His eloquent and stormy address was not without effect; still, the

Christians, who ascribed every form of evil to the Melchite girl, would

have been satisfied with her death and have been ready to forgive the

son of the Mukaukas this crime--supposing him to have committed it. And

it was after the judges had agreed that it was impossible to decide by

whom the letter on the tablet had been written, and there had been a

great deal of argument on both sides, that the real discussion began.

It was long before the assembly could agree, and all the while Orion sat

now looking as though he had already been condemned to a cruel death,

and now exchanging glances with Paula, while he pressed his hand to his

heart as though to keep it from bursting. He perfectly understood her,

and her magnanimity upheld him. He had indeed persuaded himself to

accept her self-sacrifice, but he was fully determined that if she

must die he would follow her to the grave. “Non dolet,”--[It does not

hurt]--Arria cried to her lover Paetus, as she thrust the knife into her

heart that she might die before him; and the words rang in his ear; but

he said to himself that Paula would very likely be pardoned, and that

then he would be free and have a whole lifetime in which to thank her.

At last--at last. The Kadi announced the verdict: It was impossible to

find Orion worthy of death, and equally so to give up all belief in his

guilt; the court therefore declared itself inadequate to pronounce

a sentence, and left it to be decided by the Khaliff or by his

representative in Egypt, Amru. The court only went so far as to rule

that the prisoner was to be kept in close confinement, so that he might

be within reach of the hand of justice, if the supreme decision should

be “guilty!”

When the Kadi said that the matter was to be referred to the Khaliff or

his representative, the Vekeel cried out:

“I--I am Omar’s vicar!” but a disapproving murmur from the judges, as

with one voice, rejected his pretensions, and at a proposal of the

Kadi it was resolved that the young man should be protected against any

arbitrary attack on the part of the Vekeel by a double guard; for many

grave accusations against Obada were already on their way to Medina. The

negro quitted the court, mad with rage, and concocting fresh indictments

against Paula with the old man.

When Paula returned to her cell old Betta thought that she must have

been pardoned; for how glad, how proud, how full of spirit she entered

it! The worst peril was diverted from her lover, and she and her love

had saved him!

She gave herself up for lost; but whatever fate might have in store for

her, life lay open before him; he would have time to prove his splendid

powers, and that he would do so, as she would have him do it, she felt

certain.

She had not ended telling her nurse of the judges’ decision, when the

warder announced the Kadi. In a minute or two he made his appearance;

she expressed her thanks, and he warmly assured her that he regarded the

disgrace of being perhaps a beguiled judge as a favor of Fortune; then

he turned the conversation on the real object of his visit.

In the letter, he began, which he had received the evening before from

his uncle Haschim, there was a great deal about her. She had quite won

the old merchant’s heart, and the enquiries for her father which he had

set on foot....

Here she interrupted him saying: “Oh, my lord; is the wish, the prayer

of my life to be granted?”

“Your father, the noble Thomas, before whom even the Moslem bows, has

been...” and then Othman went on to tell her that the hero of Damascus

had in fact retired to Sinai and had been living there as a hermit.

But she must not indulge in premature rejoicing, for the messengers had

found him ill, consumed by disease arising from his wounded lungs, and

almost at death’s door. His days were numbered....

“And I, I am a prisoner,” groaned the girl. “Held fast, helpless, robbed

of all means of flying to his arms!”

He again bid her be calm, and went on to tell her: in his soft, composed

manner, that two days since a Nabathaean had come to him and had asked

him, as the chief administrator of justice in Egypt, whether an old foe

of the Moslems, a general who had fought in the service of the emperor

and the cross against the Khaliff and the crescent, and who was now

sick, weary, and broken, might venture on Egyptian soil without fear of

being seized by the Arab authorities; and when he, Othman, had learnt

that this man was no other than Thomas, the hero of Damascus, he had

promised him his life and freedom, promised them gladly, as he felt

assured his sovereign the Khaliff would desire.

So this very day her father had reached Fostat, and the Kadi had

received him as a guest into his house. Thomas, indeed, stood on the

brink of the grave; but he was inspirited and sustained by the hope of

seeing his daughter. It had been falsely reported to him that she had

perished in the massacre at Abyla and he had already mourned her fate.

It was now his duty to fulfil the wish of a dying man, and he had

ordered the prison servants to prepare the room adjoining Paula’s cell

with furniture which was on the way from his house. The door between the

two would be opened for her.

“And I shall see him again, have him again to live with--to close his

eyes, perhaps to die with him!” cried Paula; and, seizing the good man’s

hand, she kissed it gratefully.

The Moslem’s eyes filled with tears as he bid her not to thank him,

but God the All-merciful; and before the sun went down the head of the

doomed daughter was resting on the breast of the weary hero who was so

near his end, though his unimpaired mind and tender heart rejoiced in

their reunion as fully and deeply as did his beloved and only child. A

new and unutterable joy came to Paula in the gloom of her prison; and

that same day the warder carried a letter from her to Orion, conveying

her father’s greetings; and, as he read the fervent blessing, he felt

as though an invisible hand had released him for ever from the curse his

own father had laid upon him. A wonderful glad sense of peace came over

him with power and pleasure in work, and he gave his brains and pen no

rest till morning was growing grey.

CHAPTER XXII.

Horapollo made his way home to his new quarters from the court of

justice with knit and gloomy brows. As he passed Susannah’s garden hedge

he saw a knot of people gathered together and pointing out furtively to

the handsome residence beyond.

They, like a hundred other groups he had passed, hailed him with words

of welcome, thanks, and encouragement and, as he bowed to them slightly,

his eyes followed the direction of their terrified gaze and he started;

above the great garden gates hung the black tablet; a warning that

looked like a mark of disgrace, crying out to the passer-by: “Avoid this

threshold! Here rages the destroying pestilence!”

The old man had a horror of everything that might remind him of death,

and a cold shiver ran through him. To live so near to a focus of the

disease was most alarming and dangerous! How had it invaded this, the

healthiest part of the town, which the last raging epidemic had spared?

An officer of the town-council, whom he called to him, told him that two

slaves, father and son, whose duty it was to take charge of the baths

in the widow’s house, had been first attacked, but they had been

carried quietly away in the night to the new tents for the sick; to-day,

however, the widow herself had fallen ill. To prevent the spread of the

infection, the plot of ground was now guarded on all sides.

“Be strict, be sharp; not a rat must creep out!” cried the old man as he

rode on.

He was later than he had been yesterday; supper must be ready. After a

short rest he was preparing to join the family at their meal, washing

and dressing with the help of his servant, when a lame slave-girl came

into his room and placed a tray covered with steaming dishes on the low

table by the divan.

What was the meaning of this? Before he could ask, he was informed that

for the future the women wished to eat by themselves; he would be served

in his own room.

At this a bright patch of red colored his cheeks; after brief reflection

he cried to his servant. “My ass!” and added to the girl: “Where is your

mistress?”

“In the viridarium with Gamaliel the goldsmith; but they are going to

supper immediately.”

“And without their guest? I understand!” muttered the old man, taking up

his hat and marching past the maid out of the room. In the hall he met

Gamaliel, to whom a slave-girl was handing his stick. Horapollo could

guess that the Jew had come only to warn the women against him and,

without vouchsafing him a glance, he went into the dining-room. There he

found Pulchena and Mary kneeling in tears by the side of Joanna, who was

weeping too.

He guessed for whom were these lamentations, and prompted by the wish to

prove the falsity of the accusation that charged him with having entered

the house as a spy, he spoke to the widow. She shuddered as he entered,

and she now pointed to the door with an outstretched finger; when

he nevertheless stood still and was about to make his defence, she

interrupted him loudly and urgently: “No, no, my lord! This house is

henceforth closed against you! You yourself have broken every tie that

bound us! Do not any longer disturb our peace! Go back to the place you

came from.”

At this the old man made one more attempt to speak; but the widow rose,

and saying: “Come, my children,” she hastily withdrew with the girls

into the adjoining room, and closed the door.

Horapollo was left alone on the threshold.

Old as he was, in all his life he had never suffered such an insult; but

he did not lay it to the score of those who had shown him the door, but

to the already long one of the Syrian girl; as he rode back to his

own home on his white ass, he stopped several times to speak to the

passers-by.

During the following day or two he heeded not the heat of the weather,

nor his own need of rest for his body, and quiet occupation for his

mind; morning, noon and night he was riding about the streets stirring

up the people, and setting forth in insinuating speeches that they must

perish miserably if they rejected the only means of deliverance which he

had pointed out to them. He was present at every meeting of the Senate,

and his inflammatory eloquence kept the town council on his side, and

nullified the efforts of the bishop, while he pressed them to fix the

day of the marriage of the Nile with his bride.

He knew the Egyptians and their passion for the intoxicating joys of a

splendid ceremonial. This festival: the wedding of the Bride of the Nile

to her mighty and unresting spouse, on whom the weal or woe of the

land depended, was to be as a flowery oasis in the waste of dearth

and desolation. He recalled every detail of the reminiscences of his

childhood as to the processions in Honor of Isis, and the festivals

dedicated to her and her triad; every record of his own experience

and that of former generations; all he had read in books of the great

pilgrimages and dramas of heathen Egypt--and he described it all in his

speeches, painted it in glowing colors to the Senate and the mob,

and counselled the authorities to reproduce it all with unparalleled

splendor on the occasion of this marriage.

Every man in whose veins flowed Egyptian blood listened to him

attentively, took pleasure in his projects, and was quite ready to do

his utmost to enhance the glories of this ceremonial, in which every one

was to take part either active or passive. Thousands were ruined, but

there was yet enough and to spare for this marriage feast, and the

Senate did not hesitate to raise a fresh loan.

“Destruction or Deliverance!” was the watch-word Horapollo had given

the Memphites. If everything came to ruin their hoarded talents would be

lost too; if, on the other hand, the sacrifice produced its result, if

the Nile should bless its children with renewed prosperity, what need

the town or country care for a few thousand drachmae more or less?

So the day was fixed!

Not quite two weeks after Paula’s trial, on the day of Saint Serapis

the miraculous, saving, auspicious ceremonial was to take place. And how

glowing was the picture given of the Bride’s beauty by the old man,

and by the judges and officials who had seen her! How brightly old

Horapollo’s eyes would flash with hate as he described it! The eyes of

love could not be more radiant.

All that this patrician hussy had done to aggrieve him--she should

expiate it all, and his triumph meant woe, not only to that one woman,

but to the Christian faith which he hated!

Bishop John, however, had not been idle meanwhile. Immediately after

his interference with the popular vote he had despatched a letter by

a carrier-pigeon to the patriarch in Upper Egypt, and Benjamin’s reply

would no doubt give him powers for still more vigorous measures. In

church, before the Senate, and even in the highways, he and his clergy

did their utmost to combat the atrocious project of the authorities and

the populace, but the zeal which was stirred up by old Horapollo soon

broke into brighter flames than the conservatism, orthodoxy and breadth

of view which the ecclesiastics did their utmost to fan. The wind

blew with equal force from both quarters, but on one side it blew on

smoldering fuel, and on the other on overflowing and flaming stores.

