Such a hermit was Simon Melas, of whom I write. A Trinitarian and a

Catholic, he was shocked by the excesses of the persecution of the

Arians, which could be only matched by the similar outrages with which

these same Arians in the day of their power avenged their treatment on

their brother Christians. Weary of the whole strife, and convinced

that the end of the world was indeed at hand, he left his home in

Constantinople and travelled as far as the Gothic settlements in Dacia,

beyond the Danube, in search of some spot where he might be free from

the never-ending disputes. Still journeying to the north and east, he

crossed the river which we now call the Dneister, and there, finding

a rocky hill rising from an immense plain, he formed a cell near its

summit, and settled himself down to end his life in self-denial and

meditation. There were fish in the stream, the country teemed with

game, and there was an abundance of wild fruits, so that his spiritual

exercises were not unduly interrupted by the search of sustenance for

his mortal frame.

In this distant retreat he expected to find absolute solitude, but the

hope was in vain. Within a week of his arrival, in an hour of worldly

curiosity, he explored the edges of the high rocky hill upon which he

lived. Making his way up to a cleft, which was hung with olives and

myrtles, he came upon a cave in the opening of which sat an aged man,

white-bearded, white-haired, and infirm--a hermit like himself. So long

had this stranger been alone that he had almost forgotten the use of his

tongue; but at last, words coming more freely, he was able to convey

the information that his name was Paul of Nicopolis, that he was a Greek

citizen, and that he also had come out into the desert for the saving of

his soul, and to escape from the contamination of heresy.

“Little I thought, brother Simon,” said he, “that I should ever find

any one else who had come so far upon the same holy errand. In all these

years, and they are so many that I have lost count of them, I have never

seen a man, save indeed one or two wandering shepherds far out upon

yonder plain.”

From where they sat, the huge steppe, covered with waving grass and

gleaming with a vivid green in the sun, stretched away as level and as

unbroken as the sea, to the eastern horizon. Simon Melas stared across

it with curiosity.

“Tell me, brother Paul,” said he, “you who have lived here so long--what

lies at the further side of that plain?”

The old man shook his head. “There is no further side to the plain,”

said he. “It is the earth’s boundary, and stretches away to eternity.

For all these years I have sat beside it, but never once have I seen

anything come across it. It is manifest that if there had been a further

side there would certainly at some time have come some traveller from

that direction. Over the great river yonder is the Roman post of

Tyras; but that is a long day’s journey from here, and they have never

disturbed my meditations.”

“On what do you meditate, brother Paul?”

“At first I meditated on many sacred mysteries; but now, for twenty

years, I have brooded continually on the nature of the Logos. What is

your view upon that vital matter, brother Simon?”

“Surely,” said the younger man, “there can be no question as to that.

The Logos is assuredly but a name used by St. John to signify the

Deity.”

The old hermit gave a hoarse cry of fury, and his brown, withered face

was convulsed with anger. Seizing the huge cudgel which he kept to beat

off the wolves, he shook it murderously at his companion.

“Out with you! Out of my cell!” he cried. “Have I lived here so long

to have it polluted by a vile Trinitarian--a follower of the rascal

Athanasius? Wretched idolater, learn once for all, that the Logos is in

truth an emanation from the Deity, and in no sense equal or co-eternal

with Him! Out with you, I say, or I will dash out your brains with my

staff!”

It was useless to reason with the furious Arian, and Simon withdrew in

sadness and wonder, that at this extreme verge of the known earth the

spirit of religious strife should still break upon the peaceful solitude

of the wilderness. With hanging head and heavy heart he made his way

down the valley, and climbed up once more to his own cell, which lay

at the crown of the hill, with the intention of never again exchanging

visits with his Arian neighbour.

Here, for a year, dwelt Simon Melas, leading a life of solitude and

prayer. There was no reason why any one should ever come to this

outermost point of human habitation. Once a young Roman officer--Caius

Crassus--rode out a day’s journey from Tyras, and climbed the hill to

have speech with the anchorite. He was of an equestrian family, and

still held his belief in the old dispensation. He looked with interest

and surprise, but also with some disgust, at the ascetic arrangements of

that humble abode.

“Whom do you please by living in such a fashion?” he asked.

“We show that our spirit is superior to our flesh,” Simon answered. “If

we fare badly in this world, we believe that we shall reap an advantage

in the world to come.”

The centurion shrugged his shoulders. “There are philosophers among our

people, Stoics and others, who have the same idea. When I was in the

Herulian Cohort of the Fourth Legion we were quartered in Rome itself,

and I saw much of the Christians, but I could never learn anything

from them which I had not heard from my own father, whom you, in your

arrogance, would call a Pagan. It is true that we talk of numerous gods;

but for many years we have not taken them very seriously. Our thoughts

upon virtue and duty and a noble life are the same as your own.”

Simon Melas shook his head.

“If you have not the holy books,” said he, “then what guide have you to

direct your steps?”

“If you will read our philosophers, and above all the divine Plato, you

will find that there are other guides who may take you to the same end.

Have you by chance read the book which was written by our Emperor Marcus

Aurelius? Do you not discover there every virtue which man could have,

although he knew nothing of your creed? Have you considered, also, the

words and actions of our late Emperor Julian, with whom I served my

first campaign when he went out against the Persians? Where could you

find a more perfect man than he?”

“Such talk is unprofitable, and I will have no more of it,” said Simon,

sternly. “Take heed while there is time, and embrace the true faith;

for the end of the world is at hand, and when it comes there will be no

mercy for those who have shut their eyes to the light.” So saying, he

turned back once more to his praying-stool and to his crucifix, while

the young Roman walked in deep thought down the hill, and mounting his

horse, rode off to his distant post. Simon watched him until his brazen

helmet was but a bead of light on the western edge of the great plain;

for this was the first human face that he had seen in all this long

year, and there were times when his heart yearned for the voices and the

faces of his kind.

So another year passed, and save for the chance of weather and the slow

change of the seasons, one day was as another. Every morning, when Simon

opened his eyes, he saw the same grey line ripening into red in the

furthest east, until the bright rim pushed itself above that far-off

horizon across which no living creature had ever been known to come.

Slowly the sun swept across the huge arch of the heavens, and as the

shadows shifted from the black rocks which jutted upward from above his

cell, so did the hermit regulate his terms of prayer and meditation.

There was nothing on earth to draw his eye, or to distract his mind,

for the grassy plain below was as void from month to month as the heaven

above. So the long hours passed, until the red rim slipped down on the

further side, and the day ended in the same pearl-grey shimmer with

which it had begun. Once two ravens circled for some days round the

lonely hill, and once a white fish-eagle came from the Dneister and

screamed above the hermit’s head. Sometimes red dots were seen on the

green plain where the antelopes grazed, and often a wolf howled in the

darkness from the base of the rocks. Such was the uneventful life of

Simon Melas the anchorite, until there came the day of wrath.

It was in the late spring of the year 375 that Simon came out from his

cell, his gourd in his hand, to draw water from the spring. Darkness had

closed in, the sun had set, but one last glimmer of rosy light rested

upon a rocky peak, which jutted forth from the hill, on the further side

from the hermit’s dwelling. As Simon came forth from under his ledge,

the gourd dropped from his hand, and he stood gazing in amazement.

On the opposite peak a man was standing, his outline black in the

fading light. He was a strange almost a deformed figure, short-statured,

round-backed, with a large head, no neck, and a long rod jutting out

from between his shoulders. He stood with his face advanced, and his

body bent, peering very intently over the plain to the westward. In a

moment he was gone, and the lonely black peak showed up hard and naked

against the faint eastern glimmer. Then the night closed down, and all

was black once more.

Simon Melas stood long in bewilderment, wondering who this stranger

could be. He had heard, as had every Christian, of those evil spirits

which were wont to haunt the hermits in the Thebaid and on the skirts

of the Ethiopian waste. The strange shape of this solitary creature,

its dark outline and prowling, intent attitude, suggestive rather of a

fierce, rapacious beast than of a man, all helped him to believe that

he had at last encountered one of those wanderers from the pit, of whose

existence, in those days of robust faith, he had no more doubt than

of his own. Much of the night he spent in prayer, his eyes glancing

continually at the low arch of his cell door, with its curtain of deep

purple wrought with stars. At any instant some crouching monster, some

homed abomination, might peer in upon him; and he clung with frenzied

appeal to his crucifix, as his human weakness quailed at the thought.

But at last his fatigue overcame his fears, and falling upon his couch

of dried grass, he slept until the bright daylight brought him to his

senses.

It was later than was his wont, and the sun was far above the horizon.

As he came forth from his cell, he looked across at the peak of rock,

but it stood there bare and silent. Already it seemed to him that that

strange dark figure which had startled him so was some dream, some

vision of the twilight. His gourd lay where it had fallen, and he picked

it up with the intention of going to the spring. But suddenly he was

aware of something new. The whole air was throbbing with sound. From all

sides it came, rumbling, indefinite, an inarticulate mutter, low, but

thick and strong, rising, falling, reverberating among the rocks, dying

away into vague whispers, but always there. He looked round at the blue,

cloudless sky in bewilderment. Then he scrambled up the rocky pinnacle

above him, and sheltering himself in its shadow, he stared out over the

plain. In his wildest dream he had never imagined such a sight.

The whole vast expanse was covered with horse-men, hundreds and

thousands and tens of thousands, all riding slowly and in silence, out

of the unknown east. It was the multitudinous beat of their horses’

hoofs which caused that low throbbing in his ears. Some were so close

to him as he looked down upon them that he could see clearly their

thin wiry horses, and the strange humped figures of the swarthy riders,

sitting forward on the withers, shapeless bundles, their short legs

hanging stirrupless, their bodies balanced as firmly as though they were

part of the beast. In those nearest he could see the bow and the quiver,

the long spear and the short sword, with the coiled lasso behind the

rider, which told that this was no helpless horde of wanderers, but a

formidable army upon the march. His eyes passed on from them and swept

further and further, but still to the very horizon, which quivered

with movement, there was no end to this monstrous cavalry. Already the

vanguard was far past the island of rock upon which he dwelt, and he

could now understand that in front of this vanguard were single scouts

who guided the course of the army, and that it was one of these whom he

had seen the evening before.

