MELNOS.
Magic isles of beauty glowing
Far in tideless sapphire seas;
Wanton winds, low breathing, blowing
Perfumes from balsamic trees.
Here no wintry waters freeze;
But the streamlets ever flowing,
Murmur drowsy lullabies,
Which the eyelids close unknowing,
Till the soul in slumber lies,
Peaceful under peaceful skies.
Nature is fond of contrasts, and delights in the unexpected; therefore,
after the gloom and tumult of the previous night, the morning showed the
three castaways a scene of peaceful beauty so enchanting, that they
thought they were in fairyland. The sea had gone down after midnight,
and only a heavy ground-swell remained to tell of the fury of the storm
which had wrecked The Eunice. All around lay an expanse of sapphire sea,
touched here and there with white foam, which turned to crimson as the
morn dawned redly in the gray eastern skies. Far into the cloudless blue
arose the giant peak of Melnos, its lofty summit swathed in snows
already bathed in the heavy yellow beams of the rising sun. Below its
white cap appeared a green mantle of foliage, which quite hid the bare
rock with a profusion of myrtles, plane-trees, arbutus, ilex, and
branching heather; and lower still the red tint of rugged cliffs, the
black chaotic bowlders of the beach scattered in huge masses, and in and
out of these the white threads of the surf like fairy lacework. Far away
to the north arose the Island of Kamila, faint and cloud-like in the
midst of the blue seas, and on the murmuring waters played gentle
breezes, breathing fragrant balms robbed from aromatic trees. It was a
scene of unexampled beauty, and even the three unfortunates clinging to
the mast could not withhold their admiration, in spite of the
discomforts from which they were suffering.
“Once we are on shore,” said Crispin, with confidence, “I will take you
into the interior of the island, where we will be well looked after by
Justinian.”
“Has the island an interior?” asked Maurice sceptically, for he saw
nothing but a huge mountain resting on the azure sea.
“Of course! Did I not tell you it was the Island of Fantasy, and
therefore full of wonders? But the first thing is to get to land. What
do you say, Gurt?”
“Swim, sir.”
“I feel too stiff,” said Crispin, shaking his head. “I could not swim a
yard—and you, Maurice?”
“I am in the same plight,” replied Roylands, whose joints were aching
with the exposure to the night. “If it’s a question of swimming, I will
have to remain here till doomsday.”
“I kin swim, gentlemen,” said Gurt stoutly. “Bless ye, this ain’t
nothin’, this ain’t. Why, I’ve bin wrecked in the nor’ard, and precious
cold it were. I kin get ashore all safe, but I dunno ’bout you, sirs.”
Gurt’s face assumed the rapt expression of one who was thinking out a
deep problem, and Maurice, knowing the inventiveness of sailors, did not
interrupt him, having every confidence that this mariner would hit upon
some plan of extricating them from this dilemma.
“There are plenty of ropes,” suggested Crispin hopefully, “and if”—
“Right y’are, sir,” said Gurt energetically, his one eye flashing with
satisfaction. “I’ll tie ‘em together and swim ashore. Fust I’ll tie the
rope t’ th’ mast an’ then t’ th’ beach, an’ you two kin skip along like
monkeys. D’ye see, sirs?”
No sooner was the plan thought of than the energetic Gurt proceeded to
put it into practice, and spliced all the ropes he could get hold of,
being armed with that useful implement, a jack-knife, which no sailor is
ever without.
“It’s ’bout quart’r mile fro’ shore,” said Gurt, fastening one end of
the rope to the mast and the other round his waist; “but if rope ain’t
long ’nough, you gents tie on more, an’ pay out. Here’s knife.”
Crispin took the knife, so as to be ready for such emergency, and then
gave Gurt his spirit-flask, from which the mariner drew new life,
although he was pleased to regret that the contents were not rum,
instead of brandy. Having thus revivified himself, Gurt, with the rope
round his waist, scrambled down into the calm water, and was soon
striking out boldly for the shore. Maurice and the poet watched his
black head bobbing up and down in the blue, and kept paying out the rope
carefully, lest any entanglement should hamper the swimmer.
“Thank Heaven, he’s all right!” cried Crispin in a tone of relief, as
they saw the white figure of the sailor clambering over the black rocks.
“Now it’s our turn.”