Famine and despair had undermined faith, and weakened discipline;

even the mightiest weapons of the Church--Cursing and blessing--were

powerless. A floating beam was held out to sinking men, and they would

no longer wait for the life-boat that was approaching to rescue them,

with strong hands at the oars and a trusty pilot at the helm.

Horapollo went no more to the widow’s home. A few hours after she had

shown him the door, his slaves came and fetched away the various things

he had carried there with him. His body servant at the same time brought

a large sealed phial and a letter to Dame Joanna, as follows:

“It is wrong to judge a man without hearing his defence. This you have

done; but I owe you no grudge. Philippus, on his return, will perhaps

pick up the ends of the tie and join again what you have this day cut.

I send you a portion of the remedy he left with me at parting to use

against the plague in case of need. Its good effects have been tested

within the last few days. May the sickness which has fallen on your

neighbors, spare you and yours.”

Joanna was much pleased with this letter but, when she had read it

aloud, little Mary exclaimed:

“If any one should fall ill he shall not take a drop of that mixture! I

tell you he only wants to poison us!”

Joanna, however, maintained that the old man was not bad hearted in

spite of his unaccountable hatred of Paula; and Pulcheria declared that

it must be so, if only because Philip esteemed him so highly. If only

he were here, everything would have been different and have turned out

well.

Mary remained with the mother and daughter till it grew dark; her

chatter always led them back to Paula; and when, in the afternoon, the

Nabathaean messenger came to them, and told them from their captive

friend that he had brought her father home to her, the women once more

began to hope, and Mary could allow herself to give free expression

to her fond love before she quitted them, without exciting their

suspicions.

At length she said she must go to her lessons with Eudoxia; she had

a hard task before her and they must think of her and wish her good

success. She threw her arms first round the widow’s neck and then round

Pulcheria’s; and, as the tears would start to her eyes, she asked them

if she were not indeed a silly childish thing--but they were to think of

her all the same and never to forget her.

She met the governess in her own room; Eudoxia cut off the fine, soft

curls, shedding her first tears over them; and those tears flowed faster

as she placed round Mary’s neck a little reliquary containing a lock

from the sheep-skin of St. John the Baptist, which had belonged to her

own mother. It was very dear and sacred to her, and she had never

before parted from it, but now it was to protect the child and bring her

happiness--great happiness.

Had it brought her such happiness?--Not much, in truth; and yet she

believed in the saving and beneficent influence of the relic.

At last Mary stood before her with short hair and in a boy’s dress; and

what a sweet and lovely little fellow it was; Eudoxia could not weary

of looking at him. But Mary was too pretty, too frail for a boy; and

Eudoxia advised her to pull her broad travelling hat low over her eyes

as soon as she came in sight of men, or else to darken her color.

Gamaliel, who had in fact come to warn Dame Joanna against Horapollo,

had kept them informed of the progress of this day’s sitting, and

Paula’s conduct to save her lover had increased Mary’s admiration for

her. When she should confront Amru she could answer him on every head,

so she felt equipped at all points as she stole through the garden with

Eudoxia, and down to the quay.

When she had passed the gateway she once more kissed her hand to the

house she loved and its inmates; then, pointing with a sigh to the

neighboring garden, she said:

“Poor Katharina! she is a prisoner now.--Do you know, Eudoxia, I am

still very fond of her, and when I think that she may take the plague,

and die but no!--Tell Mother Joanna and Pulcheria to be kind to her.

To-morrow, after breakfast, give them my letter; and this evening, if

they get anxious, you can only quiet them by saying you know all and

that it is of no use to fret about me. You will set it all right and not

allow them to grieve.”

As they passed a Jacobite chapel that stood open, she begged Eudoxia to

wait for her and fell on her knees before the crucifix. In a few minutes

she came out again, bright and invigorated and, as they passed the last

houses in the town, she exclaimed:

“Is it not wicked, Eudoxia? I am leaving those I love dearly, very

dearly, and yet I feel as glad as a bird escaping from its cage. Good

Heaven! Only to think of the ride by night through the desert and over

the hills, a swift beast under me, and over my head no ceiling but the

blue sky and countless stars! Onward and still onward to a glorious

end, left entirely to myself and entrusted with an important task like a

grownup person! Is it not splendid? And by God’s help--and if I find the

governor and succeed in touching his heart.... Now, confess, Eudoxia,

can there be a happier girl in the whole wide world?”

They found the Masdakite at Nesptah’s inn with some capital dromedaries

and the necessary drivers and attendants. The Greek governess gave her

pupil much good advice, and added her “maternal” blessing with her whole

heart. Rustem lifted the child on to the dromedary, carefully settling

her in the saddle, and the little caravan set out. Mary waved repeated

adieux to her old governess and newly-found friend, and Eudoxia was

still gazing after her long after she had vanished in the darkness.

Then she made her way home, at first weeping silently with bowed head,

but afterwards tearless, upright, and with a confident step. She was

in unusually good spirits, her heart beat higher than it had done for

years; she felt uplifted by the sense of relief from a burthensome

duty, and of freedom to act independently on the dictates of her own

intelligence. She would assert herself, she would show the others that

she had acted rightly; and when at supper-time Mary was missing, and

had not returned even at bed-time, there was much to do to soothe and

comfort them, and much misconstruction to endure; but she took it all

patiently, and it was a consolation to her to bear such annoyance for

her little favorite.

Next morning, when she had delivered Mary’s letter to Dame Joanna,

her love and endurance were put to still severer proof; indeed, the

meek-tempered widow allowed herself to be carried away to such an

outbreak as hitherto would undoubtedly have led Eudoxia to request her

dismissal, with sharp recrimination; but she took it all calmly.

It was not till noon-day--when the bishop made his appearance to

carry the child off to the convent, and was highly wrathful at Mary’s

disappearance, threatening the widow, and declaring that he would search

the whole country through for the little girl and find her at last,

that Eudoxia felt that the moment of her triumph had come. She quietly

allowed the bishop to depart, and then only did she send her last and

best shaft at Joanna by informing her that she had in fact encouraged

the child in her exploit on purpose to save her from the cloister. Her

newly-found motherly feeling made her eloquent, and with a result that

she had almost ceased to hope for: the warm-hearted little woman, who

had hurt her with such cruel words, threw her arms round Eudoxia’s tall,

meagre figure, put up her face to kiss her, called her a brave, clever

girl, and begged her forgiveness for all she had said and done the day

before.

So, when the Greek went to bed, she felt as if her life had turned

backwards and she had grown more like the happy young creature she had

once been with her sisters in her parents’ house.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Paula now understood what hung over her. It is Bishop John who had told

her, as gently as he could, and with every assurance that he still clung

to the hope that he could stop the hideous heathen abomination; but

even without this she would certainly have known what was impending,

for large crowds of people gathered every day under the prisonwalls, and

loud cries reached her, demanding to see the “Bride of the Nile.”

Now and again shouts of “Hail!” came up to her; but when the demented

creatures had shrieked themselves hoarse, and in vain, they would abuse

her vilely. The cry for the “Bride” never ceased from morning till

night, and the head warder of the prison was glad that the bishop had

relieved him of the task of explaining to Paula the meaning of the

fateful word, whose significance she had repeatedly asked him.

At first this fresh and terrible peril had startled and shaken her; but

she did her utmost to cling to the hope held out by the bishop so as

to appear calm, and as far as possible cheerful, in her sick father’s

presence. And in this she succeeded so long as it was day; but at night

she was a prey to agonizing terrors. Then, in fancy she saw herself

surrounded by a raging mob, dragged to the river and cast into a watery

grave before a thousand eyes. Then, prayer was of no avail, nor any

resolve or effort; not the tender messages that constantly reached her

from Orion, nor the songs he would sing for her in the brief moments of

leisure he allowed himself; not the bishop’s words of comfort, nor the

visits of those she loved. The warder would admit her friends as often

as he was able; and among those who found their way to her cell were the

Senator Justinus and his wife.

By great good fortune Martina had quitted Susannah’s house as soon

as the two slaves had fallen ill and she had heard that the physician

pronounced them to be sickening of the plague. She had returned to her

rooms in the inn kept by Sostratus, but her nephew Narses had remained

with Katharina and her mother. He was indeed intending to follow her

with Heliodora; but, by the time they were ready to set out, Susannah,

too, had fallen a victim to the pestilence and the authorities had

forbidden all egress from her house.

Heliodora might have succeeded in leaving in time, alone; but she would

not abandon her unfortunate brother-in-law; for he never felt easy but

in her presence, would allow no one else to wait on him, and would take

neither food nor drink unless they were offered him by her. Besides

this, the cavalry officer, once so stalwart, had in his weakness become

pathetically like her lost husband, and she knew that Narses had been

the first to love her, and that it was only for his brother’s sake that

he had concealed his passion. Her motherly instincts found an outlet

in the care of the half-crushed, but not hopelessly lost man; and the

desire to drag him back to life kept her busy day and night, and made

her regard everything else as trivial and of secondary importance. Her

life had once more found a purpose; her efforts were for an attainable

end, and she devoted herself to him body and soul.

Her uncle had told her that Orion was bound to Paula by a supreme

passion.--This had been a painful blow, but the Syrian girl had

impressed her; she looked up to her, and it soothed her wounded

self-esteem to reflect that she had lost her lover to no inferior woman.

Though her longing for him still surged up in many a silent hour, she

felt it an injustice, a stint of love to her invalid charge.

So far as Katharina was concerned, next to her mother, Heliodora was the

object of her deepest anxiety. The least word of complaint from either

terrified her; and if Susannah sank on the divan exhausted by the heat,

or Heliodora had a headache after watching through the night by the sick

man, the girl would turn pale, her heart would beat painfully, she would

paint them in fancy stricken by the plague, with burning brows and the

horrible, fatal spots on their foreheads and cheeks; and whenever these

alarms pressed on the young criminal she felt the ominous weight on the

top of her head where the dead bishop’s hand had rested.

The senator’s wife had so completely changed in her demeanor to the

water-wagtail, since Paula’s imprisonment, that to Katharina she was

as a living reproach, so she had no regret at seeing the worthy pair

depart. But scarcely had they left when misfortune took their place as

an unbidden guest.

The slave whose duty it was to heat the baths had reserved a portion of

the infected garments that had been given to him to burn; his son had

helped him, and Katharina’s nurse, the mother of her foster-brother

Anubis, had come into direct contact with her immediately after her

return from the soothsayer’s and from the bishop’s. All three had caught

the disease. They had all three been removed to the hospital tents--the

slave and the nurse as corpses.

But had the fearful infection been taken away with them? If not, it

would be the turn next of those whom she herself had pushed into the

arms of the fell monster: First Heliodora, and then her mother! And

she, rightfully, ought to have fallen before them; and if the pestilence

should seize her and death should drag her down into the grave it would

be showing her mercy. She was still so young, and yet she hated life. It

had nothing in store for her but humiliation and disappointment, arrows

which, sent from the prison, pierced her to the heart, and a torturing

fear which never gave her any peace, day or night.

