THE ALTAR INSCRIBED ΘΕΌΝ.
By this altar stone I swear
Never more to part from thee;
Thine in life and death to be,
And thy future fortunes share
Be the weather wild or fair,
Dry on land or wet at sea,
This vow shall be kept by me,
By this altar stone I swear.
The next morning neither Helena nor Caliphronas was present at
breakfast, as the girl, in company with Zoe, had gone up the mountain
shortly after sunrise in quest of flowers, and the Greek had not been
near the Acropolis since he had left it the previous night.
“Can he have left the island?” said Maurice anxiously to the Demarch.
“Hardly,” replied the old man grimly; “unless he has borrowed the wings
of Icarus, for I alone have the key of the tunnel.”
“There is the western pass,” suggested Crispin thoughtfully.
“True; but even supposing he did get to the sea-beach, he will find it
difficult to obtain a boat,” said Justinian calmly. “All the boats are
fast chained and padlocked to the rocks; so, unless his friend
Alcibiades finds him waiting, like a second Ulysses, on the beach, I
hardly see how he can take French leave.”
“What are you going to do about him, Justinian?” asked Maurice
curiously.
“I am waiting until you and Helena come to an understanding, and then I
will tell Caliphronas that he has been beaten with his own weapons of
treachery.”
“Helena has gone up the mountain. Will I await her return?”
“By no means. Follow her at once to her favorite haunt. There is a
narrow path leading to it—a glade near the western pass, in the center
of which is an altar inscribed Θεόν.”
“Oh, I know it! Helena showed it to me some time ago. Crispin, I am
going a-wooing!”
“I wish you every success.”
“Do you think my fortunate star is in the ascendant?”
“You are as faint-hearted as you were last night,” said the Demarch,
laughing. “Do you think, if I were not sure of Helena’s answer, I would
send you on a fruitless errand? Go, my son; and when you and Helena come
to ask my blessing, I will deal with Andros.”
“Punic faith!” remarked Crispin a trifle sadly.
“Well! what would you?” demanded the Demarch with energy. “Had I not
made use of Andros, he would have made use of me. It is a mistake in
being too honest when dealing with a scoundrel. One cannot go straight
on a crooked road. If I were dealing with you, or with Maurice, I might
not stoop to diplomatic lies; but as to that serpent of an
Andros—pah!—the end justifies the means.”
“Do you think he will come and see you again?”
“Of course! He will come to demand the fulfilment of my promise, and ask
me to force Helena into this distasteful marriage. Then I will reveal
all, and drive him from the island.”
“But is it wise to let him go free, seeing he is our declared enemy?”
“What! you wish me to keep him as a hostage?” said Justinian
good-humoredly. “Nothing would be gained by such an act. Alcibiades
intends to attack the island, with or without Andros; and the only thing
this scamp can do is to urge his friend to assault Melnos at once.
Everything is ready: the men are in splendid training; I have arms in
plenty; and we are thirteen Englishmen, so the sooner the strife is
decided the more satisfied I will be.”
“Well, I will leave you to talk over your military schemes with
Crispin,” said Maurice, as he arose to go, “and meanwhile will go in
search of Helena.”
“Good luck go with you!” cried Crispin, as he left the room; and Maurice
heartily seconded the kindly wish.
It was an exquisite morning, and the sun was just below the eastern
peaks of the island; but as Maurice lightly climbed up the slopes behind
the Acropolis, the luminary came into view, and flooded the high
elevation of snowy pine forest, and olive trees, with yellow radiance.
The cup of the valley lay in shadow; but amid these lofty solitudes all
was luminous light and brilliant sunshine. The little path which led to
the glade had been worn into a narrow earthen track by the light feet of
Helena; but on either side grew the long lush grass, starred with
primrose, violet, anemone, and cyclamen—all delicately blooming in the
warm atmosphere. From this floral carpet arose stately plane-trees,
arbutus, and here and there lance-shaped cypresses; while, between the
luxuriant foliage, Maurice could catch glimpses at intervals of the
terraced vineyards, yellowish-green with the autumnal tints of the
vine-leaves, and purple with bunches of grapes; sometimes the white
gleam of a winepress, from whence arose the merry song of peasants
treading the ripe clusters; and far overhead, seen like a vision through
the ragged framework of leaves, the serrated peaks of milky hue cutting
the intense azure of the sky. All this loveliness was irradiated with
the strong sunlight, and steeped in the luminosity of the atmosphere, so
that the variety of tints, the infinite delicacy of the colors, the
almost imperceptible blendings of the one into the other, made a picture
enchanting to the most careless observer. Added to this, the air, rising
warm from the valley below, yet coolly tempered by the higher snows,
produced an atmosphere exhilarating in the extreme; and a pleasant
murmur of song of bird and peasant sounded on all sides, blending with
the rustle of the boughs, and the gentle sigh of the wind moving
innumerable leaves to airy whisperings.
