'THE SON OF APALANO!'
On leaving the amphitheatre, Monella and his followers formed a long
and imposing procession. Only a few had been left behind to guard the
prisoners. These last were immured in cells pointed out by Fernina,
who was well acquainted with the interior arrangements of Coryon's
retreat. For within the rocks was an almost endless series of passages
and galleries opening, at the further end, on to an extensive hanging
terrace on the very face of the great precipice that formed one end of
Roraima's perpendicular sides. Even those of Coryon's followers who
had gone over secretly to Monella, were only partially acquainted with
the interior of this fastness; hence Fernina's assistance was found of
great use by Sanaima and those who remained with him.
It can scarcely be said that the procession, as it left the great
gates of the amphitheatre, exhibited, at first, many signs of having
just been engaged in a victorious and successful expedition. Those
who formed it were, for the most part, silent and preoccupied; for
the scenes they had witnessed--and that, as they knew, were still in
progress--were of too horrible a character to be readily dismissed
from the mind. But, as they proceeded on their way, they met and were
joined by fresh bands of red-coated sympathisers; and these, not having
the same reasons for repressing their elation at the result of the
day's proceedings, broke out into cheering as they passed the groups of
people who were now coming out to meet them. For messengers had gone
on in advance to tell the news, and the crowds who had been waiting
so anxiously in the city, soon learned that Coryon's downfall was an
accomplished fact. They had already heard the good tidings of the
rescue of the princess and her lover and friends, and were only waiting
for this last crowning announcement; when it came, they became almost
delirious with joy, and soon poured out to meet the victors and give
them an enthusiastic welcome.
Thus the procession that started so quietly--almost in sadness, as it
seemed--from the dismal amphitheatre, became at last, as it entered
the city, a veritable triumphal pageant, meeting on all sides, and
returning, cheers and shouts of joy and exultation. And when Monella,
with Templemore, Colenna, and others came into view in the centre of
the long array, every head was uncovered and every knee bent. Then,
when he had passed, the excited crowds rose and shouted again louder
than ever. And well might they do so; for they--and only they--knew the
full meaning of the horrors from which they had that day been delivered.
By the time they had neared the king's palace, the crowd had grown so
dense that it was with some difficulty that space was cleared for the
passage of the principal persons into the building. At the entrance,
under the great archway, Leonard, looking pale and anxious, awaited
them. Running forward to meet Monella, he said,
"I have heard the news and congratulate you all. But I am in sore
distress about the princess. We had much ado to bring her here, and I
fear she is very ill. Let me entreat you to go and see her at once,
and then let me know what you think about her."
"Certainly will I, my son," replied Monella kindly, and hurried away;
while Leonard turned and greeted Templemore and the others with
him. Then they all entered the palace and went up one of the great
staircases and on to a terrace overlooking the open space where the
crowd was assembled, and there awaited Monella's return.
Presently he came to them.
"The princess is weak and much depressed," he said, "and will require
care for awhile; but I see no cause for anxiety. Naturally, the poor
child is terribly upset. She grieves, too, about the condition of the
king her father, and wishes to help nurse him, but this she has not
strength for at present. Patience, my son. Be patient and of good
heart." He looked with pity and concern at Leonard's haggard face
with its hollow, dark-ringed eyes and its worn-out look. "You have
suffered--cruelly--I can see," he added, placing his hand gently on the
young man's shoulder. "You have been sorely tried."
"Ah!" returned Leonard with a heavy sigh. "You cannot imagine what I
have been through! My thoughts still dwell upon the horror of it; my
eyes still see the sights I gazed upon! I feel as though I shall never
be my old self again. And Ulama! Though I do not yet know how much she
saw or knew, I sadly believe she shares my feelings."
"You are both worn out--exhausted, my son. Wait but a space--while I
speak to the crowd and dismiss them--and then I will give you a cordial
and refreshment; after that you must lie down and have a long sleep."
"I fear even to sleep," said Leonard, shaking his head sadly. "I dread
the thought of sleep, for I know but too well what my dreams will be."
"Nay, my son, have no fear. I will promise you dreamless, restful
sleep," Monella answered, and moved away to the front of the terrace.
At the sight of his commanding form and upraised hand the shouts and
noise and all the subdued roar that till now had been continuous were
hushed. Then, as with one accord, all uncovered and fell upon their
knees. He spoke a few brief words and then dismissed them, pointing out
that his friends were in need of rest and quiet.
