistance, he pursued his course in a southerly direction.
Many nights and many days had passed, when one evening, as the twilight was coming on, Heimbert was standing alone in the endless desert, unable to descry a single object all round on which his eye could rest. His light flask was empty, and the evening brought with it, instead or the hoped-for coolness, a suffocating whirlwind of sand, so that the exhausted wanderer was obliged to press his burning face to the burning soil in order to escape in some measure the fatal cloud. Now and then he heard something passing him, or rustling over him as with the sound of a sweeping mantle, and he would raise himself in anxious haste; but he only saw what he had already too often seen in the daytime—the wild beasts of the wilderness roaming at liberty through the desert waste. Sometimes it was an ugly camel, then it was a long-necked and disproportioned giraffe, and then again a long-legged ostrich hastening away with its wings outspread. They all appeared to scorn him, and he had already taken his resolve to open his eyes no more, and to give himself up to his fate, without allowing these horrible and strange creatures to disturb his mind in the hour of death.
Presently it seemed to him as if he heard the hoofs and neighing of a horse, and suddenly something halted close beside him, and he thought he caught the sound of a man’s voice. Half unwilling, he could not resist raising himself wearily, and he saw before him a rider in an Arab’s dress mounted on a slender Arabian horse. Overcome with joy at finding himself within reach of human help, he exclaimed, “Welcome, oh, man, in this fearful solitude! If thou canst, succor me, thy fellow-man, who must otherwise perish with thirst!” Then remembering that the tones of his dear German mother tongue were not intelligible in this joyless region, he repeated the same words in the mixed dialect, generally called the Lingua Romana, universally used by heathens, Mohammedans, and Christians in those parts of the world where they have most intercourse with each other.
The Arab still remained silent, and looked as if scornfully laughing at his strange discovery. At length he replied, in the same dialect, “I was also in Barbarossa’s fight; and if, Sir Knight, our overthrow bitterly enraged me then, I find no small compensation for it in the fact of seeing one of the conquerors lying so pitifully before me.” “Pitifully!” exclaimed Heimbert angrily, and his wounded sense of honor giving him back for a moment all his strength, he seized his sword and stood ready for an encounter. “Oho!” laughed the Arab, “does the Christian viper still hiss so strongly? Then it only behooves me to put spurs to my horse and leave thee to perish here, thou lost creeping worm!” “Ride to the devil, thou dog of a heathen!” retorted Heimbert; “rather than entreat a crumb of thee I will die here, unless the good God sends me manna in the wilderness.”
And the Arab spurred forward his swift steed and galloped away a couple of hundred paces, laughing with scorn. Then he paused, and looking round to Heimbert he trotted back and said, “Thou seemest too good, methinks, to perish here of hunger and thirst. Beware! my good sabre shall touch thee.”
Heimbert, who had again stretched himself hopelessly on the burning sand, was quickly roused to his feet by these words, and seized his sword; and sudden as was the spring with which the Arab’s horse flew toward him, the stout German warrior stood ready to parry the blow, and the thrust which the Arab aimed at him in the Mohammedan manner he warded off with certainty and skill.
Again and again the Arab sprung; similarly here and there, vainly hoping to give his antagonist a death-blow. At last, overcome by impatience, he approached so boldly that Heimbert, warding off the threatening weapon, had time to seize the Arab by the girdle and drag him from the fast-galloping horse. The violence of the movement threw Heimbert also on the ground, but he lay above his opponent, and holding close before his eyes a dagger, which he had dexterously drawn from his girdle, he exclaimed, “Wilt thou have mercy or death?” The Arab, trembling, cast down his eyes before the gleaming and murderous weapon, and said, “Show mercy to me, mighty warrior; I surrender to thee.” Heimbert then ordered him to throw away the sabre he still held in his right hand. He did so, and both combatants rose, and again sunk down upon the sand, for the victor was far more weary than the vanquished.
