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

when a bard begins to gabble goose-like platitudes which merely concern his own vocation, the gods only know when he can be persuaded to stop! Nay, ‘tis more irksome far than the recitation of his professional jingle—for to that there must in time come a merciful fitting end, but, as I live, if ‘twas my custom to say prayers, I would pray to be delivered from the accursed volubility of a versifier’s tongue! And perchance it will not be considered out of my line of duty if I venture to remind my most illustrious and renowned MASTER—” this with a withering sneer,—“that if he has any more remarkable nothings to dictate concerning this particularly inane creation of his fancy ‘Nourhalma,’ ‘twill be well that we should proceed therewith, for the hours wax late and the sun veereth toward his House of Noon.”

 

And he spread out fresh slips of papyrus and again prepared his long quill.

 

Sahluma smiled, as one who is tolerant of the whims of a hired buffoon,—and, this time seating himself in his ebony chair, was about to commence dictating his Second Canto when Theos, yielding to his desire to speak aloud the idea that had just flashed across his brain said abruptly:

 

“Has it ever seemed to thee, Sahluma, as it now does to me, that there is a strange resemblance between thy imaginative description of the ideal ‘Nourhalma,’ and the actual charms and virtues of thy strayed singing-maid Niphrata?”

 

Sahluma looked up, thoroughly astonished, and laughed.

 

“No!—Verily I have not traced, nor can I trace the smallest vestige of a similarity! Why, good Theos, there is none!—not the least in the world,—for this heroine of mine, Nourhalma, loves in vain, and sacrifices all, even her innocent and radiant life, for love, as thou wilt hear in the second half of the poem,—moreover she loves one who is utterly unworthy of her faithful tenderness.

Now Niphrata is a child of delicate caprice … she loves ME,—me, her lord,—and methinks I am not negligent or undeserving of her devotion! … again, she has no strength of spirit,—her timorous blood would freeze at the mere thought of death,—she is more prone to play with flowers and sing for pure delight of heart than perish for the sake of love! ‘Tis an unequal simile, my friend!—

as well compare a fiery planet with a twinkling dewdrop, as draw a parallel between the heroic ideal maid ‘Nourhalma’—and my fluttering singing-bird, Niphrata!”

 

Theos sighed involuntarily,—but forcing a smile, let the subject drop and held his peace, while Sahluma, taking up the thread of his poetical narrative, went on reciting. When the story began to ripen toward its conclusion he grew more animated, … rising, he paced the room as he declaimed the splendid lines that now rolled gloriously one upon another like deep-mouthed billows thundering on the shore,—his gestures were all indicative of the fervor of his inward ecstasy,—his eyes flashed,—his features glowed with that serene, proud light of conscious power and triumph that rests on the calm, wide brows of the sculptured Apollo,—and Theos, leaning one arm in a half-sitting posture, contemplated him with a curious sensation of wistful eagerness and passionate pain, such as might be felt by some forgotten artist mysteriously permitted to come out of his grave and wander back to earth, there to see his once-rejected pictures hung in places of honor among the world’s chief treasures.

 

A strange throb of melancholy satisfaction stirred his pulses as he reflected that he might now, without any self-conceit, at least ADMIRE the poem!—since he had decided that was no longer his, but another’s, he was free to bestow on it as much as he would of unstinting praise! For it was very fine,—there could be no doubt of that, whatever Zabastes might say to the contrary,—and it was not only fine, but intensely, humanly pathetic, seeming to strike a chord of passion such as had never before been sounded,—a chord to which the world would be COMPELLED to listen,—yes,—COMPELLED!

thought Theos exultingly,—as Sahluma drew nearer and nearer the close of his dictation … The deep quiet all around was so heavy as to be almost uncomfortable in its oppressiveness,—it exercised a sort of strain upon the nerves …

 

Hark! what was that? Through the hot and silent air swept a sullen surging noise as of the angry shouting of a vast multitude,—then came the fast and furious gallop of many horses,—and again that fierce, resentful roar of indignation, swelling up as it seemed from thousands of throats. Moved, all three at once, by the same instinctive desire to know what was going on, Theos, Sahluma, and Zabastes sprang from their different places in the room, and hurried out on the marble terrace, dashing aside the silken awnings as they went in order the better to see the open glimpses of the city thoroughfares that lay below. Theos, leaning far out over the western half of the balustrade, was able to command a distant view of the great Square in which the huge white granite Obelisk occupied so prominent a position, and, fixing his eyes attentively on this spot, saw that it was filled to overflowing with a dense mass of people, whose white-raimented forms, pressed together in countless numbers, swayed restlessly to and fro like the rising waves of a stormy sea.

 

Lifted above this troubled throng, one tall, dark figure was distinctly outlined against the dazzling face of the Obelisk—a figure that appeared to be standing on the back of the colossal Lion that lay couchant beneath. And as Theos strained his sight to distinguish the details of the scene more accurately, he suddenly beheld a glittering regiment of mounted men in armor, charging straightly and with cruelly determined speed, right into the centre of the crowd, apparently regardless of all havoc to life and limb that might ensue. Involuntarily he uttered an exclamation of horror at what seemed to him so wanton and brutal an act, when just then Sahluma caught him eagerly by the arm,—Sahluma, whose soft, oval countenance was brilliant with excitement, and in whose eyes gleamed a mingled expression of mirth and ferocity.