All day, held spell-bound by this wonderful sight, the hermit crouched

in the shadow of the rocks, and all day the sea of horsemen rolled

onward over the plain beneath. Simon had seen the swarming quays of

Alexandria, he had watched the mob which blocked the hippodrome of

Constantinople, yet never had he imagined such a multitude as now

defiled beneath his eyes, coming from that eastern skyline which had

been the end of his world. Sometimes the dense streams of horsemen

were broken by droves of brood-mares and foals, driven along by mounted

guards; sometimes there were herds of cattle; sometimes there were lines

of waggons with skin canopies above them; but then once more, after

every break, came the horsemen, the horsemen, the hundreds and the

thousands and the tens of thousands, slowly, ceaselessly, silently

drifting from the east to the west. The long day passed, the light

waned, and the shadows fell; but still the great broad stream was

flowing by.

But the night brought a new and even stranger sight. Simon had marked

bundles of faggots upon the backs of many of the led horses, and now he

saw their use. All over the great plain, red pin-points gleamed through

the darkness, which grew and brightened into flickering columns of

flame. So far as he could see both to east and west the fires extended,

until they were but points of light in the furthest distance. White

stars shone in the vast heavens above, red ones in the great plain

below. And from every side rose the low, confused murmur of voices, with

the lowing of oxen and the neighing of horses.

Simon had been a soldier and a man of affairs before ever he forsook the

world, and the meaning of all that he had seen was clear to him. History

told him how the Roman world had ever been assailed by fresh swarms of

Barbarians, coming from the outer darkness, and that the Eastern Empire

had already, in its fifty years of existence since Constantine had moved

the capital of the world to the shores of the Bosphorus, been tormented

in the same way. Gepidae and Heruli, Ostrogoths and Sarmatians, he was

familiar with them all. What the advanced sentinel of Europe had seen

from this lonely outlying hill, was a fresh swarm breaking in upon the

Empire, distinguished only from the others by its enormous, incredible

size and by the strange aspect of the warriors who composed it. He

alone of all civilized men knew of the approach of this dreadful shadow,

sweeping like a heavy storm-cloud from the unknown depths of the east.

He thought of the little Roman posts along the Dneister, of the

ruined Dacian wall of Trajan behind them, and then of the scattered,

defenceless villages which lay with no thought of danger over all the

open country which stretched down to the Danube. Could he but give them

the alarm! Was it not, perhaps, for that very end that God had guided

him to the wilderness?

Then suddenly he remembered his Arian neighbour, who dwelt in the cave

beneath him. Once or twice during the last year he had caught a glimpse

of his tall, bent figure hobbling round to examine the traps which he

laid for quails and partridges. On one occasion they had met at the

brook; but the old theologian waved him away, as if he were a

leper. What did he think now of this strange happening? Surely their

differences might be forgotten at such a moment. He stole down the side

of the hill, and made his way to his fellow-hermit’s cave.

But there was a terrible silence as he approached it. His heart sank

at that deadly stillness in the little valley. No glimmer of light came

from the cleft in the rocks. He entered and called, but no answer came

back. Then, with flint, steel, and the dry grass which he used for

tinder, he struck a spark, and blew it into a blaze. The old hermit,

his white hair dabbled with crimson, lay sprawling across the floor.

The broken crucifix, with which his head had been beaten in, lay

in splinters across him. Simon had dropped on his knees beside him,

straightening his contorted limbs, and muttering the office for the

dead, when the thud of a horse’s hoofs was heard ascending the little

valley which led to the hermit’s cell. The dry grass had burned down,

and Simon crouched trembling in the darkness, pattering prayers to the

Virgin that his strength might be upheld.

It may have been that the newcomer had seen the gleam of the light, or

it may have been that he had heard from his comrades of the old man whom

they had murdered, and that his curiosity had led him to the spot. He

stopped his horse outside the cave, and Simon, lurking in the shadows

within, had a fair view of him in the moonlight. He slipped from his

saddle, fastened the bridle to a root, and then stood peering through

the opening of the cell. He was a very short, thick man, with a dark

face, which was gashed with three cuts upon either side. His small eyes

were sunk deep in his head, showing like black holes in the heavy, flat,

hairless face. His legs were short and very bandy, so that he waddled

uncouthly as he walked.

Simon crouched in the darkest angle, and he gripped in his hand that

same knotted cudgel which the dead theologian had once raised against

him. As that hideous stooping head advanced into the darkness of the

cell, he brought the staff down upon it with all the strength of his

right arm, and then, as the stricken savage fell forward upon his face,

he struck madly again and again, until the shapeless figure lay limp and

still. One roof covered the first slain of Europe and of Asia.

Simon’s veins were throbbing and quivering with the unwonted joy of

action. All the energy stored up in those years of repose came in a

flood at this moment of need. Standing in the darkness of the cell, he

saw, as in a map of fire, the outlines of the great Barbaric host, the

line of the river, the position of the settlements, the means by which

they might be warned. Silently he waited in the shadow until the moon

had sunk. Then he flung himself upon the dead man’s horse, guided it

down the gorge, and set forth at a gallop across the plain.

There were fires on every side of him, but he kept clear of the rings

of light. Round each he could see, as he passed, the circle of sleeping

warriors, with the long lines of picketed horses. Mile after mile and

league after league stretched that huge encampment. And then, at last,

he had reached the open plain which led to the river, and the fires of

the invaders were but a dull smoulder against the black eastern

sky. Ever faster and faster he sped across the steppe, like a single

fluttered leaf which whirls before the storm. Even as the dawn whitened

the sky behind him, it gleamed also upon the broad river in front, and

he flogged his weary horse through the shallows, until he plunged into

its full yellow tide.

So it was that, as the young Roman centurion--Caius Crassus--made his

morning round in the fort of Tyras he saw a single horseman, who rode

towards him from the river. Weary and spent, drenched with water and

caked with dirt and sweat, both horse and man were at the last stage of

their endurance. With amazement the Roman watched their progress, and

recognized in the ragged, swaying figure, with flying hair and staring

eyes, the hermit of the eastern desert. He ran to meet him, and caught

him in his arms as he reeled from the saddle.

“What is it, then?” he asked. “What is your news?”

But the hermit could only point at the rising sun. “To arms!” he

croaked. “To arms! The day of wrath is come!” And as he looked, the

Roman saw--far across the river--a great dark shadow, which moved slowly

over the distant plain.

THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS

Pontus, the Roman viceroy, sat in the atrium of his palatial villa by

the Thames, and he looked with perplexity at the scroll of papyrus which

he had just unrolled. Before him stood the messenger who had brought

it, a swarthy little Italian, whose black eyes were glazed with want

of sleep, and his olive features darker still from dust and sweat. The

viceroy was looking fixedly at him, yet he saw him not, so full was his

mind of this sudden and most unexpected order. To him it seemed as if

the solid earth had given way beneath his feet. His life and the work of

his life had come to irremediable ruin.

“Very good,” he said at last in a hard dry voice, “you can go.”

The man saluted and staggered out of the hall.

A yellow-haired British major-domo came forward for orders.

“Is the General there?”

“He is waiting, your excellency.”

“Then show him in, and leave us together.”

A few minutes later Licinius Crassus, the head of the British military

establishment, had joined his chief. He was a large bearded man in a

white civilian toga, hemmed with the Patrician purple. His rough, bold

features, burned and seamed and lined with the long African wars, were

shadowed with anxiety as he looked with questioning eyes at the drawn,

haggard face of the viceroy.

“I fear, your excellency, that you have had bad news from Rome.”

“The worst, Crassus. It is all over with Britain. It is a question

whether even Gaul will be held.”

“Saint Albus save us! Are the orders precise?”

“Here they are, with the Emperor’s own seal.”

“But why? I had heard a rumour, but it had seemed too incredible.”

“So had I only last week, and had the fellow scourged for having spread

it. But here it is as clear as words can make it: ‘Bring every man of

the Legions by forced marches to the help of the Empire. Leave not a

cohort in Britain.’ These are my orders.”

“But the cause?”

“They will let the limbs wither so that the heart be stronger. The

old German hive is about to swarm once more. There are fresh crowds of

Barbarians from Dacia and Scythia. Every sword is needed to hold the

Alpine passes. They cannot let three legions lie idle in Britain.”

The soldier shrugged his shoulder’s.

“When the legions go no Roman would feel that his life was safe here.

For all that we have done, it is none the less the truth that it is no

country of ours, and that we hold it as we won it by the sword.”

“Yes, every man, woman, and child of Latin blood must come with us to

Gaul. The galleys are already waiting at Portus Dubris. Get the orders

out, Crassus, at once. As the Valerian legion falls back from the Wall

of Hadrian it can take the northern colonists with it. The Jovians can

bring in the people from the west, and the Batavians can escort the

easterns if they will muster at Camboricum. You will see to it.” He sank

his face for a moment in his hands. “It is a fearsome thing,” said he,

“to tear up the roots of so goodly a tree.”

“To make more space for such a crop of weeds,” said the soldier

bitterly. “My God, what will be the end of these poor Britons! From

ocean to ocean there is not a tribe which will not be at the throat of

its neighbour when the last Roman Lictor has turned his back. With these

hot-headed Silures it is hard enough now to keep the swords in their

sheaths.”