The crowd, in respectful obedience, quietly dispersed, and Monella,
motioning Elwood and Templemore to follow him, led them into his
private apartments and there mixed and administered to both certain
drinks that had an immediate and wonderfully revivifying effect. These
potions had also the advantage of stimulating their appetites, so
that they were the better enabled to take the nourishment he pressed
upon them. Then he accompanied them to their sleeping chambers and
bade them lie down and take the repose they so sorely needed. None
of the three had had any sleep or rest--for Leonard's swoon in his
cell and subsequent state of torpor could scarcely be so called--for
the past two nights. The two young men were not only worn out, but in
that excited state in which the brain seems to insist upon going over
and over and over again the events of the previous troubled time, in
that ceaseless, monotonous whirl that makes all efforts at sleep so
useless. But Monella--who alone showed no sign of the strain all had
undergone--sat down by the side of each in succession for a short time,
and talked to him in his low, musical tones. What he talked of, or
what he did, neither could afterwards remember; but the effect was
magical. As Leonard afterwards expressed it, a soothing, delicious
sense of drowsy rest crept over his senses; a rest that was not sleep,
for he could still hear the usual sounds around, but gradually growing
hushed and muffled. Then came a sensation as of being lifted and wafted
away by a gentle wind; and in the sighing of the breeze there seemed
a delightful strain of music, a dreamy lullaby that carried with it a
restful peace sinking imperceptibly into untroubled repose.
The strangest thing, perhaps, is that even the unimpressionable
Templemore was affected in the same way, as he afterwards admitted. Nor
was that all; for, on awaking, he was conscious of having had the most
delicious dreams, though he could not quite recall their subject. For
some time he lay in a state of blissful ease, striving to recollect
the dream that had left sensations so delicious, and afraid to rouse
himself for fear the remembrance should vanish altogether. He could
hear the usual sounds going on in the palace, the tramp of armed men,
and clashing and jingling of arms; but he was only half-conscious of
them. Then he heard his name called in tones that seemed to come from
the far distance, and, opening his eyes, he saw Monella standing beside
his couch and regarding him with a grave smile.
"Wake up, my friend," he said. "It is time you roused yourself. I
wish to have some talk with you and Leonard. You have slept for
eight-and-forty hours!"
Templemore sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"I feel as if I had slept for months," he answered in a half-dazed way.
"And I've had such curious dreams, or visions; I feel quite sorry to be
awake again. It's a strange thing for _me_ to talk like that, I know,"
he added with hesitation.
"What did you dream of?" asked Leonard, who had entered in time to hear
the other's concluding words.
"That's the strange part of it," returned Templemore, looking perplexed
and somewhat sheepish. "I've had a most extraordinary dream of some
kind, or a vision or something--_that_ I know, yet I cannot remember
what it was. All I can now tell you is that it was something so
extremely pleasant that it has left the most agreeable sensations
behind it. My very blood seems in a warm, delicious glow from it. What
can it be?" he added, looking in a bewildered way from one to the other.
But Monella made no comment, and went away.
"It's been just the same with me," said Leonard, in a low voice, that
had an expression almost of awe in it. "Monella woke me about half an
hour ago and I felt much like what you have described."
"It's very odd," Templemore returned thoughtfully. "It must be the
drink he gave us. Do you remember what Harry Lorien said of him? That
he believed Monella was a magician? I begin to think him a wizard
myself. But, dear boy, how much better you look!"
"So do you, Jack; and he tells me Ulama is the same--and it's all his
doing, you know. He _is_ a wizard; and that's all there is to be said
about it."
"The question is," Jack went on, "what was it he gave us? Here it has
made us sleep nearly forty-eight hours; and it seems, has done us, in
that time, as much good as one would have thought would have taken
a week or two to accomplish, and yet it has left no dull, drowsy,
listless feeling, such as opiates generally do. I can't make it out."
And, shaking his head gravely, Templemore went to take his morning
plunge.
When they sought Monella, he bade Leonard give him the particulars of
all that had occurred to him. Leonard recounted them.
"It seemed very terrible to me," he said when he had finished, "at the
time; and truly I thought I should never get over it. Yet--now--it
seems such a long while ago--so far off."