It was truly wonderful how rapidly Maurice had adapted himself to the
mountaineering life of Melnos; and he breasted the steep path with a
vigor which had been quite foreign to him, when listless, enervated, and
melancholic, in England. The artificial life of six years in London,
amid a deleterious atmosphere, surrounded by ugly houses and stony
streets, had saddened and depressed his spirits; but now that he had
returned to Nature for cure, her calm and soothing medicines had stilled
his fretful spirit, had smoothed the wrinkles from his brow, removed the
haggard anguish of his heart; and now, reinvigorated and vitalized, he
felt that it was good to live. Doctors can do much, but Nature can do
more; for, while physical ills are to a certain extent under the control
of the former, only the latter can minister to the mind; and the
intangible influence of landscape, mountain air, rustic quiet, and
woodland music, on the diseased mental faculties, cannot be
over-estimated in their curative powers. Wise, indeed, were the Greeks
to fable how the giant Antæus drew fresh vigor for his frame from his
mother Tellus; and if we in modern days did but apply this parable of
nature-cure to our crowded city populations, how infinitely less would
be the physical and mental ills to be endured by our worn-out, exhausted
toilers of this over-anxious age!
What wonder if the Hellenes were a joyous race, dwelling as they did in
a radiant climate, amid scenes of undying beauty, in healthful communion
with the Earth-spirit! They exercised the body in the palæstra, the mind
in the portico, and, ever drinking in health, beauty, and the music of
leaves, winds, and waves, were therefore easily able to attain and
preserve that serene calm of existence, which we see stamped in vivid
beauty on the faces of their marble masterpieces. The countenances of
Egyptian sphinx and granite king express the awful solemnity of
communion with the unseen; the rapt faces of mediæval saints a spiritual
unrest to escape from the world they despised; but in the frieze of the
Parthenon, in the statues of god, goddess, hero, and nymph, we but see
the calm of contentment, of serene satisfaction, arising from the
healthful minds and bodies of the race, whose joyous tranquillity was
the gift of Nature to her believing children. Yet we, while envying
their beatitude, and desirous of emulating their intense calm, make no
effort to do so; for we leave the country, and rush to the already
overcrowded cities, wrangling, toiling, worrying, striving to attain an
unsatisfying end. Wiseacres talk of the complexity of modern
civilization, of the over-population of the world, of the survival of
the fittest; but this is, so to speak, merely laying the blame of our
own mistakes on the stars, for we ourselves have produced this age of
unrest, which we profess to loathe. When the humors of the body run to
one spot, a tumor ensues, which throws the whole system out of order;
and it is the same with the misdirected way in which we govern our
modern nations. If, instead of rushing to cities, and thus begetting
what may be called geographical tumors, our rustics and wearied toilers
stayed in the open country, then would our civilization become less
restless, and more akin to the envied calm of Hellenic life. Food would
be more plentiful, minds would be more at peace, bodies would be more
healthy, and the world happier. But we will not do this;—fired by
ambition, by desire for gold, by longings for luxury, we crowd together
in noisy multitudes, and turn away from the calm serenity of Nature, who
would take us to her breast and make us happy, even as she did those
wiser children of old. Nature sent her herald, Wordsworth, to proclaim
this truth, but alas! he piped in vain; and his songs of purity were
drowned in the jingle of gold and the shouts of ambition.
These were Maurice’s thoughts as he clambered up the mountain-path; and
so rapt was he in his dreamings of Nature-worship, that, all
unconsciously, he emerged into the glade near the western pass.
It was encircled by ilex, tamarisk, beech, and elm, woven together as in
brotherhood by straggling creepers, festooned gracefully from bough to
bough, from branch to branch; and in the centre, amid the flowing grass,
was placed a small marble altar, on a low flight of steps. In front the
trees had been cut down, and there was a glimpse of the white houses in
the valley, the waving red line of the grand staircase; and, high above,
the bizzarre colors of the volcanic rocks, fringed by a dark green belt
of forest, from which luxuriance the arid peaks shot up into the blue
sky like white marble cones. But not at valley, nor forest, nor aerial
peaks looked Maurice, for his eyes were fixed on Helena, who, robed in
her favorite white, crowned with a wreath of roses, stood by the altar
with a mass of brilliant flowers thereon, looking like the nymph of the
place.
She flushed red with delight as Maurice drew near, and paused in her
dainty task of arranging the blossoms with the air of some startled shy
thing of the woodlands. Like stars her eyes, like sunshine her glinting
hair, and as for her face, the roses in her wreath were scarce so
delicate in hue. The lovely glade, the solemn, flower-piled altar, the
beautiful priestess—it was not Melnos, it was not the nineteenth
century, for this was Arcadia; and in this bird-haunted dell was Flora
discovered, weaving flowers for future summer’s adornment.