“The kennel might fight as they chose among themselves until the best

hound won,” said the Roman Governor. “At least the victor would keep the

arts and the religion which we have brought them, and Britain would be

one land. No, it is the bear from the north and the wolves from oversea,

the painted savage from beyond the walls and the Saxon pirate from over

the water, who will succeed to our rule. Where we saved, they will slay;

where we built, they will burn; where we planted, they will ravage. But

the die is cast, Crassus. You will carry out the orders.”

“I will send out the messengers within an hour. This very morning there

has come news that the Barbarians are through the old gap in the wall,

and their outriders as far south as Vinovia.” The Governor shrugged his

shoulders. “These things concern us no longer,” said he. Then a bitter

smile broke upon his aquiline clean-shaven face. “Whom think you that I

see in audience this morning?”

“Nay, I know not.”

“Caradoc and Regnus, and Celticus the Icenian, who, like so many of the

richer Britons, have been educated at Rome, and who would lay before me

their plans as to the ruling of this country.”

“And what is their plan?”

“That they themselves should do it.” The Roman soldier laughed. “Well,

they will have their will,” said he, as he saluted and turned upon his

heel. “Farewell, your excellency. There are hard days coming for you and

for me.”

An hour later the British deputation was ushered into the presence of

the Governor. They were good steadfast men, men who with a whole heart,

and at some risk to themselves, had taken up their country’s cause, so

far as they could see it. At the same time, they well knew that under

the mild and beneficent rule of Rome it was only when they passed from

words to deeds that their backs or their necks would be in danger.

They stood now, earnest and a little abashed, before the throne of the

viceroy. Celticus was a swarthy black-bearded little Iberian. Caradoc

and Regnus were tall middle-aged men of the fair flaxen British type.

All three were dressed in the draped yellow toga after the Latin

fashion, instead of in the bracae and tunic which distinguished their

more insular fellow-countrymen.

“Well?” asked the Governor.

“We are here,” said Celticus boldly, “as the spokesmen of a great

number of our fellow-countrymen, for the purpose of sending our petition

through you to the Emperor and to the Roman Senate, that we may urge

upon them the policy of allowing us to govern this country after our own

ancient fashion.” He paused, as if awaiting some outburst as an answer

to his own temerity; but the Governor merely nodded his head as a sign

that he should proceed. “We had laws of our own before ever Caesar

set foot in Britain, which have served their purpose since first our

forefathers came from the land of Ham. We are not a child among the

nations, but our history goes back in our own traditions--further even

than that of Rome, and we are galled by this yoke which you have laid

upon us.”

“Are not our laws just?” asked the Governor.

“The code of Caesar is just, but it is always the code of Caesar. Our

own laws were made for our own uses and our own circumstances, and we

would fain have them again.”

“You speak Roman as if you had been bred in the Forum; you wear a Roman

toga; your hair is filleted in Roman fashion--are not these the gifts of

Rome?”

“We would take all the learning and all the arts that Rome or Greece

could give, but we would still be Britain, and ruled by Britons.”

The viceroy smiled. “By the rood of Saint Helena,” said he, “had you

spoken thus to some of my heathen ancestors, there would have been an

end to your politics. That you have dared to stand before my face and

say as much is a proof for ever of the gentleness of our rule. But I

would reason with you for a moment upon this your request. You know well

that this land has never been one kingdom, but was always under many

chiefs and many tribes, who have made war upon each other. Would you in

very truth have it so again?”

“Those were in the evil pagan days, the days of the Druid and the

oak-grove, your excellency. But now we are held together by a gospel of

peace.”

The viceroy shook his head. “If all the world were of the same way

of thinking, then it would be easier,” said he. “It may be that this

blessed doctrine of peace will be little help to you when you are face

to face with strong men who still worship the god of war. What would you

do against the Picts of the north?”

“Your excellency knows that many of the bravest legionaries are of

British blood. These are our defence.”

“But discipline, man, the power to command, the knowledge of war, the

strength to act--it is in these things that you would fail. Too long

have you leaned upon the crutch.”

“The times may be hard, but when we have gone through them, Britain will

be herself again.”

“Nay, she will be under a different and a harsher master,” said the

Roman. “Already the pirates swarm upon the eastern coast. Were it not

for our Roman Count of the Saxon shore they would land tomorrow. I see

the day when Britain may, indeed, be one; but that will be because you

and your fellows are either dead or are driven into the mountains of the

west. All goes into the melting-pot, and if a better Albion should come

forth from it, it will be after ages of strife, and neither you nor your

people will have part or lot in it.”

Regnus, the tall young Celt, smiled. “With the help of God and our own

right arms we should hope for a better end,” said he. “Give us but the

chance, and we will bear the brunt.”

“You are as men that are lost,” said the viceroy sadly. “I see this

broad land, with its gardens and orchards, its fair villas and its

walled towns, its bridges and its roads, all the work of Rome. Surely

it will pass even as a dream, and these three hundred years of settled

order will leave no trace behind. For learn that it will indeed be as

you wish, and that this very day the orders have come to me that the

legions are to go.”

The three Britons looked at each other in amazement. Their first impulse

was towards a wild exultation, but reflection and doubt followed close

upon its heels.

“This is indeed wondrous news,” said Celticus. “This is a day of days to

the motherland. When do the legions go, your excellency, and what troops

will remain behind for our protection?”

“The legions go at once,” said the viceroy. “You will doubtless rejoice

to hear that within a month there will be no Roman soldier in the

island, nor, indeed, a Roman of any sort, age, or sex, if I can take

them with me.”

The faces of the Britons were shadowed, and Caradoc, a grave and

thoughtful man, spoke for the first time.

“But this is over sudden, your excellency,” said he. “There is much

truth in what you have said about the pirates. From my villa near the

fort of Anderida I saw eighty of their galleys only last week, and I

know well that they would be on us like ravens on a dying ox. For many

years to come it would not be possible for us to hold them off.”

The viceroy shrugged his shoulders. “It is your affair now,” said he.

“Rome must look to herself.”

The last traces of joy had passed from the faces of the Britons.

Suddenly the future had started up clearly before them, and they quailed

at the prospect.

“There is a rumour in the market-place,” said Celticus, “that the

northern Barbarians are through the gap in the wall. Who is to stop

their progress?”

“You and your fellows,” said the Roman.

Clearer still grew the future, and there was terror in the eyes of the

spokesmen as they faced it.

“But, your excellency, if the legions should go at once, we should have

the wild Scots at York, and the Northmen in the Thames within the month.

We can build ourselves up under your shield, and in a few years it would

be easier for us; but not now, your excellency, not now.”

“Tut, man; for years you have been clamouring in our ears and raising

the people. Now you have got what you asked. What more would you have?

Within the month you will be as free as were your ancestors before

Caesar set foot upon your shore.”

“For God’s sake, your excellency, put our words out of your head. The

matter had not been well considered. We will send to Rome. We will ride

post-haste ourselves. We will fall at the Emperor’s feet. We will kneel

before the Senate and beg that the legions remain.”

The Roman proconsul rose from his chair and motioned that the audience

was at an end.

“You will do what you please,” said he. “I and my men are for Italy.”

And even as he said, so was it, for before the spring had ripened into

summer, the troops were clanking down the via Aurelia on their way to

the Ligurian passes, whilst every road in Gaul was dotted with the

carts and the waggons which bore the Brito-Roman refugees on their weary

journey to their distant country. But ere another summer had passed

Celticus was dead, for he was flayed alive by the pirates and his skin

nailed upon the door of a church near Caistor. Regnus, too, was dead,

for he was tied to a tree and shot with arrows when the painted men came

to the sacking of Isca. Caradoc only was alive, but he was a slave to

Elda the red Caledonian, and his wife was mistress to Mordred the wild

chief of the western Cymri. From the ruined wall in the north to Vectis

in the south blood and ruin and ashes covered the fair land of Britain.

And after many days it came out fairer than ever, but, even as the Roman

had said, neither the Britons nor any men of their blood came into the

heritage of that which had been their own.

THE FIRST CARGO

“Ex ovo omnia”

When you left Briton with your legion, my dear Crassus, I promised that

I would write to you from time to time when a messenger chanced to be

going to Rome, and keep you informed as to anything of interest which

might occur in this country. Personally, I am very glad that I remained

behind when the troops and so many of our citizens left, for though the

living is rough and the climate is infernal, still by dint of the three

voyages which I have made for amber to the Baltic, and the excellent

prices which I obtained for it here, I shall soon be in a position to

retire, and to spend my old age under my own fig tree, or even perhaps

to buy a small villa at Baiae or Posuoli, where I could get a good

sun-bath after the continued fogs of this accursed island. I picture

myself on a little farm, and I read the Georgics as a preparation; but

when I hear the rain falling and the wind howling, Italy seems very far

away.

In my previous letter, I let you know how things were going in this

country. The poor folk, who had given up all soldiering during the

centuries that we guarded them, are now perfectly helpless before these

Picts and Scots, tattoed Barbarians from the north, who overrun the

whole country and do exactly what they please. So long as they kept to

the north, the people in the south, who are the most numerous, and also

the most civilized of the Britons, took no heed of them; but now the

rascals have come as far as London, and the lazy folk in these parts

have had to wake up. Vortigern, the king, is useless for anything but

drink or women, so he sent across to the Baltic to get over some of the

North Germans, in the hope that they would come and help him. It is bad

enough to have a bear in your house, but it does not seem to me to mend

matters if you call in a pack of ferocious wolves as well. However,

nothing better could be devised, so an invitation was sent and very

promptly accepted. And it is here that your humble friend appears upon

the scene. In the course of my amber trading I had learned the Saxon

speech, and so I was sent down in all haste to the Kentish shore that I

might be there when our new allies came. I arrived there on the very day

when their first vessel appeared, and it is of my adventures that I

wish to tell you. It is perfectly clear to me that the landing of these

warlike Germans in England will prove to be an event of historical

importance, and so your inquisitive mind will not feel wearied if I

treat the matter in some detail.