When the physician came to transport the sick to the hospital in the

desert, he mentioned incidentally that the judges had condemned Paula

to death, and that the populace and senate, in spite of the new bishop’s

prohibition, had determined to cast her into the river in accordance

with an ancient custom. Orion’s fate was not to be decided till the

following day; but it would hardly be to his advantage in the eyes of

his Jacobite judges, that his betrothed was this Syrian Melchite.

At this Katharina was forced to support herself against her mother’s

arm-chair to save herself from sinking on her knees; with tingling

cheeks she questioned the leech till he lost all patience and turned

away much annoyed at such excessive feminine curiosity.

Yes! “The other” was his betrothed before all the world; but only to

die! The blood rushed through her veins in a hot tide at the thought;

she could have laughed aloud and fallen on the neck of every one she

met. What she felt was hideous; malignant spite possessed her; but it

gave her rapture--delicious rapture--a flower of hell, but with splendid

petals and intoxicating perfume. But its splendor dazzled her and its

fragrance presently sickened her. Sheer horror of herself came over

her, and yet she could have shouted with joy each time that the thought

flashed through her brain: “The other must die!”

Her mother feared that her daughter, too, was about to fall ill,

her eyes glowed so strangely and she was so restless and nervously

excitable.

Since Heliodora had taken the overwhelming news of Orion’s betrothal

to Paula with astonishing though sorrowful calmness, to the hot-blooded

girl she was nothing, nobody, utterly unworthy of her notice.

To spite her she had committed a crime as like murder as one snake is

like another, and imperilled her own mother’s life! It was enough to

drive her to despair, to make her scourge herself with rods!

When Susannah kissed her at parting for the night she complained of a

slight sore throat and of her lips, which she fancied must be swollen.

Katharina detained her, questioned her with a trembling voice, put the

lamp close to her, and held her breath while she examined her face, her

neck, and her arms for the dreadful spots. But none were to be seen and

her mother laughed at her terrors, called her a dutiful, anxious child,

and warned her not to be too full of fears, as they were supposed to

invite the disease.

All night the girl could not sleep. Her malicious triumph was past;

nothing but painful thoughts and grewsome images haunted her while

awake, and pursued her more persistently when she dozed. By dawn of day

her alarm for her mother was so great that she sprang out of bed and

went to her room; Susannah was sleeping so soundly that she did not even

hear her. Much relieved Katharina crept back to bed; but in the morning

the worst had happened: Susannah could no longer leave her bed; she was

feverish, and on her lips, the very lips which had kissed her child’s

infected hair, there were indeed, between her nose and mouth, the first

terrible, unmistakable spots.

The leech came and confirmed the fact.--The house was closed and barred.

The physician and Susannah, who was still in full possession of her

senses, wished and insisted that Katharina should withdraw to the

gardener’s house, but she refused with defiant obstinacy, saying she

would rather die with her mother than leave her.

Quite beside herself she threw herself on the sick woman, and kissed

the spots on her mouth to divert the poison into her own blood; but the

physician angrily pulled her away, and the sufferer reproved her with

tears in her eyes which spoke her fervent affection.

She was now allowed to nurse her mother. Two nuns came to her

assistance, and said, not only to the rich widow but behind her back,

that they had never seen so devoted and loving a daughter. Even Bishop

John, who did not shrink from entering the houses of the sick to give

them spiritual consolation, praised Katharina’s conduct; and he, who had

hitherto regarded the water-wagtail as no more than a bright, restless

child, treated her with respect, talked to her as to a grown-up

person, and answered her questions--which for the most part referred to

Paula--gravely and fully.

The prelate, who was full of admiration for Thomas’ daughter, told

Katharina how, to save her lover, she had taken a crime upon herself

which deprived her of every claim to mercy. The Syrian girl was only a

Melchite, but to take another’s guilt, out of love, was treading indeed

in the footsteps of Christ, if ever anything was. At this Katharina

shrugged her shoulders, as though to say: “Do you think so much of that?

Could not I gladly have done the same?”

The priest saw this and admonished her kindly to be on her guard against

spiritual pride, though she had indeed earned the right to believe

herself capable of the sternest devotion, and did not cease to set an

example of filial and Christian love.

He departed; and Katharina, to whom every word in praise of her

behavior to her mother, whom her sin had brought to her death-bed, was a

torturing mockery, felt that she had deceived one more worthy soul. She

did not, to be sure, deserve to be charged with spiritual pride; for

in this silent chamber, where death stood on the threshold, she thought

over all the horrible things she had done, and told herself repeatedly

that she was the chief and most vile of sinners.

Many times she felt impelled to confide in another soul, to invite a

pitying eye to behold and share her inward suffering.

To the bishop above all, the most venerable priest she knew, she

would most readily have confessed everything and have submitted to any

penance, however severe, at his hands, but shame held her back; and even

more did another more urgent consideration. The prelate, she knew, would

demand of her that she should forsake her old life, root out from her

soul the old feelings and desires, and begin a new existence; but for

this the time had not yet come: her love was still an indispensable

condition of life, and her hatred was even more dear to her. When

Paula’s terrible doom should indeed have overtaken her, and Katharina,

her heart full of those old feelings, had gloated over it; when she

should have been able to prove to Orion that her love was no less great

and strong and self-sacrificing than that of Thomas’ daughter; when she

should have compelled him--as she would and must--to acknowledge that

he had cruelly misprized her and sinned against her; then, and not till

then, would she make peace with herself, with the Church, and with her

Saviour. Nay, if need be, she would take the veil and mourn away

the rest of her young life as a penitent, in a convent or a solitary

rock-cell. But now--when Paula, his betrothed, had done this great thing

for him--to perish now, with her love unseen, unknown, uncared for,

perhaps forgotten by him, to retire into herself and vanish from his

ken--that was too much for human nature! Sooner would she be lost

forever; body and soul in everlasting perdition, a prey to Satan and

hell--in which she believed as firmly as in her own existence.

So she went on nursing her mother, saw the red spots spread over the

sick woman’s whole body--watched the fever that increased from day

to day, from hour to hour; listened with a mixture of horror and

gladness--at which she herself shuddered, though she fed her heart on

it--to the reports of the preparations for the sacrifice of the Bride of

the Nile, and to all the bishop could tell her of Paula, and her dying

father, and Orion. She trembled for little Mary, who had disappeared

from the neighboring garden, till she heard that the child had fled to

escape the cloister; each day she learnt that Heliodora, who had

moved to the gardener’s house with her invalid, had as yet escaped the

pestilence; while in the prayers, which even now she never failed to

offer up morning and evening, she implored the Almighty and her patron

saints to rescue the young widow, to save her from causing the death of

her own mother, and to forgive her for having indirectly caused that of

worthy old Rufinus, who had always been so good to her, and of so many

innocent creatures by her treachery.

Thus the terrible days and nights of anguish passed by; and the captives

whom the girl’s sins had brought to prison were happier than she, in

spite of the doom that threatened them.

The fate of his betrothed tortured Orion more than a hundred aching

wounds. Paula’s terrible end was fast approaching, and his brain burned

at the mere thought. Now, as he was told by the warder, by the bishop,

and by Justinus, the day after to-morrow was fixed for the bridal of his

betrothed. In two days the bride, decked by base and mocking hands for

an atrocious and accursed farce, would be wreathed and wedded, not to

him, the bridegroom whom she loved, but to the Nile--the insensible,

death-dealing element. He rushed up and down his cell like a madman, and

tore his lute-strings when he tried to soothe his soul with music; but

then a calm, well-intentioned voice would come from the adjoining room,

exhorting him not to lose hope, to trust in God, not to forget his duty

and the task before him. And Orion would control himself resolutely,

pull himself together, and throw himself into his work again.

Day and night were alike to him. The senator had provided him with a

lamp and oil. When he was wearied out, he allowed himself no longer

sleep on his hard couch than human nature imperatively demanded; and as

soon as he had shaken it off he again became absorbed in maps and lists,

plied his pen, thought, sketched, calculated, and reflected. Then, if

a doubt arose in his mind or he could not trust his own memory and

judgment, he knocked at the wall, and his shrewd and experienced friend

was at all times ready to help him to the best of his knowledge and

opinion. The senator went to Arsinoe for him, to gain information as

to the seaboard from the archives preserved there; and so the work went

forward, approaching its end, strengthening and raising his sinking

spirit, bringing him the pleasures of success, and enabling him not

unfrequently to forget for hours that which otherwise might have brought

the bravest to despair.

The warder, the senator or his worthy wife, Dame Joanna or Eudoxia--who

twice had the pleasure of accompanying her--each time they visited him

had some message or note to carry to Paula, telling her how far his work

had progressed; and to her it was a consolation and heartfelt joy to be

able to follow him in his labors. And many a token of his love, esteem,

and admiration gave her courage, when even her brave heart began to

quail.

Ah! It was not alone her terror of a horrible death that tortured her

soul. Her father, whom she considered it her greatest joy in life to

have found again, was fading beyond all hope under her loving hands.

His poor wounded lungs refused its service. It was with great difficulty

that he could swallow a few drops of wine and mouthfuls of food; and

in these last days his clear mind had lain as it were under a

shroud--perhaps it was happier so, as she told herself and as her

friends said to comfort her.

He, too, had heard the cries of: “Hail to the Bride of the Nile!”

“Bring out the Bride!”

“Away with the Bride of the Nile!” Though he had no suspicion of their

meaning, they had haunted his thoughts incessantly during the last few

days; and the terrible, strange words had seemed to charm his fancy,

for to Paula’s distress he would murmur them to himself tenderly or

thoughtfully as the case might be.

Many times the idea occurred to her that she might put an end to her

life before the worst should befall, before she became a spectacle for a

whole nation, to be jeered at and made a delightful and exciting show to

rouse their cruelty or their compassion. But dared she do it? Dared she

defy the Most High, the Lord in whom she put her trust, into whose hand

she commended herself in a thousand dumb but fervent prayers.

No. To the very last she would trust and hope. And wonderful to say!

Each time she had reached the very limits of her powers of endurance,

feeling she could certainly bear no more and must succumb, something

came to her to revive her faith or her courage: a message would be

brought her from Orion, or Dame Joanna or Pulcheria came to see her; the

bishop sought an interview, or her father’s mind rallied and he could

speak to her in beautiful and stimulating words. Often the warder would

announce the senator and his wife, and their vigorous and healthy minds

always hit on the very thing she needed. Martina, particularly, with her

subtle motherly instinct, always understood whatever was agitating her;

and once she showed her a letter from Heliodora, in which she spoke of

the calmness she had won through nursing their dear invalid, and said

how thankful she was to see the reward of her care and toil. Narses was

already quite another man, and she could know no higher task than that

of reconciling the hapless man to life, nay, of making it dear to him

again. She no longer thought of Orion but as she might of a beautiful

song she once had heard in a delightful hour.

Thus time passed, even for the imprisoned maiden, till only two nights

remained before St. Serapis’ day when the fearful marriage was to be

solemnized.

It was evening when the bishop came to visit Paula. He regarded it as

his duty to tell her that the execution of her sentence was fixed for

the day after to-morrow. He should hope and believe till the last, but

his own power over the misguided mob was gone from him. In any case, and

if the worst should befall, he would be at her side to protect her by

the dignity of his office. He had come now, so as to give her time to

prepare her self in every respect. The care of her noble father till his

last hour on earth he would take upon himself as a dear and sacred duty.

