THE PROPHET OF DOOM.
A few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,--then the first
sharpness of his strange mental agony subsided. The strained tension of
his nerves gave way, and a dull apathy of grief inconsolable settled
upon him. He felt himself to be a man mysteriously accurst,--banished
as it were out of life, and stripped of all he had once held dear and
valuable. HOW HAD IT HAPPENED? Why was he set apart thus, solitary,
poor, and empty of all worth, WHILE ANOTHER REAPED THE FRUITS OF HIS
GENIUS? ... He heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking
the vast hall as the Laureate ended his song--and, drooping his head,
some stinging tears welled up in his eyes and fell scorchingly on his
clasped hands--tears wrung from the very depth of his secretly tortured
soul. At that moment the beautiful Sah-luma turned toward him smiling,
as one who looked for more sympathetic approbation than that offered by
a mixed throng,--and meeting that happy self-conscious, bland,
half-inquiring gaze, he strove his best to return the smile. Just then
Zephoranim's fiery glance swept over him with a curious expression of
wonder and commiseration.
"By the gods, yon stranger weeps!" said the monarch in a half-bantering
tone...then with more gentleness he added.. "Yet 'tis not the first
time Sah-luma's voice hath unsealed a fountain of tears! No greater
triumph can minstrel have than this,--to move the strong man's heart to
woman's tenderness! We have heard tell of poets, who singing of death
have persuaded many straightway to die,--but when they sing of sweeter
themes, of lover's vows, of passion-frenzies, and languorous desires,
cold is the blood that will not warm and thrill to their divinely
eloquent allurements. Come hither, fair sir!" and he beckoned to Theos,
who mechanically advanced in obedience to the command--"Thou hast
thoughts of thine own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love's fervor of
delight, . . hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells
whereby the most dauntless heroes in every age have been caught,
conquered, and bound by no stronger chain than a tress of hair, or a
kiss more luscious than all the honey hidden in lotus-flowers?"
Theos looked up dreamily...his eyes wandered from the King to Sah-luma
as though in wistful search for some missing thing, . . his lips were
parched and burning and his brows ached with a heavy weight of pain,
... but he made an effort to speak and succeeded, though his words came
slowly and without any previous reflection on his own part.
"Alas, most potent Sovereign!" he murmured.. "I am a man of sad
memories, whose soul is like the desert, barren of all beauty! I may
have sung of love in my time, but my songs were never new,--never
worthy to last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith, passion, or
heart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams devise, Sah-luma
knows, . . and in Sah-luma's song all my best thoughts are said!"
There was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he spoke,--and the
King eyed him compassionately.
"Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered!" he observed in gentle
accents.. "Thou hast a look as of one bereft of joy. Hast lost some
maiden love of thine? ... and dost thou mourn her still?"
A pang bitter as death shot through Theos's heart, . . had the monarch
suddenly pierced him with his great sword he could scarcely have
endured more anguish! For the knowledge rushed upon him that he had
indeed lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable, so pure and perfect,
that all the world weighed in the balance against it would have seemed
but a grain of dust compared to its inestimable value! ... but what
that love was, and from whom it emanated, he could no more tell than
the tide can tell in syllabled language the secret of its attraction to
the moon. Therefore he made no answer, . . only a deep, half-smothered
sigh broke from him, and Zephoranim apparently touched by his dejection
continued good-naturedly:
"Nay, nay!--we will not seek to pry into the cause of thy spirit's
heaviness...Enough! think no more of our thoughtless question,--there
is a sacredness in sorrow! Nevertheless we shall strive to make thee in
part forget thy grief ere thou leavest our court and city, . .
meanwhile sit thou there"--and he pointed to the lower step of the
dais, . . "And thou, Sah-luma, sing again, and this time let thy song
he set to a less plaintive key."
He leaned hack in his throne, and Theos sat wearily down among the
flowers at the foot of the dais as commanded. He was possessed by a
strange, inward dread,--the dread of altogether losing the
consciousness of his own identity,--and while he strove to keep a firm
grasp on his mental faculties he at the same time abandoned all hope of
ever extricating himself from the perplexing enigma in which he was so
darkly involved. Forcing himself by degrees into comparative calmness,
he determined to resign himself to his fate,--and the idea he had just
had of boldly claiming the ballad sung by Sah-luma as his own,
completely passed out of his mind.