It was, then, upon the day of Mercury, immediately following the Feast

of Our Blessed Lord’s Ascension, that I found myself upon the south bank

of the river Thames, at the point where it opens into a wide estuary.

There is an island there named Thanet, which was the spot chosen for the

landfall of our visitors. Sure enough, I had no sooner ridden up than

there was a great red ship, the first as it seems of three, coming in

under full sail. The white horse, which is the ensign of these rovers,

was hanging from her topmast, and she appeared to be crowded with

men. The sun was shining brightly, and the great scarlet ship, with

snow-white sails and a line of gleaming shields slung over her side,

made as fair a picture on that blue expanse as one would wish to see.

I pushed off at once in a boat, because it had been arranged that none

of the Saxons should land until the king had come down to speak with

their leaders. Presently I was under the ship, which had a gilded dragon

in the bows, and a tier of oars along either side. As I looked up, there

was a row of helmeted heads looking down at me, and among them I saw, to

my great surprise and pleasure, that of Eric the Swart, with whom I do

business at Venta every year. He greeted me heartily when I reached the

deck, and became at once my guide, friend, and counsellor. This helped

me greatly with these Barbarians, for it is their nature that they are

very cold and aloof unless one of their own number can vouch for you,

after which they are very hearty and hospitable. Try as they will, they

find it hard, however, to avoid a certain suggestion of condescension,

and in the baser sort, of contempt, when they are dealing with a

foreigner.

It was a great stroke of luck meeting Eric, for he was able to give me

some idea of how things stood before I was shown into the presence of

Kenna, the leader of this particular ship. The crew, as I learned from

him, was entirely made up of three tribes or families--those of Kenna,

of Lanc, and of Hasta. Each of these tribes gets its name by putting the

letters “ing” after the name of the chief, so that the people on

board would describe themselves as Kennings, Lancings, and Hastings. I

observed in the Baltic that the villages were named after the family who

lived in them, each keeping to itself, so that I have no doubt if these

fellows get a footing on shore, we shall see settlements with names like

these rising up among the British towns.

The greater part of the men were sturdy fellows with red, yellow, or

brown hair, mostly the latter. To my surprise, I saw several women among

them. Eric, in answer to my question, explained that they always take

their women with them so far as they can, and that instead of finding

them an incumbrance as our Roman dames would be, they look upon them

as helpmates and advisers. Of course, I remembered afterwards that our

excellent and accurate Tacitus has remarked upon this characteristic of

the Germans. All laws in the tribes are decided by votes, and a vote has

not yet been given to the women, but many are in favour of it, and it

is thought that woman and man may soon have the same power in the State,

though many of the women themselves are opposed to such an innovation.

I observed to Eric that it was fortunate there were several women on

board, as they could keep each other company; but he answered that

the wives of chiefs had no desire to know the wives of the inferior

officers, and that both of them combined against the more common women,

so that any companionship was out of the question. He pointed as he

spoke to Editha, the wife of Kenna, a red-faced, elderly woman, who

walked among the others, her chin in the air, taking no more notice than

if they did not exist.

Whilst I was talking to my friend Eric, a sudden altercation broke out

upon the deck, and a great number of the men paused in their work, and

flocked towards the spot with faces which showed that they were deeply

interested in the matter. Eric and I pushed our way among the others,

for I was very anxious to see as much as I could of the ways and manners

of these Barbarians. A quarrel had broken out about a child, a little

blue-eyed fellow with curly yellow hair, who appeared to be greatly

amused by the hubbub of which he was the cause. On one side of him stood

a white-bearded old man, of very majestic aspect, who signified by his

gestures that he claimed the lad for himself, while on the other was a

thin, earnest, anxious person, who strongly objected to the boy being

taken from him. Eric whispered in my ear that the old man was the tribal

high priest, who was the official sacrificer to their great god Woden,

whilst the other was a man who took somewhat different views, not upon

Woden, but upon the means by which he should be worshipped. The majority

of the crew were on the side of the old priest; but a certain number,

who liked greater liberty of worship, and to invent their own prayers

instead of always repeating the official ones, followed the lead of the

younger man. The difference was too deep and too old to be healed among

the grown men, but each had a great desire to impress their view upon

the children. This was the reason why these two were now so furious with

each other, and the argument between them ran so high that several of

their followers on either side had drawn the short saxes, or knives

from which their name of Saxon is derived, when a burly, red-headed man

pushed his way through the throng, and in a voice of thunder brought the

controversy to an end.

“You priests, who argue about the things which no man can know, are more

trouble aboard this ship than all the dangers of the sea,” he cried.

“Can you not be content with worshipping Woden, over which we are all

agreed, and not make so much of those small points upon which we may

differ? If there is all this fuss about the teaching of the children,

then I shall forbid either of you to teach them, and they must be

content with as much as they can learn from their mothers.”

The two angry teachers walked away with discontented faces; and

Kenna--for it was he who spoke--ordered that a whistle should be

sounded, and that the crew should assemble. I was pleased with the free

bearing of these people, for though this was their greatest chief, they

showed none of the exaggerated respect which soldiers of a legion might

show to the Praetor, but met him on a respectful equality, which showed

how highly they rated their own manhood.

From our Roman standard, his remarks to his men would seem very wanting

in eloquence, for there were no graces nor metaphors to be found in

them, and yet they were short, strong and to the point. At any rate it

was very clear that they were to the minds of his hearers. He began by

reminding them that they had left their own country because the land was

all taken up, and that there was no use returning there, since there was

no place where they could dwell as free and independent men. This island

of Britain was but sparsely inhabited, and there was a chance that every

one of them would be able to found a home of his own.

“You, Whitta,” he said, addressing some of them by name, “you will found

a Whitting hame, and you, Bucka, we shall see you in a Bucking hame,

where your children, and your children’s children will bless you for the

broad acres which your valour will have gained for them.” There was no

word of glory or of honour in his speech, but he said that he was aware

that they would do their duty, on which they all struck their swords

upon their shields so that the Britons on the beach could hear the

clang. Then, his eyes falling upon me, he asked me whether I was the

messenger from Vortigern, and on my answering, he bid me follow him

into his cabin, where Lanc and Hasta the other chiefs were waiting for a

council.

Picture me, then, my dear Crassus, in a very low-roofed cabin, with

these three huge Barbarians seated round me. Each was clad in some sort

of saffron tunic, with chain-mail shirts over it, and helmets with the

horns of oxen on either side, laid upon the table before them. Like most

of the Saxon chiefs, their beards were shaved, but they wore their hair

long and their huge light-coloured moustaches drooped down on to their

shoulders. They are gentle, slow, and somewhat heavy in their bearing,

but I can well fancy that their fury is the more terrible when it does

arise.

Their minds seem to be of a very practical and positive nature, for they

at once began to ask me a series of questions upon the numbers of the

Britons, the resources of the kingdom, the conditions of its trade, and

other such subjects. They then set to work arguing over the information

which I had given, and became so absorbed in their own contention that I

believe there were times when they forgot my presence. Everything, after

due discussion, was decided between them by vote, the one who found

himself in the minority always submitting, though sometimes with a very

bad grace. Indeed, on one occasion Lanc, who usually differed from the

others, threatened to refer the matter to the general vote of the whole

crew. There was a constant conflict in the point of view; for whereas

Kenna and Hasta were anxious to extend the Saxon power, and to make it

greater in the eyes of the world, Lanc was of opinion that they should

give less thought to conquest and more to the comfort and advancement of

their followers. At the same time it seemed to me that really Lanc was

the more combative of the three; so much so that, even in time of peace,

he could not forego this contest with his own brethren. Neither of the

others seemed very fond of him, for they were each, as was easy to

see, proud of their chieftainship, and anxious to use their authority,

referring continually to those noble ancestors from whom it was derived;

while Lanc, though he was equally well born, took the view of the common

men upon every occasion, claiming that the interests of the many were

superior to the privileges of the few. In a word, Crassus, if you

could imagine a free-booting Gracchus on one side, and two piratical

Patricians upon the other, you would understand the effect which my

companions produced upon me.

There was one peculiarity which I observed in their conversation which

soothed me very much. I am fond of these Britons, among whom I have

spent so much of my life, and I wish them well. It was very pleasing,

therefore, to notice that these men insisted upon it in their

conversation that the whole object of their visit was the good of the

Islanders. Any prospect of advantage to themselves was pushed into the

background. I was not clear that these professions could be made to

agree with the speech in which Kenna had promised a hundred hides of

land to every man on the ship; but on my making this remark, the three

chiefs seemed very surprised and hurt by my suspicions, and explained

very plausibly that, as the Britons needed them as a guard, they

could not aid them better than by settling on the soil, and so being

continually at hand in order to help them. In time, they said, they

hoped to raise and train the natives to such a point that they would be

able to look after themselves. Lanc spoke with some degree of eloquence

upon the nobleness of the mission which they had undertaken, and the

others clattered their cups of mead (a jar of that unpleasant drink was

on the table) in token of their agreement.

I observed also how much interested, and how very earnest and intolerant

these Barbarians were in the matter of religion. Of Christianity they

knew nothing, so that although they were aware that the Britons were

Christians, they had not a notion of what their creed really was. Yet

without examination they started by taking it for granted that their

own worship of Woden was absolutely right, and that therefore this

other creed must be absolutely wrong. “This vile religion,” “This sad

superstition,” and “This grievous error,” were among the phrases which

they used towards it. Instead of expressing pity for any one who had

been misinformed upon so serious a question, their feelings were those

of anger, and they declared most earnestly that they would spare

no pains to set the matter right, fingering the hilts of their long

broad-swords as they said so.

Well, my dear Crassus, you will have had enough of me and of my Saxons.