Though she had believed herself surely prepared long since for the

worst, this news fell on her like a thunderbolt. What lay before her

seemed so monstrous, so unexampled, that it was impossible that she ever

could look forward to it firmly and calmly.

For a long time she could not help clinging desperately to her faithful

Betta, and it was only by degrees that she so far recovered herself as

to be able to speak to the bishop, and thank him. He, however, could

only lament his inability to earn her fullest gratitude, for the

patriarch’s reply to his complaint of those who promised rescue to the

people by the instrumentality of a heathen abomination--a document on

which he had founded his highest hopes for her--had had a different

result from that which he had expected. The patriarch, to be sure,

condemned the abominable sacrifice, but he did it in a way which lacked

the force necessary to terrify and discourage the misled mob. However,

he would try what effect it might have on the people, and a number of

scribes were at work to make copies of it in the course of the night.

These would be sent to the Senators next morning, posted up in the

market-place and public buildings, and distributed to the people; but he

feared all this would have no effect.

“Then help me to prepare for death,” said Paula gloomily. “You are not

a priest of my confession, but no church has a more worthy minister. If

you can absolve me in the name of your Redeemer, mine will pardon me. We

look at Him, it is true, with different eyes, but He is the Saviour of

us both, nevertheless.” A contradictory reply struggled for utterance in

the strict Jacobite’s mind, but at such a moment he felt he must repress

it; he only answered:

“Speak, daughter, I am listening.”

And she poured forth all her soul, as though he had been a priest of her

own creed, and his eyes grew moist as he heard this confession of a

pure and loving heart, yearning for all that was highest and best.

He promised her the mercy of the Redeemer, and when he had ended with

“Amen,” and blessed her, he looked down at the ground for some minutes

and presently said, “Follow me, Child.”

“Whither?” she asked in surprise; for she thought that her last hour

had already come, and that he was about to lead her away to the place

of execution, or to her watery, ever-flowing tomb; but he smiled as he

replied: “No, child. To-day I have only the pleasing duty of blessing

your betrothal before God; if only you will promise not to estrange your

husband from the faith of his fathers--for what will not a man sacrifice

to win the love of a woman.--You promise? Then I will take you to your

Orion.”

He rapped on the door of the cell, and when the warder had opened it

he whispered his orders; Paula followed him silently and with blushing

cheeks, and in a few minutes she was clasped to her lover’s breast

while, for the first time--and perhaps the last--their lips met in a

kiss.

The prelate gave them a few minutes together; when he had blessed

them both and solemnized their betrothal, he led her back to her cell.

However, she had hardly time to thank him out of the fulness of her

overflowing heart, when a town-watchman came to fetch him to see

Susannah; her last hour was at hand, if not already past. John at once

went with the messenger, and Paula drew a deep breath as she saw him

depart. Then she threw herself on to her nurse’s shoulders, crying:

“Now, come what may! Nothing can divide us; not even death!”

CHAPTER XXIV.

The bishop was too late. He found the widow Susannah a corpse;

standing at the head of the bed was little Katharina, as pale as death,

speechless, tearless, utterly annihilated. He kindly tried to cheer her,

and to speak words of comfort; but she pushed him away, tore herself

from him, and before he could stop her, she had fled out of the room.

Poor child! He had seen many a loving daughter mourning for her mother,

but never such grief as this. Here, thought he, were two human souls all

in all to each other, and hence this overwhelming sorrow.

Katharina had escaped to her own room, had thrown herself on the

couch--cowering so close that no one entering the room would have taken

the undistinguishable heap for a human being, a grown up, passionately

suffering girl.

It was very hot, and yet a cold shiver ran through her slender frame.

Was she now attacked by the pestilence? No; it would be too merciful of

Fate to take such pity on her woes.

The mother was dead, dragged to the grave by her own daughter. The

disease had first shown itself on her lips; and how many times had the

physician expressed his surprise at the plague having broken out in this

healthy quarter of the town, and in a house kept so scrupulously clean.

She knew at whose bidding the avenging angel had entered there, and

whose criminal guile had trifled with him. The words “murdered your

mother” haunted her, and she remembered the law of the ancients which

refused to prescribe a punishment for the killing of parents, because

they considered such a monstrous deed impossible.

A scornful smile curled her lip. Laws! Principles! Was there one that

she had not defied? She had contemned God, meddled with magic, borne

false witness, committed murder--and as to the one law with promise,

which, if Philippus was right, was exactly the same in the code of her

forefathers as on the tables of Moses, how had she kept that? Her own

mother was no more, and by her act!

All through this frightful retrospect she had never ceased to shiver

and, as this was becoming unendurable, she took to walking up and down

and seeking excuses for her sinful doings: It was not her mother, but

Heliodora whom she had wished to kill; why had malicious Fate...?

Here she was interrupted, for the young widow, who had heard the sad

news, sought her out to comfort her and offer her services. She spoke

to the girl with real affection; but her sweet, low tones reminded

Katharina of that evening after the old bishop’s death; and when

Heliodora put out her arm to draw her to her, she shrank from her,

begging her in a dry, hoarse voice, not to touch her for her clothes

were infected. She wanted no comfort; all she asked was to be left

alone--quite alone--nothing more. The words were hard and unkind, and as

the door closed on the young woman Katharina’s eyes glared after her.

Why had this doom passed over Heliodora’s head and demanded the

sacrifice of one whose loss she could never cease to mourn?

This brought her mother vividly to her mind. She flew back to her

death-bed and fell on her knees--but even there she could not bear to

stay long, so she wandered into the garden and visited every spot

where she and her mother had been together. But there were such strange

crackings in the shrubs, and the trees and bushes cast such uncanny

shadows that she hailed daybreak as a deliverance.

She was on her way back to the house when her foster-brother Anubis came

limping to meet her. Poor fellow! She had made a cripple of him, too,

and his mother had died through her fault.

The lad spoke to her, giving expression to his sympathy, and she

accepted it; but she said such strange things, and answered him so

utterly at random, that he began to fear that grief had turned her

brain. She went on to ask him point-blank how much money she now had,

and as he happened to know approximately, he could tell her; she clasped

her hands, for how could any one human being who was not a king possess

such enormous wealth! Finally she enquired whether he knew how a will

should be drawn up, and that, too, he answered affirmatively.

She made him describe it all, and then he added that the signature must

be made valid by those of two witnesses; but she, he added, was too

young to be thinking of making her will.

“Why?” said she. “Is Paula much older than I am?”

“And the day after to-morrow,” the boy went on, “she is to be cast into

the Nile. All the people call her the Bride of the Nile.”

At this that hideous, malignant smile again curled her lips, but she

hastily suppressed it and walked straight on into the house. At the door

he timidly asked her whether he might once more look on his mistress;

but she was obliged to forbid it for fear of infection. However, he

proudly replied: “What you do not fear, has no terrors for me,” and he

followed her to the side of the bed where the corpse now lay washed and

in fine array; and when he saw Katharina kiss the dead woman’s hand he,

too, as soon as she looked away, pressed his lips on the place hers had

touched. Then he sat down by the bed and remained there till she sent

him away.

Before noon the bishop arrived to perform the last rites. He found the

body surrounded by beautiful flowers. Katharina had been out in the

garden again and had cut all the rarest and finest; and though she had

allowed the gardener to carry the basket for her, she would not have him

help her in gathering them. The feeling that she was doing something for

her mother had been a comfort to her; still, by day everything about her

seemed even more intolerable than by night. Everything looked so large,

so coarse, so insistent, so menacing, and reminded her at every step

of some injustice or some deed of which she was ashamed. Every eye, she

fancied, must see through her; and now and then it seemed as though the

pillars of the great banqueting-hall, where her mother still lay, were

tottering, and the ceiling about to fall in and crush her.

She answered the bishop’s questions absently and often quite at random,

and the old man supposed that she was stunned by her great sorrow; so to

give her thoughts a new direction he began telling her about Paula, and

believing that Katharina was fond of her, he confided to her that he

had taken Paula, the day before, to Orion’s cell, and consecrated their

betrothal.

At this her face was convulsed in a manner that alarmed the bishop; a

fearful tumult raged in her soul, her bosom rose and fell spasmodically,

and all she could utter was the question: “But they will sacrifice her

all the same?”

The bishop thought he understood. She was horror stricken by the idea

of the sudden, cruel end that hung over the young bride, and he replied

sadly; “I shall not be able to restrain the wretches; still, no means

shall remain untried. The patriarch’s rescript, condemning this mad

crime, shall be made public to-day, and I will read and expound it at

the Curia, and try to give it keener emphasis.--Would you like to read

it?”

As she eagerly assented, the prelate signed to the acolyte who had

waited on him with the holy vessels, and he produced from a packet a

written sheet which he handed to Katharina. As soon as she was alone

she read the patriarch’s epistle; at first superficially, then more

carefully, and at last in deep attention and growing interest, stirred

by it to strange thoughts, till at length her eyes flashed and her

breath came fast, as though this paper referred to herself, and could

seal her fate for life.

When the bearers came in to fetch away the body she was still sitting

there, gazing as if spell-bound at the papyrus; but she sprang up, shook

herself, and then bid farewell to the cold rigid form of the mother on

whose warm heart she had so often rested, and to whom she had been the

dearest thing on earth--and even then the solace of tears was denied

her.

She no longer suffered the deep remorse that had tormented her; for she

felt now that her intercourse with her last mother had not been put an

end to by death; that after a short parting they would meet again--soon

perhaps, perhaps even to-morrow--meet for a fulness of speech, an

outpouring of the heart, a revelation of all the past more open and

unreserved than could ever be between mortal beings, even between mother

and daughter. And when she who was sleeping there, blind, deaf, and

senseless, should awake again, up there, with eyes clearer than those of

men below, and the ears and senses of a spiritual being to see and hear

and judge all she had known and done, all she had felt and made others

feel--then, she told herself, her mother might perhaps blame her and

punish her more than she had ever done on earth, but she would also

clasp her more closely to her heart and comfort her more earnestly.

She whispered gently in her ear as if she were still alive: “Wait

awhile, only wait: I shall come soon and tell you everything!”

And then she kissed her so passionately and recklessly that the nuns

were shocked and dragged her away, ordering the bearers to close the

coffin. They obeyed, and when the wooden lid fell over the sleeping

form, shutting it in with a slam, and hiding it from the girl’s sight,

the barrier gave way which had hitherto restrained her tears and she

began to weep bitterly; now, too, the feeling that she had indeed lost

her mother took complete possession of her--the sense of being an orphan

and alone, quite alone in the wide world.

She saw and heard no more of what took place round the beloved dead; for

when she took her hands from her face streaming with tears, the house

of the rich widow no longer sheltered its mistress; her remains had been

borne away to the nearest mortuary. The law forbade its being any longer

kept within doors, but did not allow of its being buried till night

fell. The child might not follow her own mother to the cemetery.