“Are you Nymph, Dryad, or Oread?” he asked, pausing with one foot on the
lowest step.
“No; I am Chloris, the goddess of flowers,” she answered, entering into
the spirit of his jesting speech.
“Give me, then, O goddess, of your treasures!”
“Violet, rose, and cyclamen! take them all,” she cried merrily, and
threw a rain of many-colored flowers on the laughing, upturned face of
the young man. Then, while he bent to pick up one crimson bud which had
fallen at his feet, she burst out into one of those old English songs
her father had taught her:—
“Rose and myrtle all are twining,
In their beauty thus combining,
To become a chaplet fair
For my shepherd’s golden hair.
Fa la! la! la!
My Colin dear.”
“Clearly,” quoth Maurice, with a smile, “this wreath is meant for me,
for I have golden hair.”
Helena smiled, and continued both her garland-weaving and her song.
“If you ask who is my dearest,
It is he who loiters nearest;
And for him this chaplet fair
Do I weave with flowerets rare.
Fa la! la! la!
My Colin dear.”
“Better and better!” said the lover, mounting the steps. “I am nearest!
I have yellow locks, so I decidedly am Colin dear!”
They were now standing on either side of the altar, with the rainbow
heap of flowers between them; and, despite Maurice’s boldness in thus
coming so close to his goddess, he was now seized with a fit of shyness,
which communicated itself to the sympathetic Helena, so they gazed with
embarrassment at one another, tongue-tied, with burning cheeks.
“Where is Zoe?” asked Maurice, breaking the awkward silence.
“Zoe,” replied Helena demurely, “is assisting Dick to find more
flowers.”
“And, pray, what is Dick doing here?”
“Aha! you must ask Zoe.”
“I would rather ask you.”
Helena glanced at him with a laugh, then suddenly flushed crimson, and
sat down on the steps, with the white lap of her gown full of flowers.
“I am no oracle to give answers,” she replied, carefully selecting some
buds.
“That means you are no goddess,” said Maurice, sitting down a step
lower, and looking up into her charming face. “Well, I prefer you as a
mortal maiden. But what about Colin’s wreath?”
“I am weaving it now.”
“Roses for love, myrtle for joy, violets for modesty. What a charming
wreath!”
“Ah, you know the language of flowers!”
“I know what this wreath means—‘Modest love is a joy.’ Am I right?”
“Yes—no—yes—that is—Oh dear me! Is it not a lovely day?”
“Is it not a lovely face? Very lovely.”
“I speak of the day.”
“And I of you.”
Decidedly Maurice was getting on capitally in the art of saying nothings
which mean somethings, and Helena was woman enough to know what he was
hinting at, yet also woman enough to indulge in a little coquetry. She
had burnt her fingers with Caliphronas; yet, quite forgetful of the
warning, began to tease Maurice with charming persistence.
“Am I very lovely?”
“You are as beautiful as Helen,” replied Maurice, rather taken aback at
the directness of this question.
“I am as beautiful as Helen! Well, I am Helen; so you mean I am as
beautiful as myself. That is not a compliment.”
“What a vain child you are! I am speaking of the Trojan Helen.”
“I am not a child. I am nineteen years of age—and a woman.”
“I believe that, for you possess all the art of a woman in tormenting a
man. Where did you learn it?”
“Learn what?”
“The art of being cruel, kind, merry, sad, delightful, yet tormenting.”
“Do you mean to say I possess all these contradictory qualities at one
and the same time?”
“Well, you are capricious at times.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Helena pettishly, resuming her task. “Then I must be
full of faults.”
“They are very charming faults, at all events.”
“I am not listening, Maurice. I am too busy with this wreath.”
“My wreath.”
“I did not say it was yours.”
“Not in words, perhaps; but then, you see, I can read the language of
the eyes.”
Helena blushed at this, but, purposely misunderstanding the hint, made
demure reply.
“Ah, you see my education has been neglected in that particular branch.”
“Shall I teach you?”
“I am afraid you will find me a bad pupil.”
“I don’t mind taking that risk, Helena.”
He laid his hand on one of hers with a caressing gesture, upon which she
let it remain, but snatched up a cornflower with the other.
“Look what a beautiful blossom!”
“It is the color of your eyes.”
“No, no; I mean this red rose.”
“The tint of your cheeks.”
“I hate compliments,” said Helena in a dignified way, trying to release
her hand from his warm grasp.
“Always?”
“Yes, always; unless I like the person who pays them.”
“And in this case?”
“I—I—don’t know.”