How could he speak against this friend whom he loved, ..aye!--more than
he had ever loved any living thing!--besides what could he prove? To
begin with, in his present condition ho could give no satisfactory
account of himself,--if he were asked questions concerning his nation
or birth-place he could not answer them, . . he did not even know where
he had come from, save that his memory persistently furnished him with
the name of a place called "ARDATH." But what was this "Ardath" to him,
he mused?--What did it signify? ... what had it to do with his
immediate position? Nothing, so far as he could tell! His intellect
seemed to be divided into two parts--one a total blank, . . the other
filled with crowding images that while novel were yet curiously
familiar. And how could he accuse Sah-luma of literary theft, when he
had none of his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case? Of course
he could easily repeat his boyhood's verses word for word, ... but what
of that? He, a stranger in the city, befriended and protected by the
Laureate, would certainly be considered by the people of Al-Kyris as
far more likely to steal Sah-luma's thoughts than that Sah-luma should
steal his!
No!--there was no help for it,--as matters stood he could say
nothing,--he could only feel as though he were the sorrowful ghost of
some long-ago dead author returned to earth to hear others claiming his
works and passing them off as original compositions. And thus he was
scarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sah-luma, giving back the
harp to his attendant, rose up, and standing erect in an attitude
unequalled for grace and dignity, began to recite a poem he remembered
to have written when he was about twenty years of age,--a poem daringly
planned, which when published had aroused the bitterest animosity of
the press critics on account of what they called its "forced
sublimity." The sublimity was by no means "forced"--it was the
spontaneous outcome of a fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and
high-soaring aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . .
all they saw was a young man presuming to be original, and down they
came upon him accordingly.
He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured through
that ill-fated and cruelly condemned composition,--and now he was
listlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement it evoked
here in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed more
strange and weird than the strangest dream! It was a story of the gods
before the world was made,--of love deep buried in far eternities of
light, . . of vast celestial shapes whose wanderings through the blue
deep of space were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and
wonder-spheres of beauty, . . a fanciful legend of transcendent
heavenly passion, telling how all created worlds throbbed amorously in
the purple seas of pure ether, and how Love and Love alone was the
dominant cloud of the triumphal march of the Universe...And with what
matchless eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear
and rounded tenderness of accent! ... how exquisitely his voice rose
and fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many leaves,
... while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entrancing
joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly art infused a
touch of minor pathos,--a suggestion of the eternal complaint of Nature
which even in the happiest moments asserts itself in mournful
under-tones. The effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a
few soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp by his
attendant harpist and introduced just at the right moments; and Theos,
notwithstanding the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened
to every well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a
gradually deepening sense of peace,--he knew not why, for the verses,
in themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. The various
impressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness--the King
moved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and paling,
his hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels
that blazed on his breast--the women's eyes at one moment sparkled with
delight and at the next grew humid with tears,--the assembled courtiers
pressed forward, awed, eager, and attentive,--the very soldiers on
guard seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper disturbed the
harmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that rippled from the
Laureate's lips.
When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of applause
that the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in the strong
vibration of so many uplifted voices,--shouts of frenzied rapture
echoed again and again through the vaulted roof like thuds of
thunder,--shouts in which Theos joined,--as why should he not? He had
as good a right as any one to applaud his own poem! It had been
sufficiently abused heretofore,--he was glad to find it now so well
appreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,--though he had no intention of
putting forward any claim to its authorship. No,--for it was evident he
had in some inscrutable way been made an outcast from all literary
honor,--and a sort of wild recklessness grew up within him,--a bitter
mirth, arising from curiously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and
tenderness for Sah-luma,--and it was in this spirit that he loudly
cheered the triumphant robber of his stores of poesy, and even kept up
the plaudits long after they might possibly have been discontinued.
Never perhaps did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the
exquisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit moved by it,
... his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam of sunshine all over his
beautiful face, but, save for this, he gave no sign of even hearing the
deafening acclamations that resounded about him on all sides.