The Arab’s good horse meanwhile had trotted toward them, according to the habit of those noble animals, who never forsake their fallen master. It now stood behind the two men, stretching out its long slender neck affectionately toward them. “Arab,” said Heimbert with exhausted voice, “take from thy horse what provision thou hast with thee and place it before me.” The vanquished man humbly did as he was commanded, now just as much submitting to the will of the conqueror as he had before exhibited his animosity in anger and revenge. After a few draughts of palm-wine from the skin, Heimbert looked at the youth under a new aspect; he then partook of some fruits, drank more of the palm-wine, and at length said, “You are going to ride still farther to-night, young man?” “Yes, indeed,” replied the Arab sadly; “on a distant oasis there dwells my aged father and my blooming bride. Now—even if you set me at full liberty—I must perish in the heat of this barren desert, for want of sustenance, before I can reach my lovely home.”
“Is it, perhaps,” asked Heimbert, “the oasis on which the mighty enchantress, Zelinda, dwells?”
“Allah protect me!” cried the Arab, clasping his hands. “Zelinda’s wondrous isle offers no hospitable shelter to any but magicians. It lies far away in the scorching south, while our friendly oasis is toward the cooler west.”
“I only asked in case we might be travelling companions,” said Heimbert courteously. “If that cannot be, we must certainly divide the provisions; for I would not have so brave a warrior as you perish, with hunger and thirst.”
So saying, the young captain began to arrange the provisions in two portions, placing the larger on his left and the smaller at his right; he then desired the Arab to take the former, and added, to his astonished companion, “See, good sir, I have either not much farther to travel or I shall perish in the desert; I feel that it will be so. Besides, I cannot carry half so much on foot as you can on horse-back.”
“Knight! victorious knight!” cried the amazed Mussulman, “am I then to keep my horse?”
“It were a sin and shame indeed,” said Heimbert, smiling, “to separate such a faithful steed from such a skilful rider. Ride on, in God’s name, and get safely to your people.”
He then helped him to mount, and the Arab was on the point of uttering a few words of gratitude, when he suddenly exclaimed, “The magic maiden!” and, swift as the wind, he flew over the dusty plain. Heimbert, however, turning round, saw close beside him in the now bright moonlight a shining figure, which he at once perceived to be Zelinda.
The maiden looked fixedly at the young soldier, and seemed considering with what words to address him, while he, after his long search and now unexpected success, was equally at a loss. At last she said in Spanish, “Thou wonderful enigma, I have been witness of all that has passed between thee and the Arab; and these affairs confuse my head like a whirlwind. Speak, therefore, plainly, that I may know whether thou art a madman or an angel?”
“I am neither, dear lady,” replied Heimbert, with his wonted friendliness. “I am only a poor wanderer, who has just been putting into practice one of the commands of his Master, Jesus Christ.”
“Sit down,” said Zelinda, “and tell me of thy Master; he must be himself unprecedented to have such a servant. The night is cool and still, and at my side thou hast no cause to fear the dangers of the desert.”
“Lady,” replied Heimbert, smiling, “I am not of a fearful nature, and when I am speaking of my dear Saviour my mind is perfectly free from all alarm.”
Thus saying, they both sat down on the now cooled sand and began a wondrous conversation, while the full moon shone upon them from the deep-blue heavens above like a magic lamp.
Heimbert’s words, full of divine love, truth, and simplicity sank like soft sunbeams, gently and surely, into Zelinda’s, heart, driving away the mysterious magic power which dwelt there, and wrestling for the dominion of the noble territory of her soul. When morning began to dawn she said, “Thou wouldst not be called an angel last evening, but thou art truly one. For what else are angels than messengers of the Most High God?” “In that sense,” rejoined Heimbert, “I am well satisfied with the name, for I certainly hope that I am the bearer of my Master’s message. Yes, if he bestows on me further grace and strength, it may even be that you also may become my companion in the pious work.” “It is not impossible,” said Zelinda thoughtfully. “Thou must, however, come with me to my island, and there thou shalt be regaled as is befitting such an ambassador, far better than here on the desolate sand, with the miserable palm-wine that thou hast so laboriously obtained.”
