Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

most potent names of kings and emperors,—they by whom alone a nation lives in the annals of the future,—what homage do such elect gods owe to the passing holders of one or more earthly sceptres? Thou art too humble, methinks, for the minstrel-vocation,—dost call thyself a Minstrel? or a student of the art of song?”

 

Theos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch’s countenance, as he replied in low, clear tones: “Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! … nor do I deserve to be called even a student of that high, sweet music-wisdom in which Sahluma alone excels! All I dare hope for is that I may learn of him in some small degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some future time I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common flower on earth can approach to a fixed star in the furthest blue of heaven!”

 

Sahluma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative glance,—

Zephoranim regarded him somewhat curiously.

 

“By my faith, thou’rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!” he said—“We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sahluma’s pleasure and our own! Stand thee near thy friend and master, and listen to the melody of his matchless voice,—thou shalt hear therein the mysteries of many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of love, in which all other passions centre and have power.”

 

Re-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself indolently back in his throne,—whereupon two pages brought a magnificent chair of inlaid ivory and placed it near the foot of the dais at his right hand. In this Sahluma seated himself, the pages arranging his golden mantle around him in shining, picturesque folds,—while Theos, withdrawing slightly into the background, stood leaning against a piece of tapestry on which the dead figure of a man was depicted lying prone on the sward with a great wound in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering above him expectant of its grim repast. Kneeling on one knee close to Sahluma, the harp-bearer put the harp in tune, and swept his fingers lightly over the strings,—then came a pause. A clear, small bell chimed sweetly on the stillness, and the King, raising himself a little, signed to a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic of some office.

 

“Let the women enter!” he commanded—“Speak but Sahluma’s name and they will gather like waves rising to the moon,—but bid them be silent as they come, lest they disturb thoughts more lasting than their loveliness.”

 

This with a significant glance toward the Laureate, who, sunk in his ivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation.

 

His beautiful face had grown grave, . . even sad, … he played idly with the ornaments at his belt, … and his eyes had a drowsy yet ardent light within them, as they flashed now and then from under the shade of his long curling lashes. The slave departed on his errand … and Zabastes edging himself out from the hushed and attentive throng of nobles stood as it were in the foreground of the picture, his thin lips twisted into a sneer. and his lean hands grasping his staff viciously as though he longed to strike somebody down with it.

 

A moment or so passed, and then the slave returned, his silver rod uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-veiled female figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of flowers. They floated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais, and there prostrated themselves two by two before the King, whose fiery glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,—and as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying to full view such exquisite faces, such languishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-white necks and arms, such graceful voluptuous forms, that Theos caught at the tapestry near him in reeling dazzlement of sight and sense, and wondered how Sahluma seated tranquilly in the reflective attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and indifferent a demeanor.

 

Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones, turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his feet,—he scarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less the lovely donors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their places on low silken divans, provided for their accommodation, in a semicircle round the throne. Again a silence ensued,—Sahluma was evidently centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-weaving,—and his attendant gently swept the strings of the harp again to recall his wandering fancies. Suddenly he looked up, . .

his eyes were sombre, and a musing trouble shadowed the brightness of his face.

 

“Strange it is, O King”—he said in low, suppressed tones that had in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,—“Strange it is that tonight the soul of my singing dwells on sorrow! Like a stray bird flying ‘mid falling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight to storm, so does my fancy soar among drear, flitting images evolved from the downfall of kingdoms,—and I seem to behold in the distance the far-off shadow of Death…”

 

“Talk not of death!” interrupted the King loudly and in haste,—

“‘Tis a raven note that hath been croaked in mine ears too often and too harshly already! What! … hast thou been met by the mad Khosrul who lately sprang on me, even as a famished wolf on prey, and grasping my bridle-rein bade me prepare to die! ‘Twas an ill jest, and one not to be lightly forgiven! ‘Prepare to die, O

Zephoranim?’ he cried—‘For thy time of reckoning is come!’ By my soul!” and the monarch broke into a boisterous laugh—“Had he bade me prepare live ‘twould have been more to the purpose! But yon frantic graybeard prates of naught but death, … ‘twere well he should be silenced.” And as he spoke, he frowned, his hand involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his sword.