"A new Ilyspiros!" cried the King enthusiastically, and, detaching a
magnificently cut ruby from among the gems he wore, he flung it toward
his favored minstrel. It flashed through the air like a bright spark of
flame and fell, glistening redly, on the pavement just half-way between
Theos and Sah-luma...Theos eyed it with faintly amused indifference,
... the Laureate bowed gracefully, but did not stoop to raise it,--he
left that task to his harp-bearer, who, taking it up, presented it to
his master humbly on one knee. Then, and only then Sah-luma received
it, kissed it lightly and placed it negligently among his other
ornaments, smiling at the King as he did so with the air of one who
graciously condescends to accept a gift out of kindly feeling for the
donor. Zabastes meanwhile had witnessed the scene with an expression of
mingled impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly on his
furrowed features, and as soon as the hubbub of applause had subsided,
he struck his staff on the ground with an angry clang, and exclaimed
irritably:
"Now may the god shield us from a plague of fools! What means this
throaty clamor? Ye praise what ye do not understand, like all the rest
of the discerning public! Many is the time, as the weariness of my
spirit witnesseth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehearse,--but never in
all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he given utterance
to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon as to-night! Strange
it is that the so-called 'poetical' trick of confusedly heaping words
together regardless of meaning, should so bewilder men and deprive them
of all wise and sober judgment! By my faith! ... I would as soon listen
to the gabble of geese in a farmyard as to the silly glibness of such
inflated twaddle, such mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such
ranting verbosity..."
A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,--laughter
in which no one joined more heartily than Sah-luma himself. He had
resumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he
surveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amusement,
while the King's stentorian "Ha, ha, ha!" resounded in ringing peals
through the great audience-chamber.
"Thou droll knave!" cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the drops
his merriment had brought into his eyes--"Wilt kill me with thy
bitter-mouthed jests? ... of a truth my sides ache at thee! What ails
thee now? ... Come,--we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be
restrained,--speak!--what flaw canst thou find in our Sah-luma's pearl
of poesy?--what spots on the sun of his divine inspiration? As the
Serpent lives, thou art an excellent mountebank and well deservest thy
master's pay!"
He laughed again,--but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His
withered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of
impenetrable obstinacy,--tucking his long staff under his arm he put
his fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts up
certain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he began:
"Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty Zephoranim, I would
in the first place say that the poem so greatly admired by your
Majesty, is totally devoid of common sense. It is purely a caprice of
the imagination,--and what is imagination? A mere aberration of the
cerebral nerves,--a morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on
the impossible,--on things that have never been, and never will be.
Thus, Sah-luma's verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a
moon-struck madman,--moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED
SUBLIMITY..." here Theos gave an involuntary start,--then, recollecting
where he was, resumed his passive attitude--"which is in every way
distasteful to the ears that love plain language. For instance, what
warrant is there for this most foolish line:
"'The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.'
'Tis vile, 'tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any
other stars chant? ... who can prove that the heavenly bodies are given
to the study of music? Hath Sah-luma been present at their singing
lesson?" Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject,
advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on: "Hear yet another
jarring simile:
"'The wild winds moan for pity of the world.'
Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!--for the tales of
shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,--and however
much a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of Nature, he
is after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams. One couplet hath
most discordantly annoyed my senses--'tis the veriest doggerel:
"'The sun with amorous clutch
Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!'
O monstrous piece of extravagance!--for how can the Sun (his Deity set
apart) 'clutch' without hands?--and as for 'the emerald girdle of the
rose'--I know not what it means, unless Sah-luma considers the green
calyx of the flower a 'girdle,' in which case his wits must be far
gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in the common
natural protection of a bud before it blooms! There was a phrase too
concerning nightingales,--and the gods know we have heard enough and
too much of those over-praised birds! ..." Here he was interrupted by
one of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the laughter of the
whole court broke forth in joyous echoes.
"Laugh--laugh!" said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the throng
with a derisive smile--"Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of folly!--and
cling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for
you in the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty and
perishable are they all,--they shine for a moment, then break and
vanish,--and the colors wherewith they sparkled, colors deemed immortal
in their beauty, shall pass away like a breath and be renewed no more!"