“Pardon me,” replied Heimbert; “it is difficult to me to refuse the request of a lady, but on this occasion it cannot be otherwise. In your island many glorious things have been conjured together by your forbidden art, and many lovely forms which the good God has created have been transformed. These might dazzle my senses, and at last delude them. If you will, therefore, hear the best and purest things which I can relate to you, you must rather come out to me on this desert sand. The palm-wine and the dates of the Arab will suffice for me for many a day to come.” “You would do better to come with me,” said Zelinda, shaking her head with somewhat of a scornful smile. “You were certainly neither born nor brought up to be a hermit, and there is nothing on my oasis so destructive as you imagine. What is there more than shrubs and flowers and beasts gathered together from different quarters of the world, perhaps a little strangely interwoven; each, that is to say, partaking of the nature of the other, in a similar manner to that which you must have seen in our Arabian carving! A moving flower, a bird growing on a branch, a fountain gleaming with fiery sparks, a singing twig—these are truly no hateful things!” “He must avoid temptation who does not wish to be overcome by it,” said Heimbert very gravely; “I am for the desert. Will it please you to come out to visit me again?” Zelinda looked down somewhat displeased. Then suddenly bending her head still lower she replied, “Yes; toward evening I shall be here again.” And, turning away, she at once disappeared in the rising whirlwind of the desert.
With the evening twilight the lovely lady returned and spent the night in converse with the pious youth, leaving him in the morning with her mind more humble, pure, and devout; and thus matters went on for many days. “Thy palm-wine and thy dates must be coming to an end,” said Zelinda one evening as she presented the youth with a flask of rich wine and some costly fruits. He, however, gently put aside the gift and said, “Noble lady, I would accept your gift gladly, but I fear some of your magic arts may perhaps cleave to it. Or could you assure me to the contrary by Him whom you are now beginning to know?” Zelinda cast down her eyes in silent confusion and took her presents back. On the following evening, however, she brought similar gifts, and, smiling confidently, gave the desired assurance. Heimbert then partook of them without hesitation, and from henceforth the disciple carefully provided for the sustenance of her teacher in the wilderness.
And so, as the blessed knowledge of the truth sank more and more deeply into Zelinda’s soul, so that she was often sitting till dawn before the youth, with cheeks glowing and hair dishevelled, her eyes gleaming with delight and her hands folded, unable to withdraw herself from his words, he, on his part, endeavored to make her sensible at all times that it was only Fadrique’s love for her which had urged him, his friend, into this fatal desert, and that it was this same love that had thus become the means for the attainment of her highest spiritual good. She still well remembered the handsome and terrible captain who had stormed the height that he might clasp her in his arms; and she related to her friend how the same hero had afterward saved her in the burning library. Heimbert too had many pleasant things to tell of Fadrique—of his high knightly courage, of his grave and noble manners, and of his love to Zelinda, which in the night after the battle of Tunis was no longer concealed within his passionate breast, but was betrayed to the young German in a thousand unconscious expressions between sleeping and waking. Divine truth and the image of her loving hero both at once sank deep within Zelinda’s heart, and struck root there with tender but indestructible power. Heimbert’s presence and the almost adoring admiration with which his pupil regarded him did not disturb these feelings, for from the first moment his appearance had something in it so pure and heavenly that no thoughts of earthly love intruded. When Heimbert was alone he would often smile happily within himself, saying in his own beloved German tongue, “It is indeed delightful that I am now able consciously to do the same service for Fadrique as he did for me, unconsciously, with his angelic sister.” And then he would sing some German song of Clara’s grace and beauty, the sound of which rang with strange sweetness through the desert, while it happily beguiled his solitary hours.
Once when Zelinda came in the evening twilight, gracefully bearing on her beautiful head a basket of provisions for Heimbert, he smiled at her and shook his head, saying, “It is inconceivable to me, sweet maiden, why you ever give yourself the trouble of coming to me out here in the desert. You can indeed no longer find pleasure in magic arts, since the spirit of truth and love dwells within you. If you would only transform the oasis into the natural form in which the good God created it, I would go there with you, and we should have far more time for holy converse.” “Sir,” replied Zelinda, “you speak truly. I too have thought for some days of doing so and the matter would have been already set on foot, but a strange visitor fetters my power. The Dervish whom you saw in Tunis is with me, and as in former times we have practised many magic tricks with each other, he would like again to play the old game. He perceives the change in me, and on that account urges me all the more vehemently and dangerously.”
“He must either be driven away or converted,” said Heimbert, girding on his shoulder-belt more firmly, and taking up his shield from the ground. “Have the goodness, dear maiden,” he continued, “to lead me to your enchanted isle.”