I have given you a short sketch of these people and their ways. Since

I began this letter, I have visited the two other ships which have come

in, and as I find the same characteristics among the people on board

them, I cannot doubt that they lie deeply in the race. For the rest,

they are brave, hardy, and very pertinacious in all that they undertake;

whereas the Britons, though a great deal more spirited, have not the

same steadiness of purpose, their quicker imaginations suggesting always

some other course, and their more fiery passions being succeeded by

reaction. When I looked from the deck of the first Saxon ship, and saw

the swaying excited multitude of Britons on the beach, contrasting them

with the intent, silent men who stood beside me, it seemed to me more

than ever dangerous to call in such allies. So strongly did I feel it

that I turned to Kenna, who was also looking towards the beach.

“You will own this island before you have finished,” said I.

His eyes sparkled as he gazed. “Perhaps,” he cried; and then suddenly

collecting himself and thinking that he had said too much, he added--

“A temporary occupation--nothing more.”

THE HOME-COMING

In the spring of the year 528, a small brig used to run as a passenger

boat between Chalcedon on the Asiatic shore and Constantinople. On the

morning in question, which was that of the feast of Saint George, the

vessel was crowded with excursionists who were bound for the great city

in order to take part in the religious and festive celebrations which

marked the festival of the Megalo-martyr, one of the most choice

occasions in the whole vast hagiology of the Eastern Church. The day was

fine and the breeze light, so that the passengers in their holiday mood

were able to enjoy without a qualm the many objects of interest which

marked the approach to the greatest and most beautiful capital in the

world.

On the right, as they sped up the narrow strait, there stretched the

Asiatic shore, sprinkled with white villages and with numerous villas

peeping out from the woods which adorned it. In front of them, the

Prince’s Islands, rising as green as emeralds out of the deep sapphire

blue of the Sea of Marmora, obscured for the moment the view of the

capital. As the brig rounded these, the great city burst suddenly upon

their sight, and a murmur of admiration and wonder rose from the crowded

deck. Tier above tier it rose, white and glittering, a hundred brazen

roofs and gilded statues gleaming in the sun, with high over all the

magnificent shining cupola of Saint Sophia. Seen against a cloudless

sky, it was the city of a dream-too delicate, too airily lovely for

earth.

In the prow of the small vessel were two travellers of singular

appearance. The one was a very beautiful boy, ten or twelve years of

age, swarthy, clear-cut, with dark, curling hair and vivacious black

eyes, full of intelligence and of the joy of living. The other was an

elderly man, gaunt-faced and grey-bearded, whose stern features were lit

up by a smile as he observed the excitement and interest with which his

young companion viewed the beautiful distant city and the many vessels

which thronged the narrow strait.

“See! see!” cried the lad. “Look at the great red ships which sail out

from yonder harbour. Surely, your holiness, they are the greatest of all

ships in the world.”

The old man, who was the abbot of the monastery of Saint Nicephorus in

Antioch, laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Be wary, Leon, and speak less loudly, for until we have seen your

mother we should keep ourselves secret. As to the red galleys they are

indeed as large as any, for they are the Imperial ships of war, which

come forth from the harbour of Theodosius. Round yonder green point is

the Golden Horn, where the merchant ships are moored. But now, Leon, if

you follow the line of buildings past the great church, you will see

a long row of pillars fronting the sea. It marks the Palace of the

Caesars.”

The boy looked at it with fixed attention. “And my mother is there,” he

whispered.

“Yes, Leon, your mother the Empress Theodora and her husband the great

Justinian dwell in yonder palace.”

The boy looked wistfully up into the old man’s face.

“Are you sure, Father Luke, that my mother will indeed be glad to see

me?”

The abbot turned away his face to avoid those questioning eyes.

“We cannot tell, Leon. We can only try. If it should prove that there is

no place for you, then there is always a welcome among the brethren of

Saint Nicephorus.”

“Why did you not tell my mother that we were coming, Father Luke? Why

did you not wait until you had her command?”

“At a distance, Leon, it would be easy to refuse you. An Imperial

messenger would have stopped us. But when she sees you, Leon--your

eyes, so like her own, your face, which carries memories of one whom she

loved--then, if there be a woman’s heart within her bosom, she will take

you into it. They say that the Emperor can refuse her nothing. They have

no child of their own. There is a great future before you, Leon. When it

comes, do not forget the poor brethren of Saint Nicephorus, who took you

in when you had no friend in the world.”

The old abbot spoke cheerily, but it was easy to see from his anxious

countenance that the nearer he came to the capital the more doubtful

did his errand appear. What had seemed easy and natural from the quiet

cloisters of Antioch became dubious and dark now that the golden domes

of Constantinople glittered so close at hand. Ten years before, a

wretched woman, whose very name was an offence throughout the eastern

world where she was as infamous for her dishonour as famous for her

beauty, had come to the monastery gate, and had persuaded the monks to

take charge of her infant son, the child of her shame. There he had been

ever since. But she, Theodora, the harlot, returning to the capital, had

by the strangest turn of Fortune’s wheel caught the fancy and finally

the enduring love of Justinian the heir to the throne. Then on the death

of his uncle Justin, the young man had become the greatest monarch upon

the earth, and had raised Theodora to be not only his wife and Empress,

but to be absolute ruler with powers equal to and independent of his

own. And she, the polluted one, had risen to the dignity, had cut

herself sternly away from all that related to her past life, and had

shown signs already of being a great Queen, stronger and wiser than her

husband, but fierce, vindictive, and unbending, a firm support to her

friends, but a terror to her foes. This was the woman to whom the Abbot

Luke of Antioch was bringing Leon, her forgotten son. If ever her mind

strayed back to the days when, abandoned by her lover Ecebolus, the

Governor of the African Pentapolis, she had made her way on foot through

Asia Minor, and left her infant with the monks, it was only to persuade

herself that the brethren cloistered far from the world would never

identify Theodora the Empress with Theodora the dissolute wanderer, and

that the fruits of her sin would be for ever concealed from her Imperial

husband.

The little brig had now rounded the point of the Acropolis, and the

long blue stretch of the Golden Horn lay before it. The high wall of

Theodosius lined the whole harbour, but a narrow verge of land had been

left between it and the water’s edge to serve as a quay. The vessel

ran alongside near the Neorion Gate, and the passengers, after a short

scrutiny from the group of helmeted guards who lounged beside it, were

allowed to pass through into the great city.

The abbot, who had made several visits to Constantinople upon the

business of his monastery, walked with the assured step of one who

knows his ground; while the boy, alarmed and yet pleased by the rush

of people, the roar and glitter of passing chariots, and the vista of

magnificent buildings, held tightly to the loose gown of his guide,

while staring eagerly about him in every direction. Passing through the

steep and narrow streets which led up from the water, they emerged into

the open space which surrounds the magnificent pile of Saint Sophia, the

great church begun by Constantine, hallowed by Saint Chrysostom, and now

the seat of the Patriarch, and the very centre of the Eastern Church.

Only with many crossings and genuflections did the pious abbot succeed

in passing the revered shrine of his religion, and hurried on to his

difficult task.

Having passed Saint Sophia, the two travellers crossed the marble-paved

Augusteum, and saw upon their right the gilded gates of the hippodrome

through which a vast crowd of people was pressing, for though the

morning had been devoted to the religious ceremony, the afternoon was

given over to secular festivities. So great was the rush of the populace

that the two strangers had some difficulty in disengaging themselves

from the stream and reaching the huge arch of black marble which formed

the outer gate of the palace. Within they were fiercely ordered to halt

by a gold-crested and magnificent sentinel who laid his shining spear

across their breasts until his superior officer should give them

permission to pass. The abbot had been warned, however, that all

obstacles would give way if he mentioned the name of Basil the eunuch,

who acted as chamberlain of the palace and also as Parakimomen--a

high office which meant that he slept at the door of the Imperial

bed-chamber. The charm worked wonderfully, for at the mention of that

potent name the Protosphathaire, or Head of the Palace Guards, who

chanced to be upon the spot, immediately detached one of his soldiers

with instructions to convoy the two strangers into the presence of the

chamberlain.

Passing in succession a middle guard and an inner guard, the travellers

came at last into the palace proper, and followed their majestic guide

from chamber to chamber, each more wonderful than the last. Marbles and

gold, velvet and silver, glittering mosaics, wonderful carvings, ivory

screens, curtains of Armenian tissue and of Indian silk, damask from

Arabia, and amber from the Baltic--all these things merged themselves

in the minds of the two simple provincials, until their eyes ached and

their senses reeled before the blaze and the glory of this, the most

magnificent of the dwellings of man. Finally, a pair of curtains,

crusted with gold, were parted, and their guide handed them over to a

negro mute who stood within. A heavy, fat, brown-skinned man, with a

large, flabby, hairless face was pacing up and down the small apartment,

and he turned upon them as they entered with an abominable and

threatening smile. His loose lips and pendulous cheeks were those of

a gross old woman, but above them there shone a pair of dark malignant

eyes, full of fierce intensity of observation and judgment.

“You have entered the palace by using my name,” he said. “It is one of

my boasts that any of the populace can approach me in this way. But it

is not fortunate for those who take advantage of it without due cause.”

Again he smiled a smile which made the frightened boy cling tightly to

the loose serge skirts of the abbot.

But the ecclesiastic was a man of courage. Undaunted by the sinister

appearance of the great chamberlain, or by the threat which lay in his

words, he laid his hand upon his young companion’s shoulder and faced

the eunuch with a confidential smile.

“I have no doubt, your excellency,” said he, “that the importance of my

mission has given me the right to enter the palace. The only thing which

troubles me is whether it may not be so important as to forbid me from

broaching it to you, or indeed, to anybody save the Empress Theodora,

since it is she only whom it concerns.”

The eunuch’s thick eyebrows bunched together over his vicious eyes.

“You must make good those words,” he said. “If my gracious master--the

ever-glorious Emperor Justinian--does not disdain to take me into his

most intimate confidence in all things, it would be strange if there

were any subject within your knowledge which I might not hear. You

are, as I gather from your garb and bearing, the abbot of some Asiatic

monastery?”