“Let me read the truth in your eyes.”
She looked up with a pretty gesture of mock despair, but, meeting the
tenderness of his look, dropped her eyes in confusion, while Maurice,
shifting his seat, slipped his left arm round her slender waist, still
holding her hand gently.
“Helena!”
No answer.
“Helena, do you know what your eyes tell me?”
No answer.
“They say that you will not be cruel enough to refuse me your love.”
“My love!” she murmured confusedly.
“Yes,” he whispered passionately. “I said you were capricious. You are
not capricious, but true, loving, and charming beyond expression—a very
woman, whom I love, and who loves me in return. Helena!”
All the virginal passion of this island maiden burned like red roses in
her cheeks, as Maurice drew her slender form closer to his breast, and
murmured broken sentences of love in her ear.
“I love, you! I love you, Helena! I saw your face in a picture, and I
loved the face; now I see the woman, and I love the woman. My dearest!
my darling! say you love me just a little!”
“I cannot say that,” she whispered, hiding her face on his shoulder.
“Oh, Helena!”
“Because I love you a great deal.”
“My darling!”
She lay in his strong arms, with her head on his shoulder, blushing with
maidenly fear at the ardor of his passion; then Maurice, bending down
his comely head, pressed a kiss on her lips.
“My dearest! my own!” he murmured rapturously; “how I love you! love
you! love you!”
Lost in the overwhelming deeps of each other’s affection, they remained
silent, filled with feelings too deep for words, too inexplicable to be
translated otherwise than by sighs and glances. The delicate voices of
the woodlands sounded in their ears, the brilliant colors blazed in the
luminous light, the sun shone, the birds sang, but they heard nothing,
saw nothing; for, with their hearts beating, their souls blending, their
lips meeting, they were far away from this earth in the heaven of love.
There was something sacred about this outburst of passion, which sent a
thrill of fear through their breasts; for this was no vulgar affection,
no sensual desire, no mere adoration of outward beauty, but a chaste
union of two souls, in which the woman’s melted into the man’s as a
dream into a dream. The virginal purity of the young girl experienced no
repulsion in this case, as it had felt when near to the frank animal
passion of the handsome Greek; and Helena, exquisite blossom of
maidenhood, lay in her lover’s arms without shame or dread, for she knew
that this clinging clasp, these broken sighs, this vivid ardor, were the
outcome of a love as pure and chaste as was her own; so there she lay,
cradled on his beating heart, and the birds around sang their betrothal
song, as doubtless they carolled to our first parents in the garden of
Eden. Time was not, earth had vanished, humanity was but an empty name,
for, clinging together with passionate ardor, they were all in all to
one another, and the divinity which clothed them with his splendors was
no rosy, mischievous urchin, with his bundle of arrows, but a terrible,
unseen, unknown, unfelt deity, who now, for the first time, had
permitted them to enter into his Holy of holies, and touched with their
lips the burning coals of his sacred altar.
Alas! mighty as are the pinions of Love, they weary in that divine
atmosphere of transcendentalism; so, folding his wings, he ceased his
song of bliss, and dropped like a tired lark to the earth. The lovers
awoke from their mystic trance, and looked at one another with wide-eyed
rapture; then Helena, with a happy sigh, once more laid her head on her
lover’s shoulder, and began to talk of earthly matters.
“My father!”
“Your father will be delighted, my dearest. He told me that this was the
dearest wish of his heart.”
“Ah! is he so anxious, then, to lose me?”
“No, he will not lose you, my sweet queen. For when we are married we
will still dwell in Melnos, and reign over it through years of
happiness.”
“My father wants you to be his successor?”
“Yes; and to marry you. So if you fulfil the first, I will accept the
second.”
“I will marry you whenever you like,” said beautiful Helena, smiling
through her tears. “But will you not weary of staying here?”
“With you? never!”
“Ah, it is I who am the attraction—not Melnos!”
“It is both; but in my eyes you are before everything else in the
world.”
“And if you grow tired of me?”
“I will never grow tired of you!”
Helena picked up a rose from her lap and held it up to him.
“This rose is very beautiful, but it fades. Is your love like the rose?”
“Yes; but not because the rose fades. My love is like the rose-plant
itself, which renews itself afresh with every coming of summer. In this
island it blooms all the year round; and my love will be the same.”
“Will you not regret your home, your money, your position?”
“My dearest, none of those things brought me happiness. I was a weary,
mournful man, tired of life, tired of myself, tired of all around me;
then by chance I saw your face, and it was as a star in the darkness of
my night. I followed that star, and it led me to happiness, and to you!”
“So we will live here?”