“You avoided it so before,” said the astonished Zelinda, “and it is still unchanged in its fantastic form.”
“Formerly it would have been only inconsiderate curiosity to have ventured there,” replied Heimbert. “You came too out here to me, and that was better for us both. But now the old enemy might lay snares for the ruin of all that the Lord has been working in you, and so it is a knightly duty to go. In God’s name, then, to the work!”
And they hastened forward together, through the ever-increasing darkness of the plain, on their way to the blooming island.
A charming breeze began to cool the heated brows of the travellers, and the twinkling starlight revealed in the distance a grove, waving to and fro with the gentle motion of the air. Heimbert cast his eyes to the ground and said, “Go before me, sweet maiden, and guide my path to the spot where I shall find this threatening Dervish. I do not wish unnecessarily to see anything of these ensnaring enchantments.”
Zelinda did as he desired, and the relation of the two was for a moment changed; the maiden had become the guide, and Heimbert, full of confidence, allowed himself to be led upon the unknown path. Branches were even now touching his cheeks, half caressingly and playfully; wonderful birds, growing out of bushes, sang joyful songs; over the velvet turf, upon which Heimbert ever kept his eyes fixed, there glided gleaming serpents of green and gold, with little golden crowns, and brilliant stones glittered on the mossy carpet. When the serpents touched the jewels, they gave forth a silvery sound. But Heimbert let the serpents creep and the gems sparkle, without troubling himself about them, intent alone on following the footsteps of his guide.
“We are there!” said she with suppressed voice; and looking up he saw a shining grotto of shells, within which he perceived a man asleep clad in golden scale-armor of the old Numidian fashion. “Is that also a phantom, there yonder in the golden scales?” inquired Heimbert, smiling; but Zelinda looked very grave and replied, “Oh, no! that is the Dervish himself, and his having put on this coat-of-mail, which has been rendered invulnerable by dragon’s blood, is a proof that by his magic he has become aware of our intention.” “What does that signify?” said Heimbert; “he would have to know it at last.” And he began at once to call out, with a cheerful voice, “Wake up, old sir, wake up! Here is an acquaintance of yours, who has matters upon which he must speak to you.”
And as the Dervish opened his large rolling eyes, everything in the magic grove began to move, the water began to dance, and the branches to intertwine in wild emulation, and at the same time the precious stones and the shells and corals emitted strange and confusing melodies.
“Roll and turn, thunder and play as you like!” exclaimed Heimbert, looking fixedly at the maze around him; “you shall not divert me from my own good path, and Almighty God has given me a good far-sounding soldier’s voice which can make itself heard above all this tumult.” Then turning to the Dervish he said, “It appears, old man, that you already know everything which has passed between Zelinda and me. In case, however, that it is not so, I will tell you briefly that she is already as good as a Christian, and that she is the betrothed of a noble Spanish knight. Place nothing in the way of her good intention; I advise you for your own sake. But still better for your own sake would it be if you would become a Christian yourself. Discuss the matter with me, and first bid all this mad devilish show to cease, for our religion, dear sir, speaks of far too tender and divine things to be talked of with violence or with the loud voice necessary on the field of war.”
But the Dervish, burning with hatred to the Christians, had not waited to hear the knight’s last words when he rushed at him with his drawn scimitar. Heimbert merely parried his thrust, saying, “Take care of yourself, sir! I have heard something of your weapons being charmed, but that will avail but little before my sword. It has been consecrated in holy places.”
The Dervish sprang wildly back before the sword, but equally wildly did he spring to the other side of his adversary, who only with difficulty caught the terrible cuts of his weapon upon his shield. Like a gold-scaled dragon the Mohammedan swung himself round his antagonist with an agility which, with his long flowing white beard, was ghostly and horrible to witness. Heimbert was prepared to meet him on all sides, ever keeping a watchful eye for some opening in the scales made by the violence of his movements. At last it happened as he desired; between the arm and breast on the left side the dark garments of the Dervish became visible, and quick as lightning the German made a deadly thrust. The old man exclaimed aloud, “Allah! Allah!” and fell forward, fearful even in his fall, a senseless corpse.