 

“Come, come, my friend!” he said hastily—“Yonder is a sight worth seeing! ‘Tis the mad Khosrul who is thus entrenched and fortified by the mob,—as I live, that sweeping gallop of His Majesty’s Royal Guards is magnificent! They will seize the Prophet this time without fail! Aye, if they slay a thousand of the populace in the performance of their duty! Come!—let us hasten to the scene of action—‘twill be a struggle I would not miss for all the world!”

 

He sprang down the steps of the loggia, accompanied by Theos, who was equally excited,—when all at once Zabastes, thrusting out his head through a screen of vine-leaves, cried after them: “Sahluma!—Most illustrious! What of the poem? It is not finished!”

 

“No matter!” returned Sahluma—“‘Twill be finished hereafter!”

 

And he hastened on, Theos treading close in his footsteps and thinking as he went of the new enigma thus proposed to puzzle afresh the weary workings of his mind. HIS poem of Nourhalma—

or rather the poem he had fancied was his—had been entirely completed down to the last line; now Sahluma’s was left “TO BE

FINISHED HEREAFTER.”

 

Strange that he should find a pale glimmering of consolation in this!—a feeble hope that perhaps after all, at some future time, he might be able to produce a few, a very few lines of noble verse that should be deemed purely original! … enough perchance, to endow him with a faint, far halo of diminished glory such as plodding students occasionally win, by following humbly yet ardently … even as he now followed Sahluma … in the paths of excellence marked out by greater men!

 

CHAPTER XXIV.

 

THE FALL OF THE OBELISK.

 

In less time than he could have imagined possible, he found himself in the densely crowded Square, buffeting and struggling against an angry and rebellious mob, who half resentful and half terrified, had evidently set themselves to resist the determined charge made by the mounted soldiery into their midst. For once Sahluma’s appearance created no diversion,—he was pushed and knocked about as unceremoniously as if he were the commonest citizen of them all, He seemed carelessly surprised at this, but nevertheless took his hustling very good humoredly, and, keeping his shoulders well squared forced his way with Theos by slow degrees through the serried ranks of people, many of whom, roused to a sort of frenzy threw themselves in front of the advancing horses of the guard, and seizing the reins held on to these like grim death, reckless of all danger.

 

As yet no weapons were used either by the soldiers or the populace,—the former seemed for the present contented to simply ride down those who impeded their progress,—and that they had done so in terrible earnest was plainly evident from the numbers of wounded creatures that lay scattered about on every side in an apparently half dying condition. Yet there was surely a strange insensibility to suffering among them all, inasmuch as in spite of the contention and confusion there were no violent shrieks of either pain or fury,—no exclamations of rage or despair,—no sound whatever indeed, save a steady, sullen, monotonous snarl of opposition, above which the resonant voice of the Prophet Khosrul rang out like a silver clarion.

 

“O people doomed and made desolate!” he cried.. “O nation once mighty, brought low to the dust of destruction! Hear me, ye strong men and fair women!—and you, ye poor little children who never again shall see the sun rise on the thousand domes of Al-Kyris!

Lift up the burden of bitter lamentation!—lift it up to the Heaven of Heavens, the Throne of the All-Seeing Glory, the Giver of Law, the Destroyer of Evil! Weep! … weep for your sins and the sins of your sons and your daughters—cast off the jewels of pride,—rend the fine raiment, … let your tears be abundant as the rain and dew! Kneel down and cry aloud on the great and terrible Unknown God—the God ye have denied and wronged,—the Founder of worlds, who doth hold in His Hand the Sun as a torch, and scattereth stars with the fire of His breath! Mourn and bend ye all beneath the iron stroke of Destiny!—for know ye not how fierce a thing has come upon Al-Kyris? … a thing that lips cannot utter nor words define,—a thing more horrible than strange sounds in thick darkness,—more deadly than the lightning when it leaps from Heaven with intent to slay! O City stately beyond all cities! Thy marble palaces are already ringed round with a river of blood!—the temples of thy knowledge wherein thy wise men have studied to exceed all wisdom, begin to totter to their fall,—thou shalt be swept away even as a light heap of ashes, and what shall all thy learning avail thee in that brief and fearful end! Hear me, O people of Al-Kyris!—Hear me and cease to strive among yourselves, … resist not thus desperately the King’s armed minions, for to them I also speak and say,—Lo! the time approaches when a stronger hand than that of the mighty Zephoranim shall take me prisoner and bear me hence where most I long to go!

Peace, I command you! … in the Name of that God whose truth I do proclaim … Peace!”

 

As he uttered the last word an instantaneous hush fell upon the crowd,—every head was turned toward his grand, gaunt, almost spectral figure; and even the mounted soldiery reined up their plunging, chafing steeds and remained motionless as though suddenly fixed to the ground by some powerful magnetic spell.

Theos and Sahluma took immediate advantage of this lull in the conflict, to try and secure for themselves