“Till our days be ended. You will be queen, and I your very humble slave
and lover. No; I do not desire to return to the world, with all its
tumult, ambitions, and fret. I am weary of the crowded cities, the
haggard faces, the gray skies of England. I only care to live in this
lotus-land with you, my angel, to wander with you amid the fair flowers,
yourself the fairest of all; to sleep at dusk with your loving arms
around me, to awake at dawn under your caress; and thus to live in
paradise until we meet in a still brighter paradise beyond the grave.”
“Will we meet beyond the grave?”
“Helena!”
“I know nothing of religion, my dearest. Indeed, it is not my fault, for
my father has always refused to answer my questions. He would not allow
old Athanasius to speak to me of sacred things, and I know nothing, save
that there is an Almighty Being called God.”
“And your father?”
“Believes the same. Look!”
She pointed to the majestic block of white marble behind her, and there
was deeply sculptured the one word “Θεόν.”
“So of old the Athenians erected an altar to πρὸς τὸν ἀγναστον Θεόν,”
said Maurice sadly, rather puzzled to know what to do. “My dearest, I am
no saint, to be able to instruct you in such things; and I am afraid my
views are not what the Church would approve of. However, my dear old
friend and tutor, Mr. Carriston, is, I trust, coming out here to see me;
and he will marry us, and tell you all you wish to know of sacred
things.”
They had risen to their feet, and were standing looking at that solemn
altar, so noble in its hugeness amid the encircling green. No relic of
paganism sculptured with nude figures, with wreathes and nymphs and
long-drawn pomp of Panhellenic festival, but a severely plain mass of
stainless stone, with no other indication of its meaning than the mystic
word “Θεόν” cut thereon. After looking at it in silence for a few
minutes, Helena gathered up her flowers in order to return home, for the
sun was now at his zenith, and the heat intolerable.
“Oh, not yet!” entreated Maurice, anxious to prolong the sweet
communion; “you must make me my wreath.”
“Are you Colin?”
“I think so,” he said, kissing her fondly.
“So do I,” she replied demurely; “therefore, Colin, I will finish your
garland.”
Once more she sat down on the steps and began busily wreathing the
flowers together in long fragrant strings, while Maurice, lying
lover-like at her feet on the flowery turf, looked ever up into the
delicate beauty of her face, and wondered at his good fortune in being
loved by such an enchanting divinity.
Zoe and Dick came back armed with flowers, and Dick grinned somewhat
sheepishly as he saw Maurice smile. A fellow-feeling, however, makes us
wondrous kind, so Maurice made no remark, but sent Zoe and her swain
with their newly gathered flowers down to the Acropolis.
“Do you think Dick is in love with Zoe?” asked Helena, when the laughter
of the sailor and his companion had died away.
“Do I think you are in love with me?” retorted Maurice lazily. “My
dearest, Dick is as much in love with that wicked little brunette, as I
am with a certain charming blonde.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Helena complacently. “I do not wish to lose
Zoe.”
“You must when she marries.”
“Oh no! If Dick becomes her husband, he will stay here. I’m sure he
would not mind, as he is very fond of you.”
“That’s very kind of him, considering the battering I gave him
yesterday.”
“Oh, Maurice, it was terrible!”
“For Dick?”
“No; for you.”
“Poor Dick! he got the worst of it, yet you pity me.”
“Ah, but you see I’m not engaged to Dick,” said Helena gravely, holding
out a wreath to him.
“No; but Zoe is. At least, if she is not now, she soon will be. But
come, Helena, fasten this wreath round my hat.”
Helena obediently did so, and then placed it on her lover’s head, upon
which he gave her a kiss, and insisted that she should deck herself with
the remaining flowers. Nothing loath, Helena did so, and was shortly one
mass of delicious bloom, from which her face peered out like some
laughing Dryad. Rose-wreath on her golden head, green myrtle girding her
slender waist, and flowers of myriad hues bedecking her dress, she
looked indeed like Chloris, the goddess of flowers, to whom Maurice had
so often compared her.
“Come, my dearest,” he said, taking her hand, “and I will lead the
Spring down to the valley. We are not Maurice and Helena, but Florizel
and Perdita, shepherd and shepherdess; so come, my dearest, adown the
mountain.”
They walked slowly along, talking all kinds of charming nonsense, and
laughing merrily, he rose-wreathed like an ancient Hellene, she decked,
like a goddess of the spring, with delicate blossoms, and both full of
mirth and joy and happiness, which bubbled from their lips in gushes of
liquid song.
CHAPTER XVIII.
PUNIC FAITH.
’Tis difficult, when dealing with a knave,
To know what course of conduct to pursue,
Yet if to win the victory you crave,
Strict honesty you must perforce eschew;
Like him, all craftily you must behave,
Or else he certainly will conquer you.
This golden rule remember when you meet him,
A scoundrel’s weapons must be used to beat him.