In order to swim freely, Gurt had stripped naked, so the two left on the
mast had to carry his clothes to shore, a thing easy enough, as all Gurt
wore was a shirt and a pair of blue serge trousers. Crispin took one
article, Maurice the other, and waited for Gurt to signal from the shore
that the rope was made fast. Soon they saw him waving his hand and
shouting to intimate all was right; whereupon they examined the knot of
the rope to see that it was fast to the mast, and then slid down into
the sea.
The rope was pretty well taut, as it ran from the mast to the shore, so
Crispin and Maurice, holding on to it, struggled along towards the land.
Their limbs ached with pain, owing to their long exposure to the
night-air, but a drink of spirits each put new vigor into their wearied
frames, and, after a toilsome journey, aided by the rope, they managed
to reach the beach, up which they scrambled with thankful hearts.
“All right, sirs?” asked Gurt, dressing himself rapidly.
“Stiff,” replied Crispin ruefully. “I feel as creaky as an old door!”
“Ain’t used t’ it,” grinned Gurt, shifting his quid; for, during all the
trouble and danger, he had retained that as his only solace. “Well, I
guess, sirs, we’d best take more rum, an’ then explore this here
island.”
“Oh, I know all about it,” said Crispin cheerfully. “But see, the sun is
up, so, as it is no use trudging about in wet clothes, we had better dry
them.”
The two gentlemen stripped at once, and spread their clothing out to dry
on the black rocks; but Gurt, disdaining such luxury, perched himself in
a sunny place, and watched them swimming in the shallow waters near
shore to refresh their weary limbs. The sun was now considerably above
the horizon, burning hotly in a cloudless blue sky, and the sultry rays
soon dried the clothes spread out on the rocks, so in a short time they
were soon dressed again, and ready to start out in search of Justinian.
True, they were very hungry, but Crispin had some biscuits in his
pocket, which appeased their appetites in some measure, and, after a
good drink of brandy each, they began to trudge along the stony beach,
guided by the poet, to whom every inch of the island was as familiar as
his own face. The reddish cliffs and white sand of the beach, catching
the hot sunlight, threw out intense heat, and, from being cold, the
three adventurers soon became uncomfortably warm.
“Do you think Caliphronas is safe?” asked Maurice hesitatingly, as they
walked along.
“Caliphronas has nine lives, like a cat,” retorted Crispin savagely;
“but, after his treachery of last night, I hope he will meet the doom he
deserves. If it had not been for his cutting that rope, Martin would
have been alive now.”
“That is, if the gig reached shore safely.”
“Of course! The sea was wild, and she might have been swamped, like the
lifeboat; still, we must hope for the best.”
“I seed Bulk a-chuckin’ of that ’ere gent inter the water,” said Gurt,
addressing the air with elaborate indifference.
“I hope Bulk succeeded,” replied Crispin grimly; “but what’s that?”
A dark object was lying on the white beach, and, as they raced up to it,
Crispin gave a cry of anguish.
“Why, it’s poor Stokins!” he said, recognizing the features of the mate.
“He was in charge of the boat. I’m afraid she was smashed up like the
other.”
“And ’ere’s Jimson and Bildge,” cried Gurt, from a distance, where he
had discovered two corpses. “They’ve all gone t’ kingdom come, gents!”
“Caliphronas also, I suppose!” said Maurice sadly; for, in spite of his
dislike to the wily Greek, it seemed terrible that his joyous youth
should be ended so suddenly by the cruel sea.
“It looks as if we were the only survivors,” remarked Crispin moodily,
as they resumed their journey. “We must have those poor fellows buried.
I will speak to Justinian.”
“Where is Justinian?” asked Maurice a little irritably. “Does he live on
this arid peak?”
“Yes; but do not judge by external appearances. This rocky mountain, so
sparsely clothed with trees, is only the uninviting shell of a very fine
kernel.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I seem to have been doing that ever since I knew you, judging from your
frequent mention of the fact. However, we will soon come to the tunnel,
and then you will see.”
“What tunnel?”
“Oh, a wonderful piece of engineering skill carried out by Justinian
thirty years ago,—a tunnel which pierces the side of this mountain, and
will admit us into its interior.”
“Where we will find—what?”
“The patriarchal community of which Justinian is king!”
“What! does he rule over Troglodytes, like a Norwegian gnome?”