With a drooping head Katharina withdrew to her room and there stood

looking out into the garden. It all was hers now; she was mistress of it

all and of much besides, as free and unfettered to command as hitherto

she had been over the birds, her little dog, or the jewels that lay on

her toilet-table. She could make hundreds happy with a word, a wave of

the hand--but not herself. She had never felt so grown-up, independent,

womanly, nay powerful, and at the same time so unutterably wretched and

helpless as she felt in this hour.

What did she care for all these vanities? They could not suffice to

check one sigh of disappointed yearning.

She had parted from her mother with a promise; the fervent longing that

filled her soul was never still; and now the patriarch’s letter had

given her a hint as to how she might fulfil the one and silence the

other. She hastily took the document up again, and read it through once

more.

Its instructions were precise to stop the proceedings of the misguided

Memphites with stern promptitude. It explained that the death of the

Christ Jesus, who shed His blood to redeem the world, had satisfied

the need for a human victim. Throughout the wide realms which the Cross

overshadowed with blessing human sacrifice must therefore be accounted

a useless and accursed abomination. It went on to point out how the

heathen had devised their gods in the image of weak, sinful, earthly

beings, and chosen victims in accordance with this idea. “But our God,”

it said, “is as high above men as the Spirit is above the flesh, and the

sacrifice He demands is not of the flesh, but of the spirit. Will He

not turn away in wrath and sorrow from the blinded Christians of Memphis

who, in their straits, feel and are about to act like the cruel and

foolish heathen? They take for their victim a heretic and a stranger,

deeming that that will diminish the abomination in the eyes of the Lord;

but it moves Him to loathing all the same, for no human blood may stain

the pure and sacred altars of our mild faith, which gives life and not

death.

“Ask your blind and misguided flock, my brother: Can the Father of

Love feel joy at the sight of one of His children, even an erring

one, suffocated in the waters to the honor of the Most High, while

struggling, and cursing her executioners?

“If, indeed, there were a pure maiden, possessed with the blessed

intoxication of the love of God, who was ready to follow the example

of Him who redeemed man by His death, to fling herself into the waters

while she cried to Heaven with her dying breath: ‘Take me and my

innocence as an offering, O Lord! Release my people from their

extremity!’--that would be a victim indeed; and perchance, the Lord

might say: ‘I will accept it; but the will alone is enough. No child of

mine may cast away the life that I have lent her as the most sacred and

precious of gifts.’”

The letter ended with pious exhortations to the community.

Then a maiden who should voluntarily sacrifice herself in the river to

save the people in their need would be a victim pleasing in the sight

of the Lord--so said the Man of God, through whose mouth the Most High

spoke. And this opinion, this hint, was to Katharina like a distaff from

which she spun a lengthening thread to warp to the loom and weave from

it a tangible tissue.

She would be the maiden whom the patriarch had imagined--the real,

true Bride of the Nile, inspired to cast off her young life to save her

people in their need. In this there was expiation such as Heaven might

accept; this would release her from the burthen of life that weighed

upon her, and would reunite her to her mother; in this way she could

show her lover and the bishop and all the world the immensity of her

self-sacrifice, which was in nothing behind that of “the other”--the

much-vaunted daughter of Thomas! She would do the great deed before

Paula’s eyes, in sight of all the people. But Orion must know whose

image she bore in her heart and for whose sake she made that leap from

blooming life into a watery grave.

Oh! it was wonderful, splendid! Would she not thus compel him inevitably

to remember her whenever he should think of Paula? Yes, she would force

him to allow her image to dwell in his soul, inseparable from that

“other;” and would not such an unparalleled act add such height to

her figure, that it would be equal to that of her Syrian rival in the

estimation of all men--even in his?

She now began to long for the supreme moment. Her vain little heart

laughed in anticipation of the delight of being seen, praised and

admired by all. Tomorrow she, her little self, would tower above all the

world; and the more she felt the oppressive heat of the scorching day,

the more delicious it seemed to look forward to finding rest from the

torments of life in the cool element.

She saw no difficulties in the way of her achievement; she was mistress

now, and her slaves and servants must obey her orders. At the same time

she remembered, too, to protect her large possessions from falling into

the hands of relations for whom she did not care; with a firm hand she

drew up a will in which she bequeathed part of her fortune to her uncle

Chrysippus, small portions to her foster-brother Anubis, and to Rufinus’

widow, to whom she owed reparation for great wrong; then the larger

half, and she owned many millions, she bequeathed to her dear friend

Orion, whom she freely forgave, and who, she hoped, would see that even

in the little “water-wagtail” there had been room for some greatness.

She begged him also to take her house, since she had not been altogether

guiltless of the destruction of the home of his fathers.

The condition she attached to this bequest showed the same keen, alert

spirit that had guided her through life.

She knew that the patriarch’s indignation might be fatal to the young

man, so to serve as a mediator, and at the same time to ensure for

herself the prayers of the Church, which she desired, she enjoined Orion

to bestow the greater part of his inheritance on the patriarch for the

Church and for benevolent purposes. But not at once, not for ten

years, and in instalments of which Orion himself was to determine the

proportion. In the event of his dying within the next three years all

his claims were to be transferred to her uncle Chrysippus. She added a

request to the Church, to which she belonged with her whole heart, that

every year on her saint’s day and her mother’s they should be prayed for

in every church in the land. A chapel was to be erected on the scene

of her self-immolation, and if the patriarch thought her worthy of the

honor, it was to bear the name of the Chapel of Susannah and Katharina.

She gave all her slaves their freedom and devised legacies to all the

officials of her household.

As she sat for long hours of serious meditation, drawing up this last

will, she smiled frequently with satisfaction. Then she copied it out

fair, and finally called the physician and all the free servants in the

house to witness her signature.

Though no one had suspected the “water-wagtail” of such forethought,

it was no matter of surprise that the young heiress, shut up in the

plague-stricken house, should dispose of her estates, and before

night-fall the physician brought Alexander, the chief of the Senate,

to the garden gate by her desire, and there they spoke to each other

without opening it. He was an old friend of her father’s, and since the

death of the Mukaukas, had been her guardian; he now agreed to stand as

her Kyrios, and as such he ratified her will and the signature, though

she would not allow him to read the document.

Finally she went to the slaves quarters, from whence a few more

sufferers had been removed to the Necropolis, and desired her boatman to

get the holiday barge in readiness early in the morning, as she purposed

seeing the ceremonial from the river. She gave particular orders to the

gardener as to how it was to be decorated, and what flowers he was to

cut for her personal adornment.

She went to bed far less excited than she had been the night before,

and before she had ended her evening prayer, slumber overtook her weary

brain.

When she awoke at sunrise, the large and splendid boat, which her father

had had built at great cost in Alexandria, was manned and ready to put

out. No one interfered to prevent her embarking with Anubis and a few

female servants, for all the guards who had surrounded the house till

yesterday had been withdrawn to do duty at the great ceremonial of

the marriage and sacrifice, since a popular tumult was not unlikely to

arise.

CHAPTER XXV.

A great number of persons had collected during the night on the quay

near Nesptah’s inn. The crowd was increasing every minute, and in spite

of the intense heat, not a Memphite could bear to stop within doors,

Men, women and children were flocking to the scene of the festival; they

came in thousands from the neighboring towns, hamlets and villages,

to witness the unprecedented sacrifice which was to put an end to

the misery of the land. Who had ever heard of such a marriage? What a

privilege, what a happiness, to be so fortunate as to see it!

The senate had not been idle and had done all in their power to surround

it with magnificence and to enable as many as possible to enjoy

the pageant, which had been planned with a lavish hand and liberal

munificence.

Round the cove by Nesptah’s inn a semi-circular wooden stand had been

constructed, on which thousands found seats or standing-room. Stalls

furnished with hangings were erected in the middle of the tribune for

the authorities and their families as well as for the leading Arab

officials, and arm-chairs were placed in them for the Vekeel, for the

Kadi, for the head of the senate, for old Horapollo and also for the

Christian priesthood, though it was well known that they would not be

present at the ceremony.

The lower classes, who could not afford to pay for admission to these

seats, had established themselves on the banks of the river; wandering

dealers had followed them, and wherever the crowd was densest they had

displayed their wares--light refreshments or solid food--on two-wheeled

trucks, or on little carpets spread on the ground. In the tribune itself

the cries of the water-sellers were incessant as they offered filtered

Nile water and fruit syrups for sale.

The parched tops of the palms, where turtle doves, lapwings and

sparrow-hawks were wont to perch, were crowded with the vagabond boys of

the town, who whiled away the time by pulling the withered and diseased

dates from the great clumps and flinging them down on the bystanders

below, till the guard took aim at them with their arrows and stopped the

game.

The centre of attraction to all eyes was a wooden platform or pontoon,

built far out into the stream; from thence the bride was to be flung

into the watery embrace of the expectant bridegroom. Here the masters

of the ceremonies had put forth their best efforts, and it was

magnificently decorated with hangings and handkerchiefs, palm-leaves and

flags; with heavy garlands of tamarisk and willow, mingled with bright

blossoms of the lotos and mallow, lilies and roses; with devices

emblematic of the province, and other gilt ornaments. Only the furthest

end of it was unadorned and without even a railing, that there might be

nothing to intercept the view of the “marriage.”

Three hours before noon none were absent but those whose places were

secured, and ere long curiosity brought them also to the spot. The

town-watch found it required all their efforts to keep the front ranks

of the people from being pushed into the river by those behind; indeed,

this accident could not be everywhere guarded against; but, thanks to

the shallow state of the water, no one was the worse. But the cries of

those who were in danger nevertheless drowned the music of the bands

performing on raised platforms and the shouts of applause which rose

on all sides to hail Horapollo--who was here, there, everywhere on his

white ass as brisk as a lad--or to greet some leading official.

And now and again loud cries of anguish were heard, or the

closely-packed throng parted with exclamations of horror. A citizen had

had a sunstroke, or had been seized by the plague. Then the fugitives

dragged others away with them; screaming mothers trying to save their

little ones from the crush on one hand and the contagion on the other,

oversetting one dealer’s truck, smashing the eggs and cakes of another.

A whole party were pushed into a deep but half-dried up water-course;

the guardians of the peace flourished their staves, yelling and making

their victims yell in their efforts to restore order--but all this

hardly affected the vast body of spectators, and suddenly peace reigned,

the confusion subsided, the shrieks were silenced. Those who were doomed

might fall or die, be crushed or plague-stricken. Trumpet calls and

singing were heard approaching from the town: the procession, the Bridal

procession was coming! Not a man but would have perished rather than be

deprived of seeing a single act of this stupendous drama.

Those Arabs--what fools they were! Besides the Vekeel only three of

their magnates were present, and those men whom no one knew. Even the

Kadi was nowhere to be seen; and he must have forbidden the Moslem women

to come, for not a single veiled beauty of the harem was visible. Not

one Egyptian woman would have failed to appear if the plague had not

kept so many imprisoned in their houses. Such a thing would never

be seen again; this day’s doings would be a tale to tell to future

great-grandchildren!