"Not so!" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but
feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-"for the
colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the
soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with
the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but
the constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic
enter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? ...
nay!--for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with
its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on
the mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central
deeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and
passion? ... Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or
stir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals
of a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and
habitude,--but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a
perfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions?
No!--but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but
a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,--not one
world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his
rhythmic splendor,--not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering
song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The
heart,--the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet's
genius,--and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!"
Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward,
clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder:
"Bravely spoken, sir stranger!" he exclaimed--"Thou hast well
vindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!--thou hast a musical
tongue of thine own!--who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in
time to come!--And thou, Zabastes--" here he turned upon the old
Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical
disdain--"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual!
Thou art thyself a disappointed author--hence thy spleen! Thou art
blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,--for thee the very sun is a blot
rather than a brightness,--thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have
created a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee!
Aye, aye!--we know thee for a beauty hating fool,--and though we laugh
at thee, we find thee wearisome! Stand thou aside and be straightway
forgotten!--we will entreat Sah-luma for another song."
The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an
undertone,--and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on
Theos, his self constituted advocate, with an appreciative and almost
tender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich,
soft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking
armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous
hum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The
doors were flung open,--the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and
excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed:
"O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!"
Zephoranim's black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his
lips hard.
"So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!" he said
half-scornfully--"Bring hither the captive,--an he chafes at his bonds
we will ourselves release him..." and he touched his sword
significantly--"to a wider freedom than is found on earth!"
A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women
shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption
that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and
flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who
smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child
out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward
the entrance of the audience-chamber.
A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor,
and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick,
ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne--arrived at the dais,
they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact
lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of
a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright
flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,--a
man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an
involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the
lips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden
branches. This was Khosrul,--the Prophet of a creed that was to
revolutionize the world,--the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to
men,--the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!
Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which
clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long, untrimmed
beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below
his shoulders,--at his majestic form which in spite of cords and
feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed
dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring
about him, ... something commanding as well as defiant in the straight
and steady look with which he confronted the King,--and for a moment or
so a deep silence reigned,--silence apparently born of superstitious
dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance
rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated
haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of
his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his
prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his
forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the
jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet
panting of his quickened breath.
"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a sinister
smile--"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou
trifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What
sayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of the waning of glory? Wilt
prophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith? ... Wilt mislead the people? ...
Wilt curse the King? ... Thou mad sorcerer!--devil bewitched and
blasphemous! ... What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?" And
he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.
Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.
"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his voice,
deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange,
foreboding chill--"Nothing--save thine own scorn of cowardice!"
The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame reddened
his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive--and there
was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man's bearing,
coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to
touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the
armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority ...
"Unloose his fetters!" he commanded.
The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright.
Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.
"Unloose him, I say! ... By the gods! must I repeat the same thing
twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their
sovereign? ... And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and
tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,--methinks ye might
have tied him with thread and met with small resistance! I have known
many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when
captured! Unloose him--and quickly too!--Our pleasure is that, ere he
dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man."
In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey
this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters
wrenched asunder,--and in a very short space Khosrul stood at
comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King's
generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to
move,--his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still
bound,--and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure
that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of
actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some
gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to
testify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called
for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a
sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine
from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a
courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly
wakened from a deep dream,--shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled
hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,--then
pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.
"Away ... Away!" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to
every part of the vast hall--"Wilt force me to drink blood?" He
paused,--and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. "Blood
... Blood! It stains the earth and sky! ... its red, red waves swallow
up the land! ... The heavens grow pale and tremble,--the silver stars
blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that
which shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest
gathered! Blood ... blood! The blood of the innocent! ... 'tis a
scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders
... founders ... never to rise again!"
These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced
a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances,
and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as
though silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious
negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places,
though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.