“Gnomes have nothing to do with the south,” said Crispin provokingly. “I
tell you this is the Island of Fantasy—the only fairyland yet remaining
on earth. You anticipate the realms of Pluto, but you will find
Arcadia.”
“I’m hanged if I understand you!”
“Well, your curiosity will soon be satisfied. _En avant, messieurs_, for
I am hungry, and wish to be seated at the hospitable board of
Justinian.”
High above, over the terra-cotta-colored cliffs, hung the fresh green
foliage which clothed the slopes of the mountain high up to the verge of
the eternal snows;—tall, dark cypresses, funereal-looking even in the
bright sunshine, the silver-gray glimmer of olive trees, chestnuts,
beeches, plane-trees, and, nearest to the summit, gloomy pines
accentuating the whiteness of the snows, which, clinging to the rocky
peak, stood out in cold relief against the warm blue sky. Ahead of them
was a reddish promontory running out into the calm waters, the trees
fringing its crest like the mane of some wild animal. Turning round the
shoulder of this, they saw in the distance a similar promontory, and
between these two headlands a range of reddish cliffs topped by
vegetation, a white sandy beach scattered over with bowlders, and a huge
arch in the middle of the cliff, which apparently led into the bowels of
the mountain.
“Here we are at the palace gate,” said Crispin gayly, as he led the way
towards the subterranean entrance. “We will soon be in safety.”
Standing in front of this mighty arch, they saw a broad flight of steps
leading up into the darkness, so that it looked like the entrance into
the hall of Eblis. Outside, the brilliant sunshine, the many-colored
land, the sparkling sea; but within, darkness, dank and unwholesome,
which inspired the two strangers with anything but hope. Crispin,
however, knowing the place well, sprang lightly up the steps, followed
hesitatingly by his companions, but suddenly he stopped and held up his
finger, the action being visible in the bright light pouring in through
the arch into this artificial cave.
“Listen! Maurice, do you recognize that voice?”
It was a man singing, and his clear high tones echoed in the dark vault
overhead, coming nearer and nearer as the vocalist slowly descended the
steps.
“Blow, wind, and swell the sail,
So that my boat may fly—may fly
As a swallow to its nest across the foam.
I am a swallow, and so am flying
To that dear nest of love, which is her heart.
Blow, wind! for I am filled with longing.
Her heart is empty till me she kisses.”
“Caliphronas!” cried Maurice and Crispin in one breath.
It was indeed Caliphronas who came slowly down the steps and paused in
alarm just where the light began to mingle with the darkness;—a new and
brilliant Caliphronas, arrayed in all the bravery of the Greek national
garb, with gold-broidered leggings, snowy fustanella, gaudy jacket, and
red skull-cap. In this picturesque dress he looked handsomer than ever,
and had quite recovered his bombastic air, which terror had deprived him
of during the storm.
“Creespeen! Mr. Maurice!” he cried in a startled voice, placing his hand
on one of the pistols stuck in his belt, for he was quite aware that his
treachery deserved a warm reception from those whom he had doomed to
death.
“You needn’t do that,” said Crispin, curling his lip as he observed the
action; “we are not going to punish you.”
“Punish me!” jeered the Greek, recovering his insolent manner. “Oh,
never fear, I can defend myself. Punish me! and for why? Because I chose
to save my own life!”
“Yes, and nearly caused us to lose ours!” said Maurice grimly.
“You know my philosophy, Mr. Maurice; so why expect me to be false to
it?”
“You are an infernal scoundrel, Caliphronas!”
The Greek smilingly showed his white teeth, as if a compliment had been
paid to him.
“We are all scoundrels more or less, only some are cleverer at
concealing it than other people,” he said carelessly. “So you are all
safe? I made sure you were drowned.”
“And wished too, I dare say,” replied Crispin dryly. “Well, you see we
have survived your amiable intention of leaving us to die. What about
the boat?”
“The boat! oh, that was swamped,” said Caliphronas in a satisfied tone.
“Two of your infernal sailors threw me overboard.”
“I seed ’em a-chuckin’ of yer,” remarked Gurt in a pleasant tone.
“Did you, indeed? Well, they were very soon chucked themselves, and of
the whole twenty in the boat, only half a dozen are alive now.”
“Where are they?”
“With Justinian. He sent me to look for your corpses, but I suppose he
will be rather astonished when he finds you can still use your own
legs.”
“How did you escape?”