The music and singing came nearer and nearer; and it did not indeed

sound as if it were escorting a hapless creature to a fearful end. Blast

after blast rang out from the trumpets, filling the air with festive

defiance; cheerful bridal songs came nearer and nearer to the listeners,

the shrill chorus of boys and maidens sounding above the deeper and

stronger chant of youths and men of all ages; flutes piped a gay

invitation to gladness; the dull roar of drums muttered like the distant

waves in time to a march, broken by the clang of cymbals and the tinkle

of bells hung around tambourines held high by girlish hands which

struck, rattled and waved them above their flowing curls; lute players

discoursed sweet music on the strings; and as this vast tide of mingled

tones came closer, behind it there was still more music and more song.

To the ear the procession seemed endless, and the eye soon confirmed the

impression.

All were listening, gazing, watching to see the Bride and her escort.

Every eye seemed compelled to turn in the same direction; and presently

there came: first the trumpeters on spirited horses, and these ranged

themselves on each side of the road by the shore leading to the scene of

the “marriage.” In front of them the choir of women took their stand

to the left and, on the right, the men who had marched after them.

All alike were arrayed in light sea-green garments, and loaded with

lotos-flowers. The women’s hair, twined with white blossoms, flowed over

their shoulders; the men carried bunches of papyrus and reeds;--they

represented river gods that had risen from the stream.

Then came boys and bearded men, in white robes, with panther-skins on

their shoulders, as the heathen priests had been wont to wear them. They

were headed by two old men with long white beards, one holding a silver

cup and the other a golden one, ready to fling them into the waves as

a first offering, according to the practise of their forefathers, as

Horapollo had described and ordered it. These went on to the pontoon,

to its farthest end, and took their place on one side of the platform

whence the Bride was to be cast into the river. Behind them came a large

troop of flute-players and drummers, followed by fifty maidens holding

tambourines, and fifty men all dressed and carrying emblems as followers

of Dionysus, or Osiris-Bacchus, who had been worshipped here in the time

of the Romans; with these came the drunken Silenus, goathoofed Satyrs

and Pan, with his reed-pipes, all riding grey asses strangely bedaubed

with yellow.

Then followed giraffes, elephants, ostriches, antelopes, gazelles; even

some tamed lions and panthers were led past the wondering crowd; for

this had been done in the famous procession in honor of the second

Ptolemy, described by Callixenus of Rhodes.

Next came a large car drawn by twelve black horses, and on it a

symbolical group of Famine and Pestilence overthrown; they were

surrounded by shrieking black children, with pointed wings on their

shoulders and horns on their foreheads, bound to stakes to represent the

hosts of hell--a performance which they tried to make at once ghastly

and droll.

On another car the Goddess of the Inundation was to be seen. She sat

amid sheaves, fruits, and garlands of vine; while round her were groups

of children with apples and corn, pomegranates and bunches of dates,

wine-jars and cups in their hands.

Presently there appeared in a large shell, as though lounging in a bath,

the goddess of health; she was drawn by eight snow-white horses, and

held in one hand a golden goblet and in the other a caduceus. After her

came the river-god Nile, the bridegroom of the marriage, studied from

the famous statue carried away from Alexandria by the Romans: a

splendid and mighty bearded man, resting against an urn. Sixteen naked

children--the sixteen ells that the river must rise for its overflow to

bless the land--played round his herculean form, and a bridal wreath of

lotos-flowers crowned his flowing locks. This car, which was decorated

with crocodiles, sheaves, dates, grapes, and shells, was hailed with

shouts of enthusiasm; it was escorted by old men in the costume of the

heathen priesthood.

Behind this came more music and singers, with a troop of young men

and maidens led by lute-players singing. These too were dressed as the

genie, and nymphs of the river and were the groomsmen and bridesmaids in

attendance on the betrothed.

The longer the procession lasted and the nearer the looked-for victim

approached, the more eagerly attent were the gazing multitude.

When this group of youths and maidens had gone by, there was hardly a

sound to be heard in the tribune and among the crowd. No one felt the

fierce heat of the sun, no one heeded the thirst that parched every

tongue; all eyes were bent in one direction; only the black Vekeel,

whose colossal form towered up where he stood, occasionally sent a

sinister and anxious glance towards the town. He expected to see smoke

rising from the quarter near the prison, and suddenly his lips parted

and he displayed his dazzlingly white teeth in a scornful laugh. That

which he looked for had come to pass; the little grey cloud which he

discerned grew blacker, and then, in the heart of it, rose a crimson

glow which did not take its color from the sun. But of all those

thousands he was the only one who looked behind him and observed it.

The bride’s attendants had by this time taken their station on the

pontoon; here came another band of youths with panther skins on their

shoulders; and now--at last, at last--a car came swaying along, drawn

by eight coal-black oxen dressed with green ostrich-feathers and

water-plants.

The car was shaded by a tall canopy, supported by four poles, against

which leaned four men in the robes of the heathen priesthood; this

awning was lavishly decorated with wreaths of lotos and reeds, and

fenced about with papyrus, bulrushes, tall grasses and blossoming

river-weeds. Beneath it sat the queen of the festival--the Bride of the

Nile.

Robed in white and closely veiled, she was quite motionless. Her long,

thick brown hair fell over her shoulders; at her feet lay a wreath, and

rare rose-colored lotos-flowers were strewn on the car.

The bishop had been sitting at her side, the first Christian priest,

certainly, of all the swarms of monks and ecclesiastics in Memphis, who

had ever appeared at such a scene of heathen abomination. He was now

standing, looking down at the crowd with a deeply knit brow and menacing

gaze. What good had come of the penitential sermons in all the

churches, of his and his vicar’s warnings and threats? In spite of all

remonstrance he had mounted the car with the condemned victim, after

administering the last consolations to her soul. It might cost him his

life, but he would keep his promise.

In her hand Paula held two roses: one was Orion’s last greeting

delivered by Martina; the other Pulcheria had brought her early in the

morning. Yesterday, in a lucid moment, her dying father had given her

his fondest blessing, little knowing what hung over her; to-day he had

not come to himself, and had neither noticed nor returned her parting

kiss. Quite unconscious, he had been moved from the prison out of doors

and to the house of Rufinus. Dame Joanna would not forego the privilege

of giving him a resting-place and taking care of him till the end.

Orion’s last note was placed in Paula’s hands just before she set out;

it informed her that his task was now successfully ended. He had been

told that it was to-morrow, and not to-day, that the hideous act would

be accomplished; and it was a consolation to her to know that he was

spared the agony of following her in fancy in her fearful progress.

She had allowed the women who came to clothe her in bridal array to

perform their task; among them was Emau, the chief warder’s wife,

and her overflowing compassion had done Paula good. But even in the

prison-yard she had felt it unendurable to exhibit herself decked in her

bridal wreaths to the gaping multitude; she had torn them from her and

thrown them on the ground.

How long--how interminably long--had the road to the river appeared; but

she had never raised her eyes to look at the curious crowd, never ceased

lifting up her heart in prayer; and when her proud blood boiled, or

despair had almost taken possession of her, she had grasped the bishop’s

hand and he had never wearied of encouraging her and exhorting her to

cling to love and faith, and not even yet abandon all hope.

Thus they at last reached the pontoon at whose further end life would

begin for her in another world. The shouts of the crowd were as loud,

as triumphant, as expectant as ever; music and singing mingled with the

roar of thousands of spectators; she allowed herself to be lifted from

the car as though she were stunned, and followed the young men and

maidens who formed the bridal train, and in alternate choruses sang the

finest nuptial song of Sappho the fair Lesbian.

The bishop now made an attempt to address the people, but he was soon

reduced to silence. So he once more joined Paula, and hand in hand they

went on to the pier.

All she had in her of strength, pride, and heroic courage she summoned

to her aid to enable her to walk these last few paces with her head

erect, and without tottering; she had gone half way along the wooden

structure, with a mien as lofty and majestic as though she were marching

to command the obedience of the mob, when hoofs came thundering after

her on the boards.

Old Horapollo, on his white ass, had overtaken her and stopped her on

her road. Breathless, bathed in perspiration, scornful and triumphant,

he desired her to remove her veil, and ordered the bishop to leave her

and give up his place to the man who represented Father Nile--a gigantic

farrier who followed him, somewhat embarrassed in his costume, but very

ready to perform his part to the end.

The priest and Paula, however, refused to obey. At this the old man tore

the veil from her face and signed to the Nile-God; he stepped forward

and assumed his rights, after bowing respectfully to the prelate--who

was forced to make way--and then led the Bride to the end of the

platform. Here the two elders who had headed the procession in honor

of Bacchus, cast the gold cups as offerings into the river, and then a

lawyer, in the costume of a heathen priest, proceeded to expound, in a

well-set speech, the meaning of this betrothal and sacrifice. He took

Paula’s hand to place in that of the farrier, who made ready to cast her

into the river for which he stood proxy.

But an obstacle intervened before he could do so. A large and splendid

barge had drawn up close to the platform, and shouts were heard from

the tribune and from the mob which had till now looked on in breathless

suspense and profound silence:

“Susannah’s barge!”

“Look at the Nile, look at the river!”

“It is the water-wagtail--Philammon’s rich heiress!”

“A pretty sight!”

“Another Bride--a second Bride!”

And the gaze of the multitude was now, as one eye, fixed on Katharina.

Susannah’s handsome barge had been passing up and down near the platform

for the last hour, and the guards on duty had several times desired that

it was to be kept at a distance from the scene of the “marriage;” but

in vain; and they in their little boats were not strong enough to take

active measures against the larger vessel manned by fifty rowers. It

had now steered quite close to the pontoon, and the splendid gilding

and carving, the tall deck-house supported on silver pillars, and the

crimson embroidered sails would have been a gorgeous feast for the eye,

but that the black flag floating from the mast gave it a melancholy and

gloomy aspect.

Within the cabin Katharina had made her waiting-women dress her in

white and deck her with white flowers-myrtle, roses and lotos; but she

vouchsafed no reply to their anxious enquiries.

The maid who fastened the flowers on her bosom could feel her mistress’s

heart beating under her hand, and the lotos-blossoms which drooped from

her shoulder rose and fell as though they were already rocking on the

waves of the Nile. Her lips, too, never ceased moving, and her cheeks

were as pale as death.

“What is she going to do?” her attendants asked each other.

Her mother dead only yesterday, and now she chose to be present at this

ceremonial, desiring the steersman to run close to the platform and keep

near to it, where all the world could see her. But she evidently wished

to display herself to the people in all her finery and be admired, for

she presently went up on the roof of the deck-house. And she looked

lovely, as lovely as a guileless angel, as she mounted the steps

with childlike diffidence-timidly, but with wide open eyes, as though

something grand was awaiting her there--something she had long yearned

for with her whole heart.

Anubis had to help her up the last steps, for her knees gave way; but

once at the top she sent him down again to remain below with the others,

as she wished to be alone. The lad was accustomed to obey; and Katharina

now stepped on a seat close to the side of the boat, turned to Paula,

whom she was now rapidly approaching, and held out to her and the bishop

two tall lily-stems covered with splendid blossoms. At the very moment

when the farrier was measuring by eye the distance between the platform

and the barge, and had judged it impossible to cast the Bride into the

stream till the vessel had moved on, Katharina cried out:

“Reverend Father John--and all of you! Take me, me and not the daughter

of Thomas! It is I, not she--I am the true Bride of the Nile. Of my own

free will--hear me, John!--of my own free will I am ready to give my

life for my hapless land and the misery of the people, and the patriarch

said that such a sacrifice as mine would be acceptable to Heaven.