"Thou art mad, Khosrul"--then said the monarch in calmly measured
accents--"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now
retarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great
Kings too oft degenerates into weakness--and this we cannot suffer to
be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining
years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,--and madman as
thou art, thou showest a madman's cunning,--thou dost break the laws
and art dangerous to the realm,--thou art proved a traitor, and must
straightway die. Thou art accused..."
"Of honesty!" interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy
satire in his tone. "I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! 'Tis a most
death-worthy deed!"
He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were
a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man. Zephoranim
frowned angrily, yet answered nothing--and a brief pause ensued. Theos
grew more and more painfully interested in the scene,--there was
something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and
fraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright
face alit with laughter.
"Now by the Sacred Veil,"--he said gayly, addressing himself to the
King--"Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much
gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,--a poet, tragic and
taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked
you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of
Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst
overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I
live, 'twas not ill-devised for a madman's brain! ... and so solemn a
ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of
my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the
Critic's chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to
enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a
contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of
the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether
marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!" And turning to
Khosrul he added--"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard?
Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,--and the King
shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and
lasting sweetness!"
Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful,
half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep,
solemnly penetrating eyes.
"Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!" he said
mournfully--"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon
forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath
of the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of
the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the
measure of thine inspiration,--yet thou hast missed its true
teaching,--and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy
hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God!
Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! ... Thou shalt be
suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!"
And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed
steadfastly to--the King! There was a momentary hush...a stillness as
of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of
all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.
"By all the virtues of Nagaya!" he cried--"This is most excellent
fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite
in the realm? ... Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts
patience,--though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy
wits,--'tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and
grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma,
through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals
of future history--for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the
renown of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand
enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the
engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma!--aye, even cry
aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land,
should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one
capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!"
Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic
assurance of his sovereign's friendship,--but nevertheless there was a
slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had
evidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul's words, and the
restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of
electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a
sense of vague alarm. "What is this Khosrul?" he thought half
resentfully--"and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired
Sah-luma so dark and unmerited an end? ... "Hark! ... what was that
low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed?
... He listened,--then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to
him, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were
fixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had
suddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair,
outstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror
personified.
"Victory... Victory!" he cried, catching at the King's last word ...
"There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! ... Thy conquests
are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers
of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! ... Destruction
clamors at thy palace-gates! ... and the enemy that cometh upon thee
unawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they
who are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be
trodden down as wheat,--thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail
as children bewildered with fear:--thy great engines of battle shall be
to thee as naught,--and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be
useless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury!
Zephoranim! Zephoranim! ..." and his voice shrilled with terrific
emphasis through the vaulted chamber ... "The days of recompense are
come upon thee,--swift and terrible as the desert-wind! ... The doom of
Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the
Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! ... its beauty, its greatness, its
pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the
waning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings
shall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! ... Fire! ..."
and here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, his dark
garments brushing against Theos as he passed,--and springing on the
first step, stood boldly within hand-reach of the King, who, taken
aback by the suddenness of his action, stared at him with a sort of
amazed and angry fascination.. "To arms, Zephoranim! ... To arms! ...
take up thy sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire!
Fire! ... How shall the King quench it? ... how shall the mighty
monarch defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air
with red devouring tongues of flame! ... the thick smoke reeks of
blood! ... Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the
idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of ashes!
Who will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call upon the
desert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on
the wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters
of the earth,--all nations shall shudder and be astonished at the
direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress of kingdoms!
Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered herself to be led astray by
her rulers! ... she hath drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath
followed after idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts
of her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore because
Al-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth repentance, so shall
destruction descend furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the
mid-watches of the night,--she shall be swept away from the surface of
the earth, ... wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens,
and the generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings,
princes, and warriors!--Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!" and now
his wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous
plaintiveness--"Weep!--for never again on earth shall be found a fairer
dwelling-place for the lovers of joy! ... never again shall be builded
a grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris!
Al-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! ... thou
art become a forgotten heap of ruin! ... the sands of the desert shall
cover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire
concerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none shall shed tears for
the grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the names of thy
mighty heroes and men of fame,--for thou shalt vanish utterly and be
lost far out of memory even as though thou hadst never been!"