 

“Aye,—death is an unpleasing suggestion!” suddenly said Zabastes, who had gradually moved up nearer and nearer till he made one of the group immediately round Sahluma—“‘Tis a word that should never be mentioned in the presence of Kings! Yet, . .

notwithstanding the incivility of the statement, . . it is most certain that His Most Potent Majesty as well as His Majesty’s Most Potent Laureate, MUST..DIE.. !” And he accompanied the words “must..die…” with two decisive taps of his staff, smacking his withered lips meanwhile as though he tasted something peculiarly savory.

 

“And thou also, Zabastes!” retorted the King with a dark smile, jestingly drawing his sword and pointing it full at him,—then, as the old Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel, replacing it dashingly in its sheath,—“Thou also! … and thine ashes shall be cast to the four winds of heaven as suits thy vocation, while those of thy master and thy master’s King lie honorably urned in porphyry and gold!”

 

Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.

 

“It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim,” he returned composedly—

“Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,—and the scattering of them is but a question of time! For urns of gold and porphyry do but excite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein sealed, whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of reverent handling by future generations as those of many lesser men. And ‘tis doubtful whether the winds will know any difference in the scent or quality of the various pinches of human dust tossed on their sweeping circles,—for the substance of a man reduced to earth-atoms is always the same,—and not a grain of him can prove whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel pampered, or a Critic contemned!”

 

And he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument. The King deigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sahluma, who still sat pensively silent.

 

“How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?” he demanded gently—“Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the midst of thy soul’s sudden sadness?”

 

At this, Sahluma roused himself,—signing to his attendant he took the harp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed his hands over it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully. A ripple of music answered his delicate touch,—music as soft as the evening wind murmuring among willows. Another instant and his voice thrilled on the silence,—a voice wonderful, far-reaching, mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, containing within it a passion that pierced to the heart of the listener, and a divine fullness such as surely was never before heard in human tones!

 

Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with unwonted rapidity, . . what.. WHAT was it that Sahluma sang? … A Love-song! in those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the language of Al-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine, tender as the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced evenings,—an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and meant to strike home to the core of feeling and there inflict delicious wounds! … but, as each well-chosen word echoed harmoniously on his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every limb, . . a black, frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, maddening terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he were suddenly thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever shine!

For Sahluma’s song was HIS song! … HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! …

He knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his youth when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every couplet.. every rhyme! … The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . .

HIS ALONE! … and Sahluma had no right to it! He, Theos, was the Poet, . . not this royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas and filched his jewels of thought…aye! and he would tell him so to his face! … he would speak! … he would cry aloud his claims in the presence of the King and demand instant justice! … .

 

He strove for utterance,—his voice was gone! … his lips were moveless as the lips of a stone image! Stricken absolutely mute, but with his sense of hearing quickened to an almost painful acuteness, he stood erect and motionless,—rage and fear contending in his heart, enduring the torture of a truly terrific mystery of mind-despair, . . forced, in spite of himself, to listen passively to the love-thoughts of his own dead Past revived anew in his Rival’s singing!

 

CHAPTER XVI.

 

THE PROPHET OF DOOM.

 

A few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,—then the first sharpness of his strange mental agony subsided. The strained tension of his nerves gave way, and a dull apathy of grief inconsolable settled upon him. He felt himself to be a man mysteriously accurst,—banished as it were out of life, and stripped of all he had once held dear and valuable. HOW HAD IT

HAPPENED? Why was he set apart thus, solitary, poor, and empty of all worth, WHILE ANOTHER REAPED THE FRUITS OF HIS GENIUS? … He heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking the vast hall as the Laureate ended his song—and, drooping his head, some stinging tears welled up in his eyes and fell scorchingly on his clasped hands—tears wrung from the very depth of his secretly tortured soul. At that moment the beautiful Sahluma turned toward him smiling, as one who looked for more sympathetic approbation than that offered by a mixed throng,—and meeting that happy self-conscious, bland, half-inquiring gaze, he strove his best to return the