Farewell! Pray for me!--Lord have mercy upon me! Mother, dear Mother, I

am coming to you!”

Then she called to the steersman: “Put out from the platform!” and as

soon as a few strokes of the oars had carried the barge into the deeper

channel she stepped nimbly on to the edge of the bulwark, dropped the

lilies into the river, and then with a smile, her head gracefully bent

on one side and her skirt modestly held round her, she slipped into the

water.

The waves closed over her; but she was a good swimmer and could not help

coming once to the surface. Her expression was that of a bather enjoying

the cool fresh water that laved and gurgled round her. Perhaps the

wild storm of applause, the mingled cries of horror, compassion and

thanksgiving that went up from the assembled thousands once more reached

her ear--but she dived head foremost to rise no more.

The “River-God,” a good-hearted man, who in his daily life could never

have let a fellow-creature drown under his very eyes, forgot his part,

released Paula, and sprang after Katharina, as did Anubis and a few

boatmen; but they could not reach her, and the boy, who found swimming

difficult with his crippled leg followed the girl to whom his young

heart was wholly devoted to a watery death.

Her speech had reached no ears but those to whom it was addressed; but

before she was lost in the waters Bishop John turned to the people, took

Paula’s hand--and she felt free once more when her terrible bridegroom

had deserted her--and holding up the Crucifix which hung at his girdle

he shouted loudly:

“Behold the desires of our holy Father Benjamin, by whom God himself

speaks to you, have met with fulfilment. A pure and noble Jacobite

maiden, of her own free and beautiful impulse, has sacrificed herself

after the example of the Saviour, for the sufferings of her nation,

before your eyes. This one,” and he drew Paula to him, “this one is

free; the Nile has had his victim!”

But almost before he had done speaking--before the people could proclaim

their vote--Horapollo had rushed at him and interrupted him. He had

dismounted from his ass during the earlier part of the proceedings, and,

not to let his prey escape, he now came between Paula and the bishop,

grasped her dress and cried to the chorus of youths:

“Come on--at once! One of you take the part of the Nile-God--into the

river with the Bride!” The bishop however forced himself between the

speaker and the girl to protect her. But Horapollo flew into a fury and

rushed at the prelate to snatch away the image of the Saviour, while

John exclaimed in a voice of ominous thunder: “Anathema!”

This word of fear roused the Christian blood in the Egyptians; the

sacrilegious attempt stirred the zeal which they had proved in many a

struggle, and which had only been kept under by an effort during these

times of trouble: the leader of the choir dragged the old man away and

took part with the bishop. Others followed his example, while several,

on the contrary, sided with old Horapollo who clung tightly to Paula,

preferring to die himself rather than allow her to escape his hatred and

vengeance.

At this moment the clang of bells was heard from the town with a

terrific and unaccountable uproar, and a young man was seen forcing his

way through the throng, a naked sword in his hand, and in spite of his

torn garments, his wild hair, and his blackened face, he was at once

recognized as Orion. Every one made way for him, for he rushed on like a

madman; as he reached the pontoon and took in at a glance what was

going forward there, he sprang past the mummers with mighty leaps to the

platform, pushing aside sundry groups of fighting champions; and before

the principal actors were aware of his presence, he had snatched Paula

from the old man’s clutch, and called her by her name. She sank on his

breast half-fainting with terror, surprise and unspeakable rapture, and

he clasped her to him with his left arm, while the flashing sword in his

right hand and his flaming looks warned all bystanders that it would

be as wise to attack a lioness defending her young as to defy this

desperate man, who was prepared to face death with the woman he loved.

His push had sent Horapollo tottering to some distance; and when the

old man had pulled himself together, to throw himself once more on

his victim, he found himself the centre of a fight. A wild troop had

followed Orion and beset the struggling mob, whom they presently drove

over the edge of the pontoon into the river, and with them Horapollo.

Most of these saved themselves by swimming, but the old man sank, and

nothing more was seen of him but his clenched fist, which rose in menace

for some minutes above the waters.

Meanwhile the Vekeel had become aware of what was going forward on the

platform; he leaped in fury from his seat to restore order, intending

to seize Orion whom he fancied he had seen, or, if necessary to cut him

down with his own hand.

But a vast multitude stopped his progress, for a fearful horde of

released prisoners with Orion at their head had come rushing down to the

scene of the festival yelling: “Fire! the prison is burning, the town is

in flames!”

Every one who could run fled at once to Memphis to save his house, his

possessions and those dear to him. Like a flock of doves scared by

the scream of a hawk, like autumn leaves driven before the wind, the

multitude dispersed. They hurried back to the town in wild tumult and

inextricable confusion, jumping into the festal cars, cutting loose the

horses from that of the goddess of health, to mount them and ride home,

overthrowing everything that stood in their way and dragging back the

Vekeel who was striving, sword in hand, to get to the pontoon.

The smoke and flames of the city were rising every moment, and acted

like magic in spurring the flying crowd to reach their homes in time.

But, before Obada had succeeded in his efforts, the pushing throng were

once more brought to a standstill; horses were heard approaching. Dense

masses of dust hid them and their riders; but it was certainly an armed

troop that was coming clattering onwards, for flashing gleams were

seen here and there through the dull clouds that shrouded them, the

reflection of the sun’s bright rays from polished and glittering

helmets, breast-plates, and sabres.

Now they were visible even where the Vekeel was. Foremost rode the Kadi,

and just as he came up with Obada he sprang from the saddle on to the

wooden structure, and with a loud cry of: “Free-saved!” in which all

the joy of his heart found utterance, he stretched out both his hands to

Paula, who was advancing towards the shore clinging closely to Orion.

Othman did not observe the Vekeel, who was but a few paces distant.

The words “Free!” “Saved!” from the supreme judge, gave the negro to

understand that a pardon must have arrived for his youthful foe, and

this of course implied the condemnation of his own proceedings. All his

hopes were wrecked, for this meant that Omar still ruled and that the

attempt on the Khaliff’s life had failed. Dismissal, punishment or death

must be his doom, when Amru should return. Still, he would not succumb

till the instrument of his ruin had preceded him to the grave. Taking

the Kadi by surprise he thrust him aside, and prepared to deal a fearful

blow that should fell Orion before he himself should fall. But the

captain of the body-guard, who had followed Othman, had watched his

movements: Swift as lightning he rose in his saddle and swung his

cimeter, which cut deep into the Vekeel’s neck. With a hideous curse

Obada let his arm drop, and fell struggling for his last breath at the

feet of the newly united couple.

The populace afterwards declared that his blood was not red like that of

other men, but black like his skin and his soul. They had good cause to

curse his memory, for his villainy had reduced more than half Memphis to

ashes that day, and brought the city to beggary.

He had hired two venial wretches to set fire to the prison while the

festival was proceeding, with a view to suffocating Orion in his cell;

but the gang were detected and all the prisoners were released in time.

Thus the young man had been able to reach the scene of the ceremonial at

the head of his fellow-captives. The fire, however, had gained the upper

hand in the deserted town. It had spread from house to house along the

sun-scorched streets, and next day nothing remained of the city of the

Pyramids but the road along the shore, and a few wretched alleys.

The ancient Capital of the Pharaohs was reduced to a village, and the

houseless residents moved across to the eastern bank, to people as

Moslems the newly-founded town of Fostat, or sought a home on Christian

territory.

Among the houses that had escaped was that of Rufinus, and thither the

Kadi escorted Orion and Paula. It was to serve as their prison till the

return of Amru, and there they spent delightful days in the society of

their friends, and there Thomas was so happy as to clasp his children to

his heart once more, and bless them before he died.

A few minutes before the Kadi had reached the scene of the festival two

carrier pigeons had arrived, each bearing the Arab governor’s commands

that the sacrifice of Paula was at any rate to be stopped, and her life

spared till his return. He also reserved the right of deciding Orion’s

fate.

Mary and Rustem had met Amru at Berenice, on the Egyptian coast of

the Red Sea. This decaying sea-port was connected with Medina by a

pigeon-post, and in reply to his viceroy’s enquiry with reference to the

victim about to be offered by the despairing Egyptians to the Nile, Omar

had sent a reply which had been immediately forwarded to the Kadi.

The burning of their town had brought new and fearful suffering on the

stricken Memphites, and notwithstanding Katharina’s death the Nile still

did not rise. The Kadi therefore once more summoned a meeting of all

the inhabitants from both sides of the river, three days after the

interrupted marriage-festival. It was held under the palms by Nesptah’s

inn, and there he proclaimed to the multitude, Moslem and Christian,

by means of the Arab herald and Egyptian interpreter, what the Khaliff

commanded him to declare, namely: that God, the One, the All-merciful,

scorned human sacrifice. In this firm conviction he, Omar, would beseech

Allah the Compassionate, and he sent a letter which was to be cast into

the river in his name.

And this letter was addressed:

“To the River of Egypt.” And its contents were as follows:

“If thou, O River, flowest of thyself, then swell not; but if it be God,

the One, the Compassionate, that maketh thee to flow, then we entreat

the All-merciful that he will bid thee rise!”

“That which is not of God,” wrote Amru in the letter which enclosed

Omar’s, “what shall it profit men? But all things created are by Him,

and so is your noble river. The Most High will hearken to Omar’s prayers

and ours, and I therefore command that all of you--Moslems, Christians,

and Jews, shall gather together in the Mosque on the other side of the

Nile which I have built to the glory of the All-merciful, and that you

there lift up your souls in one great common prayer, to the end that God

may hear you and take pity on your sufferings!”

And the Kadi bid all the people to go across the Nile and they obeyed

his bidding. Bishop John called on his clergy and marched at their head,

leading the Christians; the priests and elders of the Jews led their

people next to the Jacobites; and side by side with these the Moslems

gathered in the magnificent pillared sanctuary of Amru, where the three

congregations of different creeds lifted up, their hearts and eyes and

voices to the pitying Father in Heaven.

And this very Mosque of Amru has more than once been the scene of the

same sublime spectacle; even within the lifetime and before the eyes

of the narrator of this tale have Moslems, Christians, and Jews united

there in one pious prayer, which must have been acceptable indeed in the

ears of the Lord.

Not long after the letter from the Khaliff Omar had been cast into the

Nile, and the prayer of the united assembly had gone up to Heaven from

the Mosque of Armu, a pigeon came in announcing a sudden rise in the

waters at the cataracts; and after some still anxious but hopeful days

of patience, the Nile swelled higher and yet higher, overflowed its

banks, and gave the laborer a right to look forward to a rich harvest;

and then, when a heavy storm of rain had laid the choking dust, the

plague, too, disappeared.

Just when the river was beginning to rise perceptibly Amru returned;

bringing in his train little Mary and Rustem, Philippus the leech and

Haschim, who had joined the governor’s caravan at Djidda.