“I pity him!” sighed Heimbert, leaning on his sword and looking down on his fallen foe. “He has fought nobly, and even in death he called upon his Allah, whom he looked upon as the true God. He must not lack honorable burial.” He then dug a grave with the broad scimitar of his adversary, laid the corpse within it, covered it over with turf, and knelt on the spot in silent heartfelt prayer for the soul of the departed.
Heimbert rose from his pious duty, and his first glance fell on Zelinda, who stood smiling by his side, and his second upon the wholly changed scene around. The rocky cavern and grotto had disappeared, the distorted forms of trees and beasts, half terrible and half charming as they were, had vanished also; a gentle grassy hill sloped down on every side of the point where he stood, toward the sandy waste; springs gushed out here and there in refreshing beauty; date-trees bent over the little paths—everything, indeed, in the now opening day was full of sweet and simple peace.
“Thank God!” said Heimbert, turning to his companion, “you can now surely feel how infinitely more lovely, grand, and beautiful is everything as our dear Father has created it than it can be when transformed by the highest human art. The Heavenly Gardener has indeed permitted us, his beloved children, in his abundant mercy, to help forward his gracious works, that we may thus become happier and better; but we must take care that we change nothing to suit our own rash wilful fancies; else it is as if we were expelling ourselves a second time from Paradise.” “It shall not happen again,” said Zelinda humbly. “But may you in this solitary region, where we are not likely to meet with any priest of our faith, may you not bestow on me, as one born anew, the blessing of Holy Baptism?”
Heimbert, after some consideration, replied, “I hope I may do so. And if I am wrong, God will pardon me. It is surely done in the desire to bring to him so worthy a soul as soon as possible.”
So they walked together, silently praying and full of smiling happiness, down to one of the pleasant springs of the oasis, and just as they reached the edge and prepared themselves for the holy work the sun rose before them as if to confirm and strengthen their purpose, and the two beaming countenances looked at each other with joy and confidence. Heimbert had not thought of the Christian name he should bestow on his disciple, but as he scooped up the water, and the desert lay around him so solemn in the rosy glow of morning, he remembered the pious hermit Antony in his Egyptian solitude, and he baptized the lovely convert, Antonia.
They spent the day in holy conversation, and Antonia showed her friend a little cave, in which she had concealed all sorts of store for her sustenance when she first dwelt on the oasis. “For,” said she, “the good God is my witness that I came hither only that I might, in solitude, become better acquainted with him and his created works, without knowing at that time in the least of any magic expedients. Subsequently the Dervish came, tempting me, and the horrors of the desert joined in a fearful league with his terrible power, and then by degrees followed all that alluring spirits showed me either in dreams or awake.”
Heimbert had no scruple to take with him for the journey any of the wine and fruits that were still fit for use, and Antonia assured him that by the direct way, well known to her, they would reach the fruitful shore of this waterless ocean in a few days. So with the approach of evening coolness they set out on their journey.
The travellers had almost traversed the pathless plain when one day they saw a figure wandering in the distance, for in the desolate Sahara every object is visible to the very horizon if the whirlwind of dust does not conceal it from view. The wanderer seemed doubtful of his course, sometimes taking this, sometimes that direction, and Antonia’s eastern falcon eye could discern that it was no Arab, but a man in knightly garb.
“Oh, dear sister,” exclaimed Heimbert, full of anxious joy, “then it is our poor Fadrique, who is in search of thee. For pity’s sake, let as hasten before he loses us, and perhaps at last his own life also, in this immeasurable waste.” They strained every effort to reach the distant object, but it was now midday and the sun shone burningly upon them, Antonia could not long endure this rapid progress; added to which the fearful whirlwind soon arose, and the figure that had been scarcely visible before faded from their eyes, like some phantom of the mist in autumn.
With the rising moon they began anew to hasten forward, calling loudly upon the unfortunate wanderer, and fluttering white handkerchiefs tied to their walking-staffs, as signal flags, but it was all in vain. The object that had disappeared remained lost to view. Only a few giraffes sprang shyly past them, and the ostriches quickened their speed.