“I was tossed into the sea near the shore, and, buoyed up by my
life-belt, I managed to keep myself afloat till the waves landed me on
the beach.”
“Naught was never in danger,” quoth Crispin coolly. “I suppose all your
repentance of yesterday has passed.”
“Gone to the winds, my friend,” replied Caliphronas airily. “Poof! what
would you? There is a time for all things. Yesterday I was nearly dead,
and talked nonsense; to-day I am dry and well, so it is evident I am not
born to be drowned.”
“Born to be hanged, more like,” said Maurice viciously, hardly able to
conceal his dislike of this heartless, cowardly, beautiful animal before
him. “Well, it is cold here, and we are hungry, so I think you had
better conduct us to Justinian.”
“Come, then,” answered Caliphronas, leading the way. “But tell me, how
did you escape?”
“With the help of God!” said Crispin, resolved not to gratify the
Greek’s curiosity.
“Ah, He helps the sinner as well as the saint; for you see I also am
alive and well.”
“You deserved death for your treachery!”
The mocking laughter of the Count rang through the darkness.
“Neither virtue nor vice is rewarded in every case! I see you are safe,
and the poor good captain is dead.”
“He is; and you are to blame.”
“No doubt I will survive that accusation. Well, you have lost your
beautiful ship, Crispin.”
“It’s my loss, not yours.”
“Hark to this philosopher! Ha! how can you leave this island again?”
“What! does Justinian intend to keep us prisoners?”
“Justinian will do what he thinks fit,” replied Caliphronas
significantly. “You are both rich, and can pay large ransoms.”
“You scoundrel, you have been putting these brigand ideas into the old
man’s head.”
Caliphronas laughed disagreeably.
“Perhaps I have. At all events, if you escape Justinian, you won’t get
away so easily from Alcibiades.”
“You forget six sailors still survive,” said Maurice sternly, “and we
are three, so I think nine Englishmen can hold their own against a
hundred cowards like yourself.”
The Count made a clutch at his pistol, and muttered an execration, but,
thinking better of it, recovered his temper, and burst out laughing.
“Well, well, we will see! I regret, Mr. Maurice, I did not bring a torch
for this darkness, but you see I know this passage well, and do not
require it. Had I known you three were coming, I would have brought men,
torches, food, wine, and all the rest of it, to make you comfortable.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” retorted Maurice angrily, for the
mocking tone of this scamp was intolerable; “but ‘_Timeo Danaos_.’”
“I don’t understand Latin,” said Caliphronas coldly; “but I’ve no doubt
you’ve said something uncomplimentary. However, we need not wrangle any
more, for here we are at the gate of Melnos.”
The gate was a huge structure of wood, formed by interlacing beams into
a kind of barred defence, which completely closed up the tunnel, and in
the centre of this was a small heavy iron door. Through the interstices
they could see the faint glimmer of daylight, a still ascending
staircase, the red flare of burning torches, and in the doubtful lights
three or four men moving about.
“This is to guard against people like my friend Alcibiades,” said
Caliphronas, seeing the amazement of Maurice and Gurt at this mediæval
entrance. “Like the Pass of Thermopylæ, this tunnel could be defended by
four against many, so Melnos is thus a city of refuge.”
“Ay, if treachery does not gain an entrance,” retorted Crispin
significantly; “and that is always possible when there is a traitor
within the walls.”
“Meaning myself?” rejoined Caliphronas tranquilly. “There you are wrong,
and I think, my dear Crispin, you must have forgotten that, in or out, I
can do nothing, as Justinian alone possesses the key of this door. We
must send Alexandros for it. Oh la there, Alexandros!”
One of the men, bearing a burning torch, came to the bars of the
framework, and Caliphronas spoke to him in Greek, while Crispin,
understanding the language thoroughly, listened attentively, as, after
the Count’s conduct of last night, he was quite prepared for further
treachery, and desired to guard against it. As soon as Caliphronas
finished, the man went off up the staircase, and the Count turned round
to his companions with a reassuring smile.
“He has gone to get the key from Justinian,” he explained courteously.
“This key, you must know, Mr. Maurice, is the emblem of sovereignty in
Melnos—the sceptre of the island!”
“But it must be rather a trouble going to Justinian for the key every
time you want to go in or out!”
“There is not much of that,” said Crispin quickly; “the people of Melnos
stay at home in the heart of the mountain. ’Tis only wanderers like
myself and the Count who are restless.”