"That is well, my son," returned Monella. "For it has been a sore
trial. I have heard about _you_," he continued, turning to Templemore,
"from the lady Zonella and from Ergalon."
"I owe a great debt to her--to him--to both," Templemore replied.
"Without their aid I fear things would have gone badly with Leonard,
and myself too."
"Yes, Coryon had ably laid his treacherous schemes, and we all have
reason to be thankful for their failure," said Monella solemnly.
"Things came to a crisis just then. I had just matured certain plans
that Sanaima and I had laid out; and only the day before my long-lost
memory returned to me, and I remembered, all in a flash, as it were,
the whole of my former life."
"That you were--that is--are----" Templemore began; but stopped and
looked confused.
"Yes, that I am indeed Mellenda," was the reply, given with an air of
grave conviction. "I know the statement sounds incredible to you; you
are of that nature, have been brought up in that kind of school, that
makes such a thing sound impossible. But if _I_ myself feel and know
that it is true, and if my people around me know it and not only admit
it but rejoice in it, then, for me, that is sufficient."
"Certainly," Templemore assented, feeling very uncomfortable under the
other's gaze.
"Still--to you--let me be, while you remain here, simply what I have
been before--your friend Monella. I am the same being to-day that you
have known and, I hope, liked--that you have joined with in facing
danger and adventure--I am the same! The mere fact that I remember
things now that I had forgotten before makes no difference to me or to
our friendship."
This was said with a look of such kind regard that Templemore felt his
own heart swell with responsive feeling. It was true he had a strong
inclination to regard the other as a sincere, but self-deceiving
mystic; but, apart from that--apart from this strange delusion, as he
deemed it, about Monella's being the legendary Mellenda--Templemore
looked upon him with feelings of the greatest admiration, affection,
and respect. And he had never been so conscious of those feelings as at
this moment. He took the hand that the other extended to him, and bent
his head respectfully.
"Sir," said he in a low tone, "no son could respect and reverence a
beloved and honoured father more than I do you. No one could feel
prouder of the love and esteem you have been kind enough to show me; no
people, I feel satisfied, could have a worthier, a more disinterested,
or exalted ruler. If I find it difficult to realise the marvel that
you have related, if I have the idea that, perhaps, you are mistaking
your own dreams for actual realities, it is not from any doubt of your
sincerity or veracity--only that in that way alone can I bring myself
to explain the wonder."
"And I, on my side, respect the honesty that will not allow you to
pretend what you cannot feel," was the reply. "To you let me be simply
Monella, and let us continue on our old terms of mutual friendship and
esteem. And now I am going to rouse your wonder and surprise with yet
one other unexpected statement. Your friend Leonard here is not the
son of the parents he has all his life supposed himself to be."
Leonard sprang up with an exclamation.
"I will explain how. You have already told us"--this to Leonard--"how
that your supposed father and mother, with yourself, and your Indian
nurse, once stayed some time with a strange people in a secluded valley
among the peaks of the Andes. I was not there at the time, but they
were my people."
"Your people!" Leonard repeated with astonishment.
"Yes, my son, my people! Apalano, and two or three others of whom you
have heard me speak--all, alas, now dead! I was informed of your visit
when I next came back to them, for a while, from my wanderings. I heard
of it and what had happened; how Apalano's little child--his only
one--had been killed by a venomous serpent."
"The child of Apalano!" Leonard repeated in amaze.
"The two children," Monella continued--"Mr. Elwood's child and
Apalano's--were wonderfully alike, and your nurse, the Indian woman
Carenna, was very fond of both, and was in the habit of taking them
out together. She was out with them thus one day, and left them
both sleeping in the shade of a clump of trees while she went a few
yards away to gather some fruit. She returned (so she says) in a few
minutes; then, thinking one of the children had a strange look she
picked it up in alarm; at the same moment a serpent glided out from
under its clothes and went away, hissing, into the wood. But the
child was dead; and it was the child of the Englishman. Then Carenna,
frantic with grief, and afraid to tell the truth to her master and
mistress, exchanged the clothes and ornaments of the children. The
trick succeeded; for the dead infant was swollen and discoloured; and
Apalano mourned the death of his only child, when it went away, in
reality, with the strangers and their Indian nurse."