At length, as morning dawned, Antonia paused and said, “Thou canst not leave me, brother, in this solitude, and I cannot go a single step farther. God will protect the noble Fadrique. How could a father forsake such a model of knightly excellence?” “The disciple shames the teacher,” replied Heimbert, his sad face brightening into a smile. “We have done our part, and we may confidently hope that God will come to the aid of our failing powers and do what is necessary.” As he spoke he spread his mantle on the sand, that Antonia might rest more comfortably. Suddenly looking up, he exclaimed, “Oh, God! yonder lies a man, completely buried in the sand. Oh, that he may not be already dead!”
He immediately began to sprinkle wine, from the flask he carried, on the brow of the fainting traveller, and to chafe his temples with it. The man at last slowly opened his eyes and said, “I had hoped the morning dew would not again have fallen on me, but that unknown and unlamented I might have perished here in the desert, as must be the case in the end.” So saying he closed his eyes again, like one intoxicated with sleep, but Heimbert continued his restoratives unwearyingly, and at length the refreshed wanderer half raised himself from the sand with an exclamation of astonishment.
He looked from Heimbert to his companion, and from her again at Heimbert, and suddenly exclaimed, gnashing his teeth, “Ha, was it to be thus! I was not even to be allowed to die in the dull happiness of quiet solitude! I was to be first doomed to see my rival’s success and my sister’s shame!” At the same time he sprang to his feet with a violent effort and rushed forward upon Heimbert with drawn sword. But Heimbert moved neither sword nor arm, and merely said, in a gentle voice, “Wearied out, as you now are, I cannot possibly fight with you; besides, I must first place this lady in security.” Antonia, who had at first gazed with much emotion at the angry knight, now stepped suddenly between the two men and cried out, “Oh, Fadrique, neither misery nor anger can utterly disfigure you. But what has my noble brother done to you?” “Brother?” said Fadrique, with astonishment. “Or godfather, or confessor,” interrupted Heimbert, “as you will. Only do not call her Zelinda, for her name is now Antonia; she is a Christian, and waits to be your bride.” Fadrique stood fixed with surprise, but Heimbert’s true-hearted words and Antonia’s lovely blushes soon revealed the happy enigma to him. He sank down before the longed-for form with a sense of exquisite delight, and in the midst of the inhospitable desert the flowers of love and gratitude and confidence sent their sweetness heavenward.
The excitement of this happy surprise at last gave way to bodily fatigue. Antonia, like some drooping blossom, stretched her fair form on the again burning sand, and slumbered under the protection of her lover and her chosen brother. “Sleep also,” said Heimbert softly to Fadrique; “you must have wandered about wildly and wearily, for exhaustion is pressing down your eyelids with leaden weight. I am quite fresh, and I will watch meanwhile.” “Ah, Heimbert,” sighed the noble Castilian, “my sister is thine, thou messenger from Heaven; that is an understood thing. But now for our affair of honor!” “Certainly,” said Heimbert, very gravely, “as soon as we are again in Spain, you must give me satisfaction for that over-hasty expression. Till then, however, I beg you not to mention it. An unfinished quarrel is no good subject for conversation.”
Fadrique laid himself sadly down to rest, overcome by long-resisted sleep, and Heimbert knelt down with a glad heart, thanking the good God for having given him success, and for blessing, him with a future full of joyful assurance.
The next day the three travellers reached the edge of the desert, and refreshed themselves for a week in an adjacent village, which, with its shady trees and green pastures, seemed like a little paradise in contrast to the joyless Sahara. Fadrique’s condition especially made this rest necessary. He had never left the desert during the whole time, gaining his subsistence by fighting with wandering Arabs, and often almost exhausted by the utter want of all food and drink. At length he had become so thoroughly confused that the stars could no longer guide him, and he had been driven about, sadly and objectless, like the dust clouds of the desert.
Even now, at times, when he would fall asleep after the midday meal, and Antonia and Heimbert would watch his slumbers like two smiling angels, he would suddenly start up and gaze round him with a terrified air, and then it was not till he had refreshed himself by looking at the two friendly faces that he would sink back again into quiet repose. When questioned on the matter, after he was fully awake, he told them that in his wanderings nothing had been more terrible to him than the deluding dreams which had transported him, sometimes to his own home, sometimes to the merry camp of his comrades, and sometimes into Zelinda’s presence, and then leaving him doubly helpless and miserable in the horrible solitude as the delusion vanished. It was on this account that even now waking was fearful to him, and even in sleep a vague consciousness of his past sufferings would often disturb him. “You cannot imagine it,” he added. “To be suddenly transported from well-known scenes into the boundless desert! And instead of the longed-for enchanting face of my beloved, to see an ugly camel’s head stretched over me inquisitively with its long neck, starting back as I rose with still more ugly timidity!”