“You are right, your excellency, I am the abbot of the Monastery of St.

Nicephorus in Antioch. But I repeat that I am assured that what I have

to say is for the ear of the Empress Theodora only.”

The eunuch was evidently puzzled, and his curiosity aroused by the old

man’s persistence. He came nearer, his heavy face thrust forward, his

flabby brown hands, like two sponges, resting upon the table of yellow

jasper before him.

“Old man,” said he, “there is no secret which concerns the Empress which

may not be told to me. But if you refuse to speak, it is certain that

you will never see her. Why should I admit you, unless I know your

errand? How should I know that you are not a Manichean heretic with

a poniard in your bosom, longing for the blood of the mother of the

Church?”

The abbot hesitated no longer. “If there be a mistake in the matter,

then on your head be it,” said he. “Know then that this lad Leon is the

son of Theodora the Empress, left by her in our monastery within a month

of his birth ten years ago. This papyrus which I hand you will show you

that what I say is beyond all question or doubt.”

The eunuch Basil took the paper, but his eyes were fixed upon the boy,

and his features showed a mixture of amazement at the news that he

had received, and of cunning speculation as to how he could turn it to

profit.

“Indeed, he is the very image of the Empress,” he muttered; and then,

with sudden suspicion, “Is it not the chance of this likeness which has

put the scheme into your head, old man?”

“There is but one way to answer that,” said the abbot. “It is to ask the

Empress herself whether what I say is not true, and to give her the glad

tidings that her boy is alive and well.”

The tone of confidence, together with the testimony of the papyrus,

and the boy’s beautiful face, removed the last shadow of doubt from the

eunuch’s mind. Here was a great fact; but what use could he make of it?

Above all, what advantage could he draw from it? He stood with his fat

chin in his hand, turning it over in his cunning brain.

“Old man,” said he at last, “to how many have you told this secret?”

“To no one in the whole world,” the other answered. “There is Deacon

Bardas at the monastery and myself. No one else knows anything.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Absolutely certain.”

The eunuch had made up his mind. If he alone of all men in the palace

knew of this event, he would have a powerful hold over his masterful

mistress. He was certain that Justinian the Emperor knew nothing of

this. It would be a shock to him. It might even alienate his affections

from his wife. She might care to take precautions to prevent him from

knowing. And if he, Basil the eunuch, was her confederate in those

precautions, then how very close it must draw him to her. All this

flashed through his mind as he stood, the papyrus in his hand, looking

at the old man and the boy.

“Stay here,” said he. “I will be with you again.” With a swift rustle of

his silken robes he swept from the chamber.

A few minutes had elapsed when a curtain at the end of the room was

pushed aside, and the eunuch, reappearing, held it back, doubling his

unwieldy body into a profound obeisance as he did so. Through the gap

came a small alert woman, clad in golden tissue, with a loose outer

mantle and shoes of the Imperial purple. That colour alone showed

that she could be none other than the Empress; but the dignity of her

carriage, the fierce authority of her magnificent dark eyes, and the

perfect beauty of her haughty face, all proclaimed that it could only be

that Theodora who, in spite of her lowly origin, was the most majestic

as well as the most maturely lovely of all the women in her kingdom.

Gone now were the buffoon tricks which the daughter of Acacius the

bearward had learned in the amphitheatre; gone too was the light charm

of the wanton, and what was left was the worthy mate of a great king,

the measured dignity of one who was every inch an empress.

Disregarding the two men, Theodora walked up to the boy, placed her two

white hands upon his shoulders, and looked with a long questioning

gaze, a gaze which began with hard suspicion and ended with tender

recognition, into those large lustrous eyes which were the very

reflection of her own. At first the sensitive lad was chilled by the

cold intent question of the look; but as it softened, his own spirit

responded, until suddenly, with a cry of “Mother! mother!” he cast

himself into her arms, his hands locked round her neck, his face buried

in her bosom. Carried away by the sudden natural outburst of emotion,

her own arms tightened round the lad’s figure, and she strained him

for an instant to her heart. Then, the strength of the Empress gaining

instant command over the temporary weakness of the mother, she pushed

him back from her, and waved that they should leave her to herself. The

slaves in attendance hurried the two visitors from the room. Basil the

eunuch lingered, looking down at his mistress, who had thrown herself

upon a damask couch, her lips white and her bosom heaving with the

tumult of her emotion. She glanced up and met the chancellor’s crafty

gaze, her woman’s instinct reading the threat that lurked within it.

“I am in your power,” she said. “The Emperor must never know of this.”

“I am your slave,” said the eunuch, with his ambiguous smile. “I am an

instrument in your hand. If it is your will that the Emperor should know

nothing, then who is to tell him?”

“But the monk, the boy? What are we to do?”

“There is only one way for safety,” said the eunuch.

She looked at him with horrified eyes. His spongy hands were pointing

down to the floor. There was an underground world to this beautiful

palace, a shadow that was ever close to the light, a region of dimly-lit

passages, of shadowed corners, of noiseless, tongueless slaves, of

sudden, sharp screams in the darkness. To this the eunuch was pointing.

A terrible struggle rent her breast. The beautiful boy was hers, flesh

of her flesh, bone of her bone. She knew it beyond all question or

doubt. It was her one child, and her whole heart went out to him. But

Justinian! She knew the Emperor’s strange limitations. Her career in the

past was forgotten. He had swept it all aside by special Imperial decree

published throughout the Empire, as if she were new-born through the

power of his will, and her association with his person. But they were

childless, and this sight of one which was not his own would cut him to

the quick. He could dismiss her infamous past from his mind, but if it

took the concrete shape of this beautiful child, then how could he wave

it aside as if it had never been? All her instincts and her intimate

knowledge of the man told her that even her charm, and her influence

might fail under such circumstances to save her from ruin. Her divorce

would be as easy to him as her elevation had been. She was balanced

upon a giddy pinnacle, the highest in the world, and yet the higher the

deeper the fall. Everything that earth could give was now at her feet.

Was she to risk the losing of it all--for what? For a weakness which was

unworthy of an Empress, for a foolish new-born spasm of love, for that

which had no existence within her in the morning? How could she be so

foolish as to risk losing such a substance for such a shadow?

“Leave it to me,” said the brown watchful face above her.

“Must it be--death?”

“There is no real safety outside. But if your heart is too merciful,

then by the loss of sight and speech--”

She saw in her mind the white-hot iron approaching those glorious eyes,

and she shuddered at the thought.

“No, no! Better death than that!”

“Let it be death then. You are wise, great Empress, for there only is

real safety and assurance of silence.”

“And the monk?”

“Him also.”

“But the Holy Synod? He is a tonsured priest. What would the Patriarch

do?”

“Silence his babbling tongue. Then let them do what they will. How are

we of the palace to know that this conspirator, taken with a dagger in

his sleeve, is really what he says?”

Again she shuddered and shrank down among the cushions.

“Speak not of it, think not of it,” said the eunuch. “Say only that you

leave it in my hands. Nay, then, if you cannot say it, do but nod your

head, and I take it as your signal.”

In that moment there flashed before Theodora’s mind a vision of all

her enemies, of all those who envied her rise, of all whose hatred

and contempt would rise into a clamour of delight could they see the

daughter of the bearward hurled down again into that abyss from which

she had been dragged. Her face hardened, her lips tightened, her little

hands clenched in the agony of her thought. “Do it!” she said.

In an instant, with a terrible smile, the messenger of death hurried

from the room. She groaned aloud, and buried herself yet deeper amid the

silken cushions, clutching them frantically with convulsed and twitching

hands.

The eunuch wasted no time, for this deed, once done, he became--save

for some insignificant monk in Asia Minor, whose fate would soon be

sealed--the only sharer of Theodora’s secret, and therefore the only

person who could curb and bend that most imperious nature. Hurrying into

the chamber where the visitors were waiting, he gave a sinister signal,

only too well known in those iron days. In an instant the black mutes in

attendance seized the old man and the boy, pushing them swiftly down a

passage and into a meaner portion of the palace, where the heavy smell

of luscious cooking proclaimed the neighbourhood of the kitchens. A side

corridor led to a heavily-barred iron door, and this in turn opened upon

a steep flight of stone steps, feebly illuminated by the glimmer of wall

lamps. At the head and foot stood a mute sentinel like an ebony statue,

and below, along the dusky and forbidding passages from which the cells

opened, a succession of niches in the wall were each occupied by a

similar guardian. The unfortunate visitors were dragged brutally down

a number of stone-flagged and dismal corridors until they descended

another long stair which led so deeply into the earth that the damp

feeling in the heavy air and the drip of water all round showed that

they had come down to the level of the sea. Groans and cries, like those

of sick animals, from the various grated doors which they passed showed

how many there were who spent their whole lives in this humid and

poisonous atmosphere.

At the end of this lowest passage was a door which opened into a single

large vaulted room. It was devoid of furniture, but in the centre was

a large and heavy wooden board clamped with iron. This lay upon a rude

stone parapet, engraved with inscriptions beyond the wit of the eastern

scholars, for this old well dated from a time before the Greeks founded

Byzantium, when men of Chaldea and Phoenicia built with huge unmortared

blocks, far below the level of the town of Constantine. The door was

closed, and the eunuch beckoned to the slaves that they should remove

the slab which covered the well of death. The frightened boy screamed

and clung to the abbot, who, ashy-pale and trembling, was pleading hard

to melt the heart of the ferocious eunuch.

“Surely, surely, you would not slay the innocent boy!” he cried. “What

has he done? Was it his fault that he came here? I alone--I and Deacon

Bardas--are to blame. Punish us, if some one must indeed be punished.

We are old. It is today or tomorrow with us. But he is so young and so

beautiful, with all his life before him. Oh, sir! oh, your excellency,

you would not have the heart to hurt him!”