It took Caliphronas some considerable time to recover his usual serenity
of temper, as never during his whole life had his vanity received such a
blow as this refusal of Helena’s to marry him. Hitherto the Greek had
been so much petted by all on account of his beauty, especially by
women, that he had become quite a spoiled child, and looked upon it as
his right that every whim he took into his handsome head should be
gratified. To express a wish, and have it at once fulfilled, appeared to
him to be the proper mode of behaving towards him, and it was a severe
wound to his arrogant self-complacency to find that the only woman he
cared about should refuse to yield to the dearest wish of his heart.
His love for Helena was purely a sensual feeling, based on the feminine
beauty of the girl, so, when he found himself scorned in such a way,
this animal affection speedily merged in the stronger feeling of intense
hatred. Formerly he had regarded Helena as a charming toy, who would do
him credit as his wife, and satisfy his artistic requirements by her
womanly grace; but now he regarded her in the light of a bitter enemy,
one who deserved to be punished for the infamous way in which she had
slighted his addresses. Nothing would have given Caliphronas greater
gratification than to mar that lovely face he had so much admired, and
he would have liked to drag Helena through the gutter, and render her an
object of pity and derision to all the world, in order to satiate his
vengeance against her.
Had he been a Turkish Bashaw, he would doubtless have tied the offending
beauty up in a sack and dropped her into the Bosphorus; had he been a
Russian boyar, he would have done his best to get her exiled to Siberia;
but, as he was neither the one nor the other, and was in his present
position quite unable to treat her as cruelly as he wished, with
devilish ingenuity he hit upon the only mode in which he could hope to
gratify his petty spite against a woman, whose only crime was that she
did not admire him as much as he admired himself.
The Count’s little scheme of revenge was not complex, as he merely
intended to call upon Justinian to keep his word, and force his daughter
into the marriage, and, once she was his wife, punish her in a way of
which he felt himself thoroughly capable, that is, by worrying her to
death. A petty, spiteful, narrow-minded man like the Greek had quite a
gift in annoying those people whom he disliked, and by assiduously
exercising this ignoble talent, could hope to render unbearable the life
of even the happiest and most long-suffering person. Besides, if he grew
tired of Helena, he could easily force her to leave Melnos, for her
father was so old that he would soon be in his dotage, and thus could
not protect the girl, in which case Caliphronas would be free to act as
his spiteful nature dictated.
As to Justinian’s breaking faith with him, such a thing never entered
into the Count’s mind for a moment, and, scoundrel as he was himself, he
hardly dreamed that any one would be astute enough to beat him with his
own weapons, least of all the Demarch, who had hitherto acted towards
him in a strictly honorable way. Strong diseases, however, require
strong remedies, and, had the deceiving of Caliphronas not been
imperative for the salvation of the island, Justinian would certainly
not have stooped to such duplicity. Caliphronas, therefore, ready to
betray the Demarch if the fancy took him, never thought the Demarch
would betray him, and thus relied blindly on the promise of the forced
marriage being fulfilled, in which case this consummate scamp decided to
sacrifice Helena in the most painful manner which he could devise, for
the gratification of his wounded pride.
That Maurice loved Helena he knew well enough, for had not the mere
sight of that lovely face brought the young man from England to this
semi-civilized island of the Ægean; but as to whether the passion was
reciprocal, Caliphronas felt doubtful, as he had never espied anything
in the girl’s demeanor towards his rival to inspire him with such a
belief. But whether she loved this young Englishman or not, the Count
was quite indifferent, as he had Justinian’s promise that, with her
consent or without it, Helena should be his. As it turned out, the
marriage, if it took place, would be without her consent, but this the
Greek deemed a small matter, and therefore repaired to the Acropolis
with the full determination to force the Demarch to keep his word. It
was in this rosy light that Caliphronas looked at the circumstances of
the case, and he never thought of what he should do in the event of
things turning out otherwise, for the simple reason that, in his blind
arrogance, he deemed himself too powerful to be thwarted in any way; so,
disguising his chagrin under an air of triumph, he went in the afternoon
to meet Justinian, and his fate.
Strolling along the mulberry-tree avenue, Caliphronas, anticipating
quite a brilliant career of scoundrelism, began to build castles in the
air, which were all inhabited by one person—himself. Justinian was old,
and would soon die, or, at all events, putting his much-desired death
out of the question, would shortly become incapable of managing the
affairs of the island, therefore this goodly heritage would soon revert
to Count Constantine Caliphronas, better known as Andros, the shepherd
boy. This humble birth, however, he would sink in oblivion, and become
widely known as Prince Caliphronas, the sole survivor of a famous
Fanariot family. Helena, of course, he would marry, in order to revenge
himself, and when he grew weary of her beauty and his revenge, there
were plenty of ways of getting her shipped off to Stamboul, where she
could be finally disposed of in some jealously guarded harem. Then he
would be sole ruler of the Isle of Melnos, and make it a dwelling after
his own heart, for, after turning both Crispin and the Englishman off
the island, he would set up a princely establishment in this Ægean
paradise.