This, with all other painful consequences of his past miseries, soon wholly vanished, from Fadrique’s mind, and they cheerfully set out on their journey to Tunis. The consciousness, indeed, of his injustice to Heimbert and its unavoidable results often lay like a cloud upon the noble Spaniard’s brow, but it also softened the natural proud severity of his nature, and Antonia could cling the more tenderly and closely to him with her loving heart.
Tunis, which had been before so amazed at Zelinda’s magic power and enthusiastic hostility against the Christians, now witnessed Antonia’s solemn baptism in a newly-consecrated edifice, and soon after the three companions took ship with a favorable wind for Malaga.
Beside the fountain where she had parted from Heimbert, Dona Clara was sitting one evening in deep thought. The guitar on her knees gave forth a few solitary chords, dreamily drawn from it, as it were, by her delicate hands, and at length forming themselves into a melody, while the following words dropped softly from her partly opened lips:
“Far away, ‘fore Tunis ramparts,Where the Christian army lies,Paynim host are fiercely fightingWith Spanish troops and Spain’s allies.Who from bloodstained lilies there,And death’s roses pale and fair—Who has borne the conquerer’s prize?“Ask Duke Alba, ask Duke Alba,Which two knights their fame have proved,One was my own valiant brother,The other was my heart’s beloved.And I thought that I should crown them,Doubly bright with glory’s prize,And a widow’s veil is fallingDoubly o’er my weeping eyes,For the brave knights ne’er againWill be found mid living men.”
The music paused, and soft dew-drops fell from her heavenly eyes. Heimbert, who was concealed under the neighboring orange-trees, felt sympathetic tears rolling down his cheeks, and Fadrique, who had led him and Antonia there, could no longer delay the joy of meeting, but stepping forward with his two companions he presented himself before his sister, like some angelic messenger.
Such moments of extreme and sudden delight, the heavenly blessings long expected and rarely vouchsafed, are better imagined by each after his own fashion, and it is doing but an ill service to recount all that this one did and that one said. Picture it therefore to yourself, dear reader, after your own fancy, as you are certainly far better able to do, if the two loving pairs in my story have become dear to you and you have grown intimate with them. If that, however, be not the case, what is the use of wasting unnecessary words? For the benefit of those who with heart-felt pleasure could have lingered over this meeting of the sister with her brother and her lover, I will proceed with increased confidence. Although Heimbert, casting a significant look at Fadrique, was on the point of retiring as soon as Antonia had been placed under Dona Clara’s protection, the noble Spaniard would not permit him. He detained his companion-in-arms with courteous and brotherly requests that he would remain till the evening repast, at which some relatives of the Mendez family joined the party, and in their presence Fadrique declared the brave Heimbert of Waldhausen to be Dona Clara’s fiance, sealing the betrothal with the most solemn words, so that it might remain indissoluble, whatever might afterward occur which should seem inimical to their union. The witnesses were somewhat astonished at these strange precautionary measures, but at Fadrique’s desire they unhesitatingly gave their word that all should be carried out as he wished, and they did this the more unhesitatingly as the Duke of Alba, who had just been in Malaga on some trivial business, had filled the whole city with the praises of the two young captains.
As the richest wine was now passing round the table in the tall crystal goblets, Fadrique stepped behind Heimbert’s chair and whispered to him, “If it please you, Senor—the moon is just risen and is shining as bright as day—I am ready to give you satisfaction.” Heimbert nodded in assent, and the two youths quitted the hall, followed by the sweet salutations of the unsuspecting ladies.
As they passed through the beautiful garden, Fadrique said, with a sigh, “We could have wandered here so happily together, but for my over-rashness!” “Yes, indeed,” said Heimbert, “but so it is, and it cannot be otherwise, if we would continue to look upon each other as a soldier and a nobleman.” “True!” replied Fadrique, and they hastened to reach a distant part of the garden, where the sound of their clashing swords could not reach the gay hall of betrothal they had left.