Here he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard,--his blazing eyes
preternaturally large and brilliant fixed themselves steadfastly on the
sculptured ivory shield that surmounted the back of the King's throne,
and over his drawn and wrinkled features came an expression of such
ghastly horror that instinctively every one present turned their looks
in the same direction. Suddenly a shriek, piercing and terrible, broke
from his lips,--a shriek that like a swiftly descending knife seemed to
saw the air discordantly asunder.
"See ... See!" he cried in fierce haste and eagerness ... "See how the
crested head gleams! ... How the soft, shiny throat curves and
glistens! ... how the lithe body twists and twines! ... Hence!--Hence,
accursed Snake! ..thou poisoner of peace! ... thou quivering sting in
the flesh!--thou destroyer of the strength of manhood! What hast thou
to do with Zephoranim, that thou dost wind thy many coils about his
heart? ... Lysia ... Lysia! ..." here the King started violently, his
face flushing darkly red, "Thou delicate abomination! ... Thou
tyrannous treachery.. what shall be done unto thee in the hour of
darkness! Put off, put off the ornaments of gold and the jewels
wherewith thou adornest thy beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of
an endless affliction! ... for thou shalt be girdled round about with
flame, and fire shall be thy garment! ... thy lips that have drunken
sweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness!--vainly shalt thou make
thyself fair and call aloud on thy legion of lovers, . . they shall be
as dead men, deaf to thine entreaties, and none shall answer thee,--no,
not one! None shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort,--in the
midst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish! ... and my
soul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou unvirgined Virgin!--thou
Queen-Courtesan!"
Scarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King with a furious
oath sprang upon him, grasped him by the throat, and thrusting him
fiercely down on the steps of the dais, placed one foot on his
prostrate body. Then drawing his gigantic sword he lifted it on high,
... the blight blade glittered in air...an audible gasp of terror broke
from the throng of spectators, ... another second and Khosrul's life
would have paid the forfeit for his temerity...when crash! ... a sudden
and tremendous clap of thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was
extinguished! Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, close,
suffocating darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in sullen, vibrating
echoes, and there was a short, impressive silence. Then piercing
through the profound gloom came the clamorous cries and shrieks of
frightened women, . . the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and
struggling of a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless,
nerveless, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit when
striving together for escape from some imminent deadly peril,--and
though the King's stentorian voice could be heard above all the tumult
loudly commanding order, his alternate threats and persuasions were of
no avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which the whole court was
thrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to Nagaya and the
Sun-God.. curses from the soldiery, who intent on saving themselves
were brutally trying to force a passage to the door regardless of the
wailing women, whose frantic appeals for rescue and assistance were
heart-rending to hear, . . all these sounds increased the horror of the
situation,--and Theos, blind, giddy, and confused, listened to the
uproar around him with something of the affrighted compassion that a
stranger in Hell might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the
ceaseless plaints of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored to grope
his way to Sah-luma's side,--and just then lights appeared, . . lights
that were not of earth's kindling, . . strange, wandering flames that
danced and flitted along the tapestried walls like will-o'-the-wisps on
a dark morass, and flung a ghastly blue glare on the pale, uneasy faces
of the scared people, till gathering in a sort of lurid ring round the
throne, they outlined in strong relief the enraged, Titanesque figure
of Zephoranim whose upraised sword looked in itself like an arrested
flash of lightning. Brighter and brighter grew the weird lustre,
illumining the whole scene.. the vast length of the splendid hall, . .
the shining armor of the soldiers...the white robes of the women...the
flags and pennons that hung from the roof and swayed to and fro as
though blown by a gust of wind.. every object near and distant was soon
as visible as in broad day,--and then...a terrible cry of rage burst
from the King,--the cry of a maddened wild beast.
"Death and fury!" he shouted, striking his sword with a fierce clang
against the silver pedestal of the throne, . . "Where is Khosrul?"
The silence of an absolute dismay answered him, ... Khosrul had fled!
Like a cloud melting in air, or a ghost vanishing into the
nether-world, he had mysteriously disappeared! ... he had escaped, no
one knew how, from under the very feet and out of the very grasp of the
irate monarch, whose baffled wrath now knew no bounds.
