The Talisman by Walter Scott (which ebook reader txt) 📖

renew the conversation. No locks were seen under the high bonnet of the Arabian, which hid also part of a brow that seemed lofty and expanded, smooth, and free from wrinkles, as were his cheeks, where they were seen under the shade of his long beard. We have elsewhere noticed the piercing quality of his dark eyes.

The prelate, struck with his apparent youth, at length broke a pause, which the other seemed in no haste to interrupt, by demanding of the Arabian how old he was?

“The years of ordinary men,” said the Saracen, “are counted by their wrinkles; those of sages by their studies. I dare not call myself older than a hundred revolutions of the Hegira.” [Meaning that his attainments were those which might have been made in a hundred years.]

The Baron of Gilsland, who took this for a literal assertion that he was a century old, looked doubtfully upon the prelate, who, though he better understood the meaning of El Hakim, answered his glance by mysteriously shaking his head. He resumed an air of importance when he again authoritatively demanded what evidence Adonbec could produce of his medical proficiency.

“Ye have the word of the mighty Saladin,” said the sage, touching his cap in sign of reverence—“a word which was never broken towards friend or foe. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?”

“I would have ocular proof of thy skill,” said the baron, “and without it thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard.”

“The praise of the physician,” said the Arabian, “is in the recovery of his patient. Behold this sergeant, whose blood has been dried up by the fever which has whitened your camp with skeletons, and against which the art of your Nazarene leeches hath been like a silken doublet against a lance of steel. Look at his fingers and arms, wasted like the claws and shanks of the crane. Death had this morning his clutch on him; but had Azrael been on one side of the couch, I being on the other, his soul should not have been left from his body. Disturb me not with further questions, but await the critical minute, and behold in silent wonder the marvellous event.”

The physician had then recourse to his astrolabe, the oracle of Eastern science, and watching with grave precision until the precise time of the evening prayer had arrived, he sunk on his knees, with his face turned to Mecca, and recited the petitions which close the Moslemah's day of toil. The bishop and the English baron looked on each other, meanwhile, with symptoms of contempt and indignation, but neither judged it fit to interrupt El Hakim in his devotions, unholy as they considered them to be.

The Arab arose from the earth, on which he had prostrated himself, and walking into the hut where the patient lay extended, he drew a sponge from a small silver box, dipped perhaps in some aromatic distillation, for when he put it to the sleeper's nose, he sneezed, awoke, and looked wildly around. He was a ghastly spectacle as he sat up almost naked on his couch, the bones and cartilages as visible through the surface of his skin as if they had never been clothed with flesh. His face was long, and furrowed with wrinkles; but his eye, though it wandered at first, became gradually more settled. He seemed to be aware of the presence of his dignified visitors, for he attempted feebly to pull the covering from his head in token of reverence, as he inquired, in a subdued and submissive voice, for his master.

“Do you know us, vassal?” said the Lord of Gilsland.

“Not perfectly, my lord,” replied the squire faintly. “My sleep has been long and full of dreams. Yet I know that you are a great English lord, as seemeth by the red cross, and this a holy prelate, whose blessing I crave on me a poor sinner.”

“Thou hast it—BENEDICTIO DOMINI SIT VOBISCUM,” said the prelate, making the sign of the cross, but without approaching nearer to the patient's bed.

“Your eyes witness,” said the Arabian, “the fever hath been subdued. He speaks with calmness and recollection—his pulse beats composedly as yours—try its pulsations yourself.”

The prelate declined the experiment; but Thomas of Gilsland, more determined on making the trial, did so, and satisfied himself that the fever was indeed gone.

“This is most wonderful,” said the knight, looking to the bishop; “the man is assuredly cured. I must conduct this mediciner presently to King Richard's tent. What thinks your reverence?”

“Stay, let me finish one cure ere I commence another,” said the Arab; “I will pass with you when I have given my patient the second cup of this most holy elixir.”

So saying he pulled out a silver cup, and filling it with water from a gourd which stood by the bedside, he next drew forth a small silken bag made of network, twisted with silver, the contents of which the bystanders could not discover, and immersing it in the cup, continued to watch it in silence during the space of five minutes. It seemed to the spectators as if some effervescence took place during the operation; but if so, it instantly subsided.

“Drink,” said the physician to the sick man—“sleep, and awaken free from malady.”

“And with this simple-seeming draught thou wilt undertake to cure a monarch?” said the Bishop of Tyre.

“I have cured a beggar, as you may behold,” replied the sage. “Are the Kings of Frangistan made of other clay than the meanest of their subjects?”

“Let us have him presently to the King,” said the Baron of Gilsland. “He hath shown that he possesses the secret which may restore his health. If he fails to exercise it, I will put himself past the power of medicine.”

As they were about to leave the hut, the sick man, raising his voice as much as his weakness permitted, exclaimed, “Reverend father, noble knight, and you, kind leech, if you would have me sleep and recover, tell me in charity what is become of my dear master?”

“He is upon a distant expedition, friend,” replied the prelate—“on an honourable embassy, which may detain him for some days.”

“Nay,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “why deceive the poor fellow?—Friend, thy master has returned to the camp, and you will presently see him.”

The invalid held up, as if in thankfulness, his wasted hands to Heaven, and resisting no longer the soporiferous operation of the elixir, sunk down in a gentle sleep.

“You are a better physician than I, Sir Thomas,” said the prelate—“a soothing falsehood is fitter for a sick-room than an unpleasing truth.”

“How mean you, my reverend lord?” said De Vaux hastily. “Think you I would tell a falsehood to save the lives of a dozen such as he?”

“You said,” replied the bishop, with manifest symptoms of alarm—“you said the esquire's master was returned—he, I mean, of the Couchant Leopard.”

“And he IS returned,” said De Vaux. “I spoke with him but a few hours since. This learned leech came in his company.”

“Holy Virgin! why told you not of his return to me?” said the