He threw himself down and clutched at the eunuch’s knees, while the boy

sobbed piteously and cast horror-stricken eyes at the black slaves who

were tearing the wooden slab from the ancient parapet beneath. The only

answer which the chamberlain gave to the frantic pleadings of the abbot

was to take a stone which lay on the coping of the well and toss it

in. It could be heard clattering against the old, damp, mildewed walls,

until it fell with a hollow boom into some far distant subterranean

pool. Then he again motioned with his hands, and the black slaves threw

themselves upon the boy and dragged him away from his guardian. So

shrill was his clamour that no one heard the approach of the Empress.

With a swift rush she had entered the room, and her arms were round her

son.

“It shall not be! It cannot be!” she cried. “No, no, my darling! my

darling! they shall do you no hurt. I was mad to think of it--mad and

wicked to dream of it. Oh, my sweet boy! To think that your mother might

have had your blood upon her head!”

The eunuch’s brows were gathered together at this failure of his plans,

at this fresh example of feminine caprice.

“Why kill them, great lady, if it pains your gracious heart?” said he.

“With a knife and a branding iron they can be disarmed for ever.”

She paid no attention to his words. “Kiss me, Leon!” she cried. “Just

once let me feel my own child’s soft lips rest upon mine. Now again! No,

no more, or I shall weaken for what I have still to say and still to do.

Old man, you are very near a natural grave, and I cannot think from

your venerable aspect that words of falsehood would come readily to your

lips. You have indeed kept my secret all these years, have you not?”

“I have in very truth, great Empress. I swear to you by Saint

Nicephorus, patron of our house, that, save old Deacon Bardas, there is

none who knows.”

“Then let your lips still be sealed. If you have kept faith in the past,

I see no reason why you should be a babbler in the future. And you,

Leon”--she bent her wonderful eyes with a strange mixture of sternness

and of love upon the boy, “can I trust you? Will you keep a secret

which could never help you, but would be the ruin and downfall of your

mother?”

“Oh, mother, I would not hurt you! I swear that I will be silent.”

“Then I trust you both. Such provision will be made for your monastery

and for your own personal comforts as will make you bless the day you

came to my palace. Now you may go. I wish never to see you again. If

I did, you might find me in a softer mood, or in a harder, and the

one would lead to my undoing, the other to yours. But if by whisper or

rumour I have reason to think that you have failed me, then you and your

monks and your monastery will have such an end as will be a lesson for

ever to those who would break faith with their Empress.”

“I will never speak,” said the old abbot; “neither will Deacon

Bardas; neither will Leon. For all three I can answer. But there are

others--these slaves, the chancellor. We may be punished for another’s

fault.”

“Not so,” said the Empress, and her eyes were like flints. “These slaves

are voiceless; nor have they any means to tell those secrets which they

know. As to you, Basil--” She raised her white hand with the same deadly

gesture which he had himself used so short a time before. The black

slaves were on him like hounds on a stag.

“Oh, my gracious mistress, dear lady, what is this? What is this? You

cannot mean it!” he screamed, in his high, cracked voice. “Oh, what have

I done? Why should I die?”

“You have turned me against my own. You have goaded me to slay my own

son. You have intended to use my secret against me. I read it in your

eyes from the first. Cruel, murderous villain, taste the fate which

you have yourself given to so many others. This is your doom. I have

spoken.”

The old man and the boy hurried in horror from the vault. As they

glanced back they saw the erect inflexible, shimmering, gold-clad figure

of the Empress. Beyond they had a glimpse of the green-scummed lining of

the well, and of the great red open mouth of the eunuch, as he screamed

and prayed while every tug of the straining slaves brought him one step

nearer to the brink. With their hands over their ears they rushed away,

but even so they heard that last woman-like shriek, and then the heavy

plunge far down in the dark abysses of the earth.

THE RED STAR

The house of Theodosius, the famous eastern merchant, was in the best

part of Constantinople at the Sea Point which is near the Church of

Saint Demetrius. Here he would entertain in so princely a fashion that

even the Emperor Maurice had been known to come privately from the

neighbouring Bucoleon palace in order to join in the revelry. On the

night in question, however, which was the fourth of November in the

year of our Lord 630, his numerous guests had retired early, and there

remained only two intimates, both of them successful merchants like

himself, who sat with him over their wine on the marble verandah of his

house, whence on the one side they could see the lights of the shipping

in the Sea of Marmora, and on the other the beacons which marked out the

course of the Bosphorus. Immediately at their feet lay a narrow strait

of water, with the low, dark loom of the Asiatic hills beyond. A thin

haze hid the heavens, but away to the south a single great red star

burned sullenly in the darkness.

The night was cool, the light was soothing, and the three men talked

freely, letting their minds drift back into the earlier days when they

had staked their capital, and often their lives, on the ventures which

had built up their present fortunes. The host spoke of his long journeys

in North Africa, the land of the Moors; how he had travelled, keeping

the blue sea ever upon his right, until he had passed the ruins of

Carthage, and so on and ever on until a great tidal ocean beat upon a

yellow strand before him, while on the right he could see the high rock

across the waves which marked the Pillars of Hercules. His talk was

of dark-skinned bearded men, of lions, and of monstrous serpents. Then

Demetrius, the Cilician, an austere man of sixty, told how he also had

built up his mighty wealth. He spoke of a journey over the Danube and

through the country of the fierce Huns, until he and his friends had

found themselves in the mighty forest of Germany, on the shores of the

great river which is called the Elbe. His stories were of huge men,

sluggish of mind, but murderous in their cups, of sudden midnight broils

and nocturnal flights, of villages buried in dense woods, of bloody

heathen sacrifices, and of the bears and wolves who haunted the forest

paths. So the two elder men capped each other’s stories and awoke each

other’s memories, while Manuel Ducas, the young merchant of gold and

ostrich feathers, whose name was already known all over the Levant, sat

in silence and listened to their talk. At last, however, they called

upon him also for an anecdote, and leaning his cheek upon his elbow,

with his eyes fixed upon the great red star which burned in the south,

the younger man began to speak.

“It is the sight of that star which brings a story into my mind,” said

he. “I do not know its name. Old Lascaris the astronomer would tell me

if I asked, but I have no desire to know. Yet at this time of the year

I always look out for it, and I never fail to see it burning in the same

place. But it seems to me that it is redder and larger than it was.

“It was some ten years ago that I made an expedition into Abyssinia,

where I traded to such good effect that I set forth on my return with

more than a hundred camel-loads of skins, ivory, gold, spices, and other

African produce. I brought them to the sea-coast at Arsinoe, and carried

them up the Arabian Gulf in five of the small boats of the country.

Finally, I landed near Saba, which is a starting-point for caravans,

and, having assembled my camels and hired a guard of forty men from the

wandering Arabs, I set forth for Macoraba. From this point, which is

the sacred city of the idolaters of those parts, one can always join

the large caravans which go north twice a year to Jerusalem and the

sea-coast of Syria.

“Our route was a long and weary one. On our left hand was the Arabian

Gulf, lying like a pool of molten metal under the glare of day, but

changing to blood-red as the sun sank each evening behind the distant

African coast. On our right was a monstrous desert which extends, so far

as I know, across the whole of Arabia and away to the distant kingdom

of the Persians. For many days we saw no sign of life save our own long,

straggling line of laden camels with their tattered, swarthy guardians.

In these deserts the soft sand deadens the footfall of the animals, so

that their silent progress day after day through a scene which never

changes, and which is itself noiseless, becomes at last like a strange

dream. Often as I rode behind my caravan, and gazed at the grotesque

figures which bore my wares in front of me, I found it hard to believe

that it was indeed reality, and that it was I, I, Manuel Ducas, who

lived near the Theodosian Gate of Constantinople, and shouted for the

Green at the hippodrome every Sunday afternoon, who was there in so

strange a land and with such singular comrades.

“Now and then, far out at sea, we caught sight of the white triangular

sails of the boats which these people use, but as they are all pirates,

we were very glad to be safely upon shore. Once or twice, too, by the

water’s edge we saw dwarfish creatures-one could scarcely say if they

were men or monkeys--who burrow for homes among the seaweed, drink the

pools of brackish water, and eat what they can catch. These are the

fish-eaters, the Ichthyophagi, of whom old Herodotus talks--surely the

lowest of all the human race. Our Arabs shrank from them with horror,

for it is well known that, should you die in the desert, these little

people will settle on you like carrion crows, and leave not a bone

unpicked. They gibbered and croaked and waved their skinny arms at us

as we passed, knowing well that they could swim far out to sea if we

attempted to pursue them; for it is said that even the sharks turn with

disgust from their foul bodies.

“We had travelled in this way for ten days, camping every evening at the

vile wells which offered a small quantity of abominable water. It was

our habit to rise very early and to travel very late, but to halt during

the intolerable heat of the afternoon, when, for want of trees, we would

crouch in the shadow of a sandhill, or, if that were wanting, behind

our own camels and merchandise, in order to escape from the insufferable

glare of the sun. On the seventh day we were near the point where one

leaves the coast in order to strike inland to Macoraba. We had concluded

our midday halt, and were just starting once more, the sun still

being so hot that we could hardly bear it, when, looking up, I saw a

remarkable sight. Standing on a hillock to our right there was a man

about forty feet high, holding in his hand a spear which was the size

of the mast of a large ship. You look surprised, my friends, and you

can therefore imagine my feelings when I saw such a sight. But my reason

soon told me that the object in front of me was really a wandering

Arab, whose form had been enormously magnified by the strange distorting

effects which the hot air of the desert is able to cause.