What with the exports of wines, silks, pottery, olives, and grapes, he
would be able to realize a magnificent income, which he would apply, not
to the aid and assistance of the Melnosians, but to his own enjoyment.
He would build a palace, have troops of servants, a pleasure yacht, and
could also give rein to his sensuality in the matter of the most
beautiful women. As to carrying out Justinian’s foolish dream of a new
Hellas, of course that was ridiculous, and his first act on becoming
Demarch of Melnos would be to abolish the three days’ festival, so that
the Melnosians could live like other insular Greeks, on such amusements
as they could provide for themselves. Besides, the title Demarch only
meant Mayor, and was hardly lordly enough for such a magnificent person
as he intended to be. He would call himself Prince of Melnos, and who
knows but what, with the assistance of Alcibiades and a few other
scoundrels of the same kidney with whom he was acquainted, he would not
be able to extend his principality so as to include all the surrounding
islands. Then Crete, under Turkish misrule, would be glad to come under
his protection, and Rhodes also—in fact, a few years might see the whole
Cyclades acknowledging him as their sovereign. In that case, he would be
powerful enough to measure himself against the Greek Government, who,
perhaps, weary of a foreign king, might be persuaded or forced to drive
away King George, and place the Prince of Melnos on the vacant throne.
In fact, while indulging in these Alnaschar-like visions, Caliphronas
was rapidly foreseeing the conquest of Constantinople, and himself
seated on the golden throne of the Palæologi, as Emperor of the East,
when the sight of the Acropolis, directly in front of him, dispelled
these glowing dreams, and he ascended the steps rather dolefully, with
the conviction that, as yet, all his fine schemes were in the clouds.
Pausing a moment on the threshold, in order to quite recover his usual
jaunty manner, the future Emperor, but present adventurer, drew aside
the curtain and entered the court, to find himself confronted by
Justinian, his daughter, and their two guests. The old Demarch reclined
in a capacious chair beside the fountain, smoothing the golden hair of
Helena, who was seated at his feet. On the back of the chair leaned
Maurice, laughing at some trivial remark, and Crispin, balanced
perilously on the marble rim of the pool, was irritating Argos, who
strutted near with his gorgeous tail spread out to its fullest extent.
All of them looked remarkably happy, especially Justinian, whose stern
face was glowing with pleasure, and in Helena’s eyes shone the light of
undying love as she glanced shyly, from time to time, at her joyous
lover, so strong, so handsome, and so noble.
When Caliphronas appeared at the entrance, however, all this merriment
vanished; for Helena, mindful of the previous night, sprang to her feet,
with an indignant look at the advancing Greek, and the faces of Maurice
and the poet assumed a cold expression of keen disapproval. Not so
Justinian, who, quite enjoying the situation, received his enemy with a
bland smile, which, had Caliphronas but known it, boded ill for the
success of his mission.
“Helena, my child,” said the Demarch quietly, “will you leave us for a
little while. I have some business with Count Caliphronas.”
Helena needed no second bidding, but, with an angry glance at her
rejected lover, walked quickly to the curtains, through which she
vanished, but not before sending a sweet smile in the direction of
Maurice. Caliphronas saw that smile, and felt uneasy as to the meaning
of it, but he became still more uneasy, when the Demarch, without asking
him to be seated, addressed him formally as Count Caliphronas.
“Why do you not call me Andros?” asked the Greek apprehensively.
“I understood you called yourself Count Caliphronas,” replied Justinian
smoothly, “and, naturally, I give you that title. Of course, I thought
you were but a shepherd boy, who, in default of god-parents, had to be
called by the name of your birthplace. However, I am wrong, as it seems
you are the offspring of a noble family, and have a title.”
“I don’t know what you mean by talking to me like this!” said the Count
in rather a cowed manner, feeling that the speech of the Demarch was
decidedly hostile in tone. “I wish to speak to you alone.”
“You can speak to me in the presence of these gentlemen,” retorted the
old man coolly; “they know all my secrets.”
“All?” said Caliphronas in a meaning tone.
“As far as you are concerned—yes!”
“Beware, Justinian!” cried the Count in Greek, whereupon the Demarch
ruthlessly interrupted him.
“You had better speak English. I prefer it.”
This was quite the dictatorial Demarch of old, strangely unlike the
yielding Justinian of the last few weeks, so Caliphronas, feeling more
and more uneasy, burst out into a torrent of rapid English.