In the course of their journey they received news of all that had been

happening at Memphis, and when the travellers were approaching their

last night-quarters, and the Pyramids were already in sight, the

governor said to little Mary:

“What do you say little one? Do we not owe the Memphites the treat of a

splendid marriage festival?”

“No, my lord, two,” replied the child.

“How is that?” laughed Amru, “You are too young and do not count yet,

and I know no other maiden in Memphis whose wedding I should care to

provide for.”

“But there is a man towards whom you feel most kindly, and who lives as

lonely as a recluse. I should like to see him married, and at the same

time as Orion and Paula. I mean our good friend Philippus.”

“The physician? And is he still unwed?” asked Amru in surprise; for no

Moslem of the leech’s age and position could remain unmarried without

exposing himself to the contempt of his fellow-believers. “He is a

widower then!”

“No,” replied Mary. “He has never yet found a wife to suit him; but I

know one created on purpose for him by God himself!”

“You little Khatbe!”--[A professional go-between]--cried the governor.

“Well, settle the matter, and it shall be no fault of mine if the second

wedding lacks magnificence.”

“And we will have a third!” interrupted the child, clapping her hands

and laughing. “My worthy escort Rustem....

“The colossus! Why, child, to you all things are possible! Have you

found a wife for him too?”

“No, he found Mandane for himself without my help.”

“It is the same thing!” cried the governor jovially. “I will provide for

her. But that must satisfy you, or else all those unbelievers whom we

are settling here will drive us Moslem Arabs out of the land.”

The great man had often held such discourse as this with the child since

she had entered his tent at Berenice, there to lay before him the case

of the couple she loved, and for whom she had taken on herself great

risk and hardship; she had pleaded so eloquently, so kindly, and with

such fervent and pathetic words, that Amru had at once made up his

mind to grant her everything that lay in his power. Mary had done him a

service, too, by bringing him the information she could give him, for

it enabled him to avert perils which threatened the interests of the

Crescent, and also to save the children of two men he honored--the son

of the Mukaukas, and the daughter of Thomas--from imminent danger.

He found, on his return home, that the Vekeel’s crimes far exceeded his

worst fears. Obada’s proceedings had begun to undermine that respect for

Arab rule and Moslem justice which Amru had done his utmost to secure.

It was only by a miracle that Orion had escaped his plots, for he had

three times sent assassins to the prison, and it was entirely owing to

the watchful care of pretty Emau’s husband that the youth had been able

to save himself in the fire. Obada had done all this to clear out of his

path the hated man whose statements and impeachments might ruin him.

The wretch had met a less ignominious death than his judges would

have granted him. The wealth found hoarded in his dwelling was sent

to Medina; and even Orion was forced to see the vast sums of which the

Negro had plundered his treasury, appropriated by the Arabs. The Arab

governor thought it only right to inflict this penalty for the share

he had taken in the rescue of the nuns; and the young man submitted

willingly to a punishment which restored him and his bride to freedom,

and enabled Amru to apply a larger proportion of the revenues of his

native land for its own benefit.

The Khaliff Omar, however, never received these moneys, which

constituted far more than half of Orion’s patrimony. The Prophet’s

truest friend, the wise and powerful ruler, fell by the assassin’s

hand, and the world now learnt that the Vekeel had been one of the chief

conspirators and had been spurred on to the rashest extremes by his

confidence of success.

Amru received the son of the Mukaukas as a father might; after examining

the result of his labors he found it far superior to his own efforts in

the same direction, and he charged Orion to carry out the new division

of the country, which he confirmed excepting in a few details.

“Perform your duty and do your utmost in the future to go on as you have

begun!” cried Amru; and the young man replied:

“In this bitter and yet happy interval I have become clear on many

points.”

“And may I ask on what?” asked the governor. “I would gladly hear.”

“I have discovered, my lord,” replied Orion, “that there is no such

thing as happiness or unhappiness in the sense men give to the words.

Life appears to each of us as we ourselves paint it. Hard times which

come into our lives from outside are often no more than a brief night

from which a brighter day presently dawns--or the stab of a surgeon’s

knife, which makes us sounder than before. What men call grief is, times

without number, a path to greater ease; whereas the ordinary happiness

of mankind flows, swiftly as running waters, down from that delightful

sense of ease. Like a ship, which, when her rudder is lost, is more

likely to ride out the storm on the high seas than near the sheltering

coast, so a man who has lost himself may easily recover himself and

his true happiness in the wildest turmoil of life, but rarely and with

difficulty if his existence runs calmly on. All other blessings are

comparatively worthless if we are not upheld by the consciousness of

fulfilling the task of life in faithful earnest, and of cheerfully

dealing with the problems it sets before us. The lost one was found

as soon as he placed his whole being and faculties at the service of a

higher duty, with God in his heart and before his eyes. I have learnt

from my own experience, and from Paula’s good friends, to strive

untiringly after what is right, and to find my own weal in that of

others.

“The sense of lost liberty is hard to bear; but leave me love, and give

me room and opportunity to prove my best powers in the service of the

community, even in a prison--and though I cannot be perfectly happy, for

that is impossible without freedom--I will be far happier than such an

idle and useless spendthrift of time and abilities as I used to be among

the dissipations of the capital.”

“Then enjoy the consciousness of duty well performed, with liberty and

love,” replied the governor. “And believe me, my friend, your father in

Paradise will no more grudge you all that is loveliest and best than I

do. You are on the road where every curse is turned to blessing.”

The three marriages which Amru had promised to provide for, were

celebrated with due splendor.

That of Orion and Paula was a day never to be forgotten by the gay world

of Memphis. Bishop John performed the ceremony, and the young couple at

once took possession of the beautiful house left them by Katharina, the

real Bride of the Nile. If it could have been granted to her to read

Paula’s and Orion’s hearts, and see how they held her in remembrance,

she would have found that to them she was no longer the childish

water-wagtail, and that they knew how to value the sacrifice of her

young life.

Their first beloved guest, who went with them to their new home, was

little Mary, and she remained their dearest companion till she married

happily. The governess, Eudoxia, to whom also Orion offered an asylum,

accompanied Mary to her own delightful home; and there at last Mary

closed her old friend’s eyes, after the good woman had brought up her

little ones, not like a hireling but as a true mother.

The Patriarch Benjamin, too, who was led by many considerations--and not

least by Katharina’s will to remain on good terms with the son of the

Mukaukas, was a visitor to the youthful pair. Neither he nor the Church

ever had reason to repent his alliance with Orion; and when Paula

presented her husband with a son, the prelate offered to be his sponsor,

and named him George after his grandfather.

Orion’s son, too, inherited the office of Mukaukas, when he came to

man’s estate, from his father who was appointed to it, but under a new

Arab title, shortly after his marriage.

Ere long, however, Orion, as the highest Christian authority in his

native land, had to change his place of residence and leave Memphis,

which was doomed to ruin, for Alexandria. From thence his power extended

over the whole Nile-valley, and he devoted himself to his charge with so

much zeal, fidelity, justice, and prudence, that his name was remembered

with veneration and affection by generations long after.

Paula was the pride and joy of his life, and they lived together in

devoted union to an advanced age. He regarded it as one of the duties of

his life, to care for the woman who had made him what he was from a lost

and reprobate creature, and to fill every day of her life with joy. When

he built his palace at Alexandria, he graced it with the inscription

that had been engraved on Thomas’ ring: “God hath set the sweat of man’s

brow before virtue.”

Philippus and his Pulcheria also found a new home in Alexandria. He had

no long wooing to do; for when, on his return, the girl of whom he had

thought constantly during his long journeying, met him for the first

time in her mother’s house and held out both her hands with trustful

warmth of welcome, he clasped her to him and would not release her till

Joanna had given them her maternal blessing. The widow lived in the

leech’s house with her children and grandchildren, and often visited

her husband’s grave. At length she was laid to rest by him and his

soft-hearted mother, in the cemetery of Alexandria.

Rustem, made a rich man by Orion, became a famous breeder of horses and

camels in his own country, while Mandane ruled mildly but prudently over

his possessions--which he never shared with others, though he remained

a Masdakite till he died. The first daughter his wife bore him was named

Mary, and the first boy Haschim; but she would not agree to Rustem’s

proposal that the second should be called Orion; she preferred to give

him the name of Rufinus, and his successors were Rustem and Philippus.

The senator and his wife were only too glad to quit Egypt. Martina,

however, had the satisfaction of assisting at the marriage of her

dear Heliodora on the shores of the Nile; not, indeed, to her “Great

Sesostris,” but to her nephew Narses, who by the young widow’s devoted

care was restored, if not to perfect vigor, at any rate to very

endurable good health.

Paula’s wedding gift to her was the great emerald, which had meanwhile

been brought back again to Memphis. Justinus and Martina always remained

on terms of cordial friendship with the young Mukaukas and his wife:

Nilus lived long after to perform his duties with industry and judgment;

and whenever Haschim came to Alexandria there was a contest between

Orion and Philippus, for neither would yield him to the other. But

Philip could no longer envy his former rival the wife he had won. He had

not, indeed, ceased to admire her; but at the same time he would say:

“My comfortable little Pulcheria has not her match; our rooms would be

too small for Paula, but they suit my golden-haired girl best.”

He remained unselfishly devoted to his work till the end, and, when he

saw Orion wearing himself out in energetic toil, he would often say: “He

knows now what life demands, and acts accordingly; and that is why he

grows no older, and his laugh is as winning and gay as ever. It is an

honor to be called friend by a woman who like the Bride of the Nile.

saved herself from certain death, and a man who, like the young

Mukaukas, has freed himself from the heaviest of all curses.”

To this day the Bride of the Nile is not forgotten. Before the river

begins to rise on the Night of Dropping the inhabitants of the town of

Cairo, which grew up after the ruin of Memphis, on the eastern shore by

the side of Fostat, erect a figure of clay, representing a maiden form,

which they call Aroosa or the Bride.

ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

A knot can often be untied by daylight

Abandon to the young the things we ourselves used most to enjoy

Ancient custom, to have her ears cut off

Caught the infection and had to laugh whether she would or no

Gave them a claim on your person and also on your sorrows

Hatred and love are the opposite ends of the same rod

He was made to be plundered

How could they find so much pleasure in such folly

In whom some good quality or other may not be discovered

Life is not a banquet

Life is a function, a ministry, a duty

Love has two faces: tender devotion and bitter aversion

Of two evils it is wise to choose the lesser

Old age no longer forgets; it is youth that has a short memory

Prepared for the worst; then you are armed against failure

Sea-port was connected with Medina by a pigeon-post

Self-interest and egoism which drive him into the cave

So hard is it to forego the right of hating

Spoilt to begin with by their mothers, and then all the women

Talk of the wolf and you see his tail

Temples of the old gods were used as quarries

The man who avoids his kind and lives in solitude

Thin-skinned, like all up-starts in authority

Those who will not listen must feel

Use their physical helplessness as a defence

Who can hope to win love that gives none

Who can take pleasure in always seeing a gloomy face?

Women are indeed the rock ahead in this young fellow’s life

You have a habit of only looking backwards

End of Project Gutenberg’s The Bride of the Nile, Complete, by Georg Ebers