“However, the actual apparition caused more alarm to my companions

than the imagined one had to me, for with a howl of dismay they shrank

together into a frightened group, all pointing and gesticulating as they

gazed at the distant figure. I then observed that the man was not alone,

but that from all the sandhills a line of turbaned heads was gazing down

upon us. The chief of the escort came running to me, and informed me

of the cause of their terror, which was that they recognized, by some

peculiarity of their headgear, that these men belonged to the tribe of

the Dilwas, the most ferocious and unscrupulous of the Bedouin, who had

evidently laid an ambuscade for us at this point with the intention of

seizing our caravan. When I thought of all my efforts in Abyssinia, of

the length of my journey and of the dangers and fatigues which I had

endured, I could not bear to think of this total disaster coming upon me

at the last instant and robbing me not only of my profits, but also of

my original outlay. It was evident, however, that the robbers were too

numerous for us to attempt to defend ourselves, and that we should be

very fortunate if we escaped with our lives. Sitting upon a packet,

therefore, I commended my soul to our blessed Saint Helena, while I

watched with despairing eyes the stealthy and menacing approach of the

Arab robbers.

“It may have been our own good fortune, or it may have been the handsome

offering of beeswax candles--four to the pound--which I had mentally

vowed to the blessed Helena, but at that instant I heard a great outcry

of joy from among my own followers. Standing up on the packet that I

might have a better view, I was overjoyed to see a long caravan--five

hundred camels at least-with a numerous armed guard coming along the

route from Macoraba. It is, I need not tell you, the custom of all

caravans to combine their forces against the robbers of the desert, and

with the aid of these newcomers we had become the stronger party. The

marauders recognized it at once, for they vanished as if their native

sands had swallowed them. Running up to the summit of a sandhill, I was

just able to catch a glimpse of a dust-cloud whirling away across the

yellow plain, with the long necks of their camels, the flutter of their

loose garments, and the gleam of their spears breaking out from the

heart of it. So vanished the marauders.

“Presently I found, however, that I had only exchanged one danger for

another. At first I had hoped that this new caravan might belong to some

Roman citizen, or at least to some Syrian Christian, but I found that

it was entirely Arab. The trading Arabs who are settled in the numerous

towns of Arabia are, of course, very much more peaceable than the

Bedouin of the wilderness, those sons of Ishmael of whom we read in Holy

Writ. But the Arab blood is covetous and lawless, so that when I saw

several hundred of them formed in a semi-circle round our camels,

looking with greedy eyes at my boxes of precious metals and my packets

of ostrich feathers, I feared the worst.

“The leader of the new caravan was a man of dignified bearing and

remarkable appearance. His age I would judge to be about forty. He

had aquiline features, a noble black beard, and eyes so luminous, so

searching, and so intense that I cannot remember in all my wanderings

to have seen any which could be compared with them. To my thanks and

salutations he returned a formal bow, and stood stroking his beard and

looking in silence at the wealth which had suddenly fallen into his

power. A murmur from his followers showed the eagerness with which they

awaited the order to tall upon the plunder, and a young ruffian, who

seemed to be on intimate terms with the leader, came to his elbow and

put the desires of his companions into words.

“‘Surely, oh Revered One,’ said he, ‘these people and their treasure

have been delivered into our hands. When we return with it to the holy

place, who of all the Koraish will fail to see the finger of God which

has led us?’

“But the leader shook his head. ‘Nay, Ali, it may not be,’ he answered.

‘This man is, as I judge, a citizen of Rome, and we may not treat him as

though he were an idolater.’

“‘But he is an unbeliever,’ cried the youth, fingering a great knife

which hung in his belt. ‘Were I to be the judge, he would lose not only

his merchandise, but his life also, if he did not accept the faith.’

“The older man smiled and shook his head. ‘Nay, Ali; you are too

hot-headed,’ said he, ‘seeing that there are not as yet three hundred

faithful in the world, our hands would indeed be full if we were to take

the lives and property of all who are not with us. Forget not, dear lad,

that charity and honesty are the very nose-ring and halter of the true

faith.’

“‘Among the faithful,’ said the ferocious youth.

“‘Nay, towards every one. It is the law of Allah. And yet’--here

his countenance darkened, and his eyes shone with a most sinister

light--‘the day may soon come when the hour of grace is past, and woe,

then, to those who have not hearkened! Then shall the sword of Allah be

drawn, and it shall not be sheathed until the harvest is reaped. First

it shall strike the idolaters on the day when my own people and kinsmen,

the unbelieving Koraish, shall be scattered, and the three hundred and

sixty idols of the Caaba thrust out upon the dungheaps of the town. Then

shall the Caaba be the home and temple of one God only who brooks no

rival on earth or in heaven.’

“The man’s followers had gathered round him, their spears in their

hands, their ardent eyes fixed upon his face, and their dark features

convulsed with such fanatic enthusiasm as showed the hold which he had

upon their love and respect.

“‘We shall be patient,’ said he; ‘but some time next year, the year

after, the day may come when the great angel Gabriel shall bear me the

message that the time of words has gone by, and that the hour of the

sword has come. We are few and weak, but if it is His will, who can

stand against us? Are you of Jewish faith, stranger?’ he asked.

“I answered that I was not.

“‘The better for you,’ he answered, with the same furious anger in his

swarthy face. ‘First shall the idolaters fall, and then the Jews, in

that they have not known those very prophets whom they had themselves

foretold. Then last will come the turn of the Christians, who follow

indeed a true Prophet, greater than Moses or Abraham, but who have

sinned in that they have confounded a creature with the Creator. To each

in turn--idolater, Jew, and Christian--the day of reckoning will come.’

“The ragamuffins behind him all shook their spears as he spoke. There

was no doubt about their earnestness, but when I looked at their

tattered dresses and simple arms, I could not help smiling to think of

their ambitious threats, and to picture what their fate would be upon

the day of battle before the battle-axes of our Imperial Guards, or the

spears of the heavy cavalry of the Armenian Themes. However, I need not

say that I was discreet enough to keep my thoughts to myself, as I had

no desire to be the first martyr in this fresh attack upon our blessed

faith.

“It was now evening, and it was decided that the two caravans should

camp together--an arrangement which was the more welcome as we were by

no means sure that we had seen the last of the marauders. I had invited

the leader of the Arabs to have supper with me, and after a long

exercise of prayer with his followers he came to join me, but my attempt

at hospitality was thrown away, for he would not touch the excellent

wine which I had unpacked for him, nor would he eat any of my dainties,

contenting himself with stale bread, dried dates, and water. After this

meal we sat alone by the smouldering fire, the magnificent arch of the

heavens above us of that deep, rich blue with those gleaming, clear-cut

stars which can only be seen in that dry desert air. Our camp lay before

us, and no sound reached our ears save the dull murmur of the voices

of our companions and the occasional shrill cry of a jackal among the

sandhills around us. Face to face I sat with this strange man, the glow

of the fire beating upon his eager and imperious features and reflecting

from his passionate eyes. It was the strangest vigil, and one which will

never pass from my recollection. I have spoken with many wise and famous

men upon my travels, but never with one who left the impression of this

one.

“And yet much of his talk was unintelligible to me, though, as you are

aware, I speak Arabian like an Arab. It rose and fell in the strangest

way. Sometimes it was the babble of a child, sometimes the incoherent

raving of a fanatic, sometimes the lofty dreams of a prophet and

philosopher. There were times when his stories of demons, of miracles,

of dreams, and of omens, were such as an old woman might tell to please

the children of an evening. There were others when, as he talked with

shining face of his converse with angels, of the intentions of the

Creator, and the end of the universe, I felt as if I were in the

company of some one more than mortal, some one who was indeed the direct

messenger of the Most High.

“There were good reasons why he should treat me with such confidence. He

saw in me a messenger to Constantinople and to the Roman Empire. Even as

Saint Paul had brought Christianity to Europe, so he hoped that I might

carry his doctrines to my native city. Alas! be the doctrines what they

may, I fear that I am not the stuff of which Pauls are made. Yet he

strove with all his heart during that long Arabian night to bring me

over to his belief. He had with him a holy book, written, as he said,

from the dictation of an angel, which he carried in tablets of bone in

the nose-bag of a camel. Some chapters of this he read me; but, though

the precepts were usually good, the language seemed wild and fanciful.

There were times when I could scarce keep my countenance as I listened

to him. He planned out his future movements, and indeed, as he spoke,

it was hard to remember that he was only the wandering leader of an Arab

caravan, and not one of the great ones of the earth.

“‘When God has given me sufficient power, which will be within a few

years,’ said he, ‘I will unite all Arabia under my banner. Then I will

spread my doctrine over Syria and Egypt. When this has been done, I will

turn to Persia, and give them the choice of the true faith or the sword.

Having taken Persia, it will be easy then to overrun Asia Minor, and so

to make our way to Constantinople.’

“I bit my lip to keep from laughing. ‘And how long will it be before

your victorious troops have reached the Bosphorus?’ I asked.

“‘Such things are in the hands of God, whose servants we are,’ said he.

‘It may be that I shall myself have passed away before these things are

accomplished, but before the days of our children are completed, all

that I have now told you will come to pass. Look at that star,’ he

added, pointing to a beautiful clear planet above our heads. ‘That is

the symbol of Christ. See how serene and peaceful it shines, like His

own teaching and the memory of His life. Now,’ he added, turning his

outstretched hand to a dusky red star upon the horizon--the very one on

which we are gazing now--‘that is my star, which tells of wrath, of war,

of a scourge upon sinners. And yet both are indeed stars, and each does

as Allah may ordain.’

“Well, that was the experience which was called to my mind by the sight

of this star tonight. Red and angry, it still broods over the south,

even as I saw it that night in the desert. Somewhere down yonder that

man is working and striving. He may be stabbed by some brother fanatic

or slain in a tribal skirmish. If so, that is the end. But if he lives,

there was that in his eyes and in his presence which tells me that

Mahomet the son of Abdallah--for that was his name--will testify in some

noteworthy fashion to the faith that is in him.”