"Dolts, idiots, cowards!".. and he hurled these epithets at the
timorous crowd with all the ferocity of a giant hurling stones at a
swarm of pigmies.. "Babes that are frighted by a summer thunder-storm!
... Ye have let yon accursed heretic slip from my hands ere I had
choked him with his own lie! O ye fools! Ye puny villains! ... I take
shame to myself that I am King of such a race of weaklings! Lights! ...
Bring lights hither, ye whimpering slaves,--ye shivering poltroons!
... What! call yourselves men! Nay, ye are feeble girls prankt out in
men's attire, and your steel corselets cover the faintest hearts that
ever failed for dastard fear! Shut fast the palace-gates! ... close
every barrier! ... search every court and corner, lest haply this base
false Prophet be still here in hiding,--he that blasphemed with ribald
tongue the High Priestess of our Faith, the holy Virgin Lysia! ... Are
ye all turned renegades and traitors that ye will suffer him to go free
and triumph in his lawless heresy? Ye shameless knaves! Ye milk-veined
rascals! ... What abject terror makes ye thus quiver like aspen-leaves
in a storm? ... this darkness is but a conjurer's trick to scare women,
and Khosrul's followers can so play with the strings of electricity
that ye are duped into accepting the witch-glamour as Heaven's own
cloud-flame! By the gods! If Al-Kyris falls, as yon dotard pronounceth,
her ruins shall bury but few heroes! O superstitious and degraded
souls! ... I would ye were even as I am--a man dauntless,--a soldier
unafraid."
His powerful and indignant voice had the effect of partially checking
the panic and restoring something like order,--the pushing and
struggling for an immediate exit ceased,--the armed guards in shamed
silence began to marshal themselves together in readiness to start on
the search for the fugitive,--and several pages rushed in with flaring
torches, which cast a wondrous fire-glow on the surging throng of eager
and timid faces, the brilliant costumes, the flash of jewels, the
glimmer of swords and the dark outlines of the fluttering
tapestry,--all forming together a curious chiaroscuro, from which the
massive figure of Zephoranim stood out in bold and striking prominence
against the white and silver background of his throne. Vaguely
bewildered and lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Theos looked
upon everything with an odd sense of strained calmness, . . the
glittering saloon whirled before his eyes like a passing picture in a
magic glass...and then...an imperative knowledge forced itself upon his
mind,--HE HAD WITNESSED THIS SELF-SAME SCENE BEFORE! Where? and when?
... Impossible to say,--but he distinctly remembered each incident!
This impression however left him as rapidly as it had come, before he
had any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that moment
Sah-luma's hand caught his own,--Sah-luma's voice whispered in his ear:
"Let us away, my friend,--there will be naught now but mounting of
guards and dire confusion,--the King is as a lion roused, and will not
cease growling till his vengeance be satisfied! A plague on this
shatter-pated Prophet!--he hath broken through my music, and jarred
poesy into discord!--By the Sacred Veil!--Didst ever hear such a
hideous clamor of contradictory tongues! ... all striving to explain
what defies explanation, namely, Khosrul's flight, for which, after
all, no one is to blame so much as Zephoranim himself,--but 'tis the
privilege of monarchs to shift their own mistakes and follies on to the
shoulders of their subjects! Come! Lysia awaits us, and will not easily
pardon our tardy obedience to her summons,--let us hence ere the gates
of the palace close."
Lysia! ... The "unvirgined Virgin"--the "Queen Courtesan"! So had said
Khosrul. Nevertheless her name, like a silver clarion, made the heart
of Theos bound with indescribable gladness and feverish expectation,
and without an instant's pause he readily yielded to Sah-luma's
guidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of the swaying crowd.
Arm-in-arm, the twain,--one a POET RENOWNED, the other a POET
FORGOTTEN,--threaded their rapid way between the ranks of nobles,
officers, slaves, and court-lacqueys, who were all excitedly discussing
the recent scare, the Prophet's escape, and the dread wrath of the
King,--and hurrying along the vast Hall of the Two Thousand Columns,
they passed together out into the night.