“The heart of the mountain!” echoed Maurice, in a puzzled tone; “is it a
cavern?”
“No; fresh air and blue skies.”
“I cannot understand your Island of Fantasy. It is most perplexing, and
well deserves its name.”
“So Justinian thought, and that is why he called it so.”
“Who made this ’ere, gents all?” asked Gurt, who had been surveying his
nether world surroundings with much awe.
“Justinian.”
“Well, sir, arskin’ yer pardin, but I niver thought a lazy Greek ’ud
have had it in him to do sich a thing.”
Caliphronas laughed at the indolent character ascribed to his
countrymen, which, however, he could not deny with any great show of
reason.
“Justinian is not a Greek, but an Englishman.”
“I thought so, sir,” said Gurt triumphantly; “but ’eavins, sir! wot’s he
a-doin’ of in this ’ere lay?”
“Ah, that is a mystery!” replied the Count, smiling.
“Blest if ’tain’t all queer,” muttered Gurt in bewilderment, and
thereupon relapsed into silence.
The house of Justinian was evidently some distance away, as they had to
wait a considerable time before Alexandros returned, much to the
discomfort of the three shipwrecked men, who were beginning to feel
their privations keenly. Maurice would have liked to ask after Helena,
but the knowledge that Caliphronas was his rival forbade him to risk an
inquiry. He now began to see that the anticipations of Crispin regarding
possible dangers were not without some foundation, for, trapped in this
mountain heart, which appeared to his fancy to be a most extraordinary
place, he saw that Justinian could hold them prisoners as long as he
pleased. Besides, this scamp of a Caliphronas, who hated both himself
and Crispin thoroughly, was evidently the right hand of Justinian, and
thoughts of the cruelties of Greek brigands began to pass unpleasantly
through his mind. Here, towards the end of the civilized nineteenth
century, was a genuine robber’s cave, into which he was blindly walking,
and, despite the presence of Crispin, who stood beside him, Maurice did
not feel quite at his ease regarding their reception by this renegade
Englishman who was called Justinian.
At length rapid steps were heard descending the staircase, and
Alexandros came in sight, holding his torch in one hand and the
wished-for key in the other. Having unlocked the door, he held it open
for them to enter, and, when the four men were inside, locked it
carefully again, and thrust the key into his belt in order to take it
back to his master. As he did so, he spoke to Caliphronas in Greek, upon
which the Count translated the speech for the benefit of Maurice and the
seaman.
“Justinian will see you at the Acropolis.”
“The Acropolis?”
“Yes! it is a fancy he has for calling his house so. ’Tis too small for
a palace, and too large for an ordinary house, so the intermediate term
Acropolis fits it exactly. Come, Mr. Maurice. Crispin, you know the way,
don’t you?”
“Considering I have lived all my life in Melnos, I should think it
highly probable,” retorted the poet in an annoyed tone, for the
patronage of Caliphronas was insufferable.
Conducted by Caliphronas and Alexandros, they walked slowly up the giant
staircase, and in a short time arrived at a huge archway similar to the
one into which they had entered. Through this Maurice, to his
astonishment, saw a smiling landscape, and paused thunderstruck under
the great arch.
“Why, Melnos is in the cup of the mountain.”
“Exactly,” replied Crispin, who was enjoying his astonishment. “Melnos
is an extinct volcano, and this is the crater. You see we have plenty of
room for buildings, fields, cultivation, and all such desirable things.
We are two hundred feet above the sea-level here.”
Maurice did not reply, being too much amazed for speech, and standing
there feasted his eyes on the beautiful picture framed by the archway,
of which he was only able to gain a general idea. It was a vision of
snowy hills, miniature forests, yellow fields of corn, terraced
vineyards, and a mass of white houses in the hollow, while clinging to
the mountain side were other buildings showing white against the pale
green of the foliage. High above, encircled by the top rim of the
crater, which was broken into a dazzling circle of snow-white peaks, was
the blue sky, with the burning sun blazing down into the hollow,
wherein, like a mirror, flashed a small lake, encircled by trees. Below,
palms waved their feathery fans, above, the light green of the pine
trees burned like emeralds in the hot sunshine, and over all this
enchanted scene brooded an intense rest, an air of serene calm, which
made it seem to Maurice like that sleepy land of the lotus-eaters.
And this was Melnos.