"Then," said Leonard excitedly, "I am----"
"Ranelda, son of my well-beloved friend! Ah," said Monella, sadly, "it
was a cruel thing to do. It preyed upon the mind of my friend, and, I
truly believe, brought on the fatal sickness. But for that he might
have lived, haply, to see at last the land of his fathers--might have
been one of us here to-day."
Leonard felt the tears come into his eyes at the picture called up by
this suggestion; and he said in a low tone,
"Alas! My poor father! It was cruel--very cruel!"
"It seems so," Monella returned with a sigh. "But God so willed
it. And He has also willed that you should be led back to your own
nation--that, after many days, you should join with me in the work that
I had set myself."
"It's very wonderful. Yet it seems to me to explain those strange
dreams and visions that were ever urging me on to attempt the
exploration of the mysterious Roraima! I suppose, when Carenna found
out who you were, she confessed?"
"Well," answered Monella, with a half-smile, "I made her do so. People
find it difficult to hide anything from me. I saw she had some secret,
and compelled her to divulge it. But, since she was so afraid to
confess to others, and especially averse to _your_ knowing it, I made
her this promise, that, if you desired to return from our adventure,
you should do so in ignorance of the actual facts. I was only to tell
you in case you freely elected to stay here permanently. That is why I
have kept it back thus far. I had intended to announce it to you and to
the people at the time of your public betrothal. Then they would have
received you, with one accord, as one having a right to rule over them.
And now you can understand why I have regarded you with such affection
from the first; and how glad I was to find, in Apalano's son, one so
worthy of my love and confidence. Your father was allied with my line,
and you are, therefore, akin to me. Worthy son of a worthy father! Let
me join with you in thankfulness that you have, after all, come into
the heritage that is yours by right! The young eagle was bound to find
its way to the eyrie for which it was best fitted." And Monella stood
up and laid his hand affectionately upon the young man's shoulder.
Leonard reverently bowed his head, and the other pressed his lips upon
his forehead.
There was silence for some seconds. Then Templemore took Leonard's hand.
"And let me too congratulate you, Leonard," he said fervently. "It is
good news for you--this; for, since you have elected to pass here the
remainder of your life, it will be a great comfort and advantage to you
that you have such good claims and qualifications for the position."
"I am thinking about my poor father who died of heartache and
disappointment," rejoined Leonard; and in his tone there was a note of
genuine sorrow. "And I can scarcely forgive Carenna--fond of me as I
know her to have always been--for her cruelty to him."
Presently Templemore turned again to Monella, saying,
"Did Carenna then believe this mountain was inhabited, that you would
find here the people you came to seek? Did you yourself think that?"
"As to myself, I can scarcely tell you," was the answer. "'Reason'
said that the hope of finding here the people of whom Apalano had so
often talked to me--for that was all I then knew--was chimerical; yet
Apalano's dying wishes, and some strange sentiment or instinct within
me, urged me on. Then, when I met with Carenna, I found she quite
thought it might turn out true."
"Carenna thought it?"
"Why, yes; but that is not very surprising, for, according to the
Indian ideas, it would not be the only instance in this country. There
is a belief amongst the Indians in several parts that some of the
unexplored mountains are inhabited by strange and unknown races. This
applies to those--and there are many; Roraima is not the only one--that
are surrounded by the curious belts of almost impenetrable forest. The
Indians believe that, if these forests could be passed, strange peoples
would be met with living on the mountains thus encircled; and they say
that on clear nights the lights from their fires may often be seen.[10]
Therefore Carenna was quite prepared to believe we might find Roraima
inhabited."
[10] Mr. Im Thurn, referring to this belief amongst the Indians,
states that he has himself seen, from a distance, strange lights
on the Canakoo Mountains for which he was quite unable to
account. See 'Among the Indians of British Guiana,' p. 384.
"I see. Then she, at least, will not have been so very much surprised
at our not returning, and may not have given us up for dead?"
"Yes; that is probable enough."
"And if she has heard of the signal flares we made when some
Indians--as I suppose they were--were camping in sight of the mountain,
she would look upon that as a sign of our being up here alive?"
"I think that is very likely."
"There is the suggestion of a little comfort in that," said Templemore;
"for, otherwise, those I left behind, and who are dear to me, must have
given up all hope and be now mourning me as dead. With Leonard it is
different. He stood alone in the world and has no one to grieve for him
more than as an ordinary friend."