“What do you mean? Why do you talk like this? Have you forgotten your
promise to me?”
“What promise?”
“Your promise that I should marry Helena!”
“Oh yes, yes! I remember something about that. Well, have you asked her
to marry you?”
“I have, and she has refused me,” said Caliphronas sullenly.
“In that case, I am afraid you cannot marry her.”
“Cannot marry her!” stammered Caliphronas, the rich color of his face
fading to a dull gray; “but you promised to make her marry me.”
“Did I? then I break that promise!”
“You break it! And what about my succeeding you as Demarch of Melnos.”
“I break that also!”
Caliphronas, too startled to speak, stood looking blankly at the
Demarch, pale as the marble pillar against which he leaned. Much as he
disliked him, Maurice could not but feel sorry for the shame and agony
felt by the baffled schemer. Twice, thrice, he tried to answer
Justinian, but the words died away feebly on his parched lips, while the
Demarch, relentless in his anger, spoke cruelly and deliberately, as if
to torture still further the wretched man before him.
“You are astonished at my thus acting so dishonorably. I am astonished
myself, as never before have I broken a promise once made, even to the
meanest person. However, in this case, necessity demanded that I should
make use of you as a tool, in order to gain my own ends, and I have done
so, with the fullest intention of defeating your schemes. Ah yes, my
dear friend, I know perfectly well that you would have betrayed me to
Alcibiades, had I not, by a stroke of diplomacy, secured you to my
interests, by promising to give you my daughter and make you my
successor. Had I not done so, you would have joined the ranks of my
enemies, and I, being ignorant of their schemes, would have been at a
disadvantage in defending my property. Therefore, knowing you were ready
to play the traitor, unless bribed to remain true to your benefactor,
you can hardly wonder that I made use of you, to learn the plans of
those who were dangerous to me in every way. A man cannot serve two
masters, and as the question of whose side you would embrace was simply
one of bribery, I took advantage of your baseness. I bribed you! I
promised you all you wished, without the slightest intention of
fulfilling such promise. From you I have learned all I wish to know, and
am now in a position to baffle both your ambition and that of
Alcibiades. Between two stools you have fallen ignominiously to the
ground; and now, having no further use for you, traitor and ingrate as
you are, I command you to leave my island this very day.”
During this long speech the Greek made neither sound nor movement, but,
like a beaten hound, cowered before the lash of Justinian’s scornful
words. When the Demarch ended, he raised his head with a bitter smile on
his pallid face, and flung out his hand threateningly towards the
speaker.
“You do well, Justinian, to say you are prepared,” he said in a hoarse
voice; “you do well to be on your guard; for I swear by the Panagia
herself to ruin you and your schemes before the end of another month.
Had you been true to me, I would have remained true to you; but now”—
“Most virtuous scoundrel!” cried Justinian scornfully; “you were anxious
to guard what you thought was already your own, and now make a boast of
doing that which you were bribed to do. As to your threat to ruin me, go
and do your worst! I defy both you and your precious friend Alcibiades!”
“You have every reason to be grateful to me. I have told you all the
schemes of your enemies.”
“Yes; you betrayed them as you would have betrayed me, had their bribe
been the larger. Gratitude! gratitude! you dare to speak of that to me,
to whom you owe everything! Who were you? Nobody! What were you?
Nothing! I found you a poor rustic in the Island of Andros, and trained
you up to be my successor—which you would have been, had I not
discovered in time your heartless, fickle, scoundrelly nature.
Gratitude, forsooth! and you, ingrate, turning to bite the hand that has
fed you all these years. You owe me everything, I owe you nothing, save
the contempt that an ungrateful hound like you deserves for such
treachery as you meditated. You would have sold me, you Judas! you would
have betrayed a man who has been a father to you! But I have baffled
you! I have tricked you! and you are now reaping the reward of your own
vile actions. Go! quit my sight, ungrateful wretch! lest I pass from
words to actions, and spurn you from the threshold which your very
presence pollutes.”
“I will go,” cried the Greek, with venomous spitefulness; “but I will
return, with an army at my back, to ruin you and yours. I will wreck
your island, I will make of you a slave; and as for your daughter”—
“Not a word about that lady,” said Maurice firmly, stepping forward and
taking part in the conversation for the first time; “she is to be my
wife!”
“Your wife!” hissed the Greek furiously. “Never! never! I will drag that
fine piece of purity from your arms to the gutter. I will”—
“You d—d reptile!” cried the Englishman, white with passion; “say
another word, and I’ll break your neck!”
Caliphronas, having had some experience of Royland’s strength, judged it
wise not to say another word; but, turning on his benefactor, poured out
the vials of his wrath on the old man’s head.
“So this is why you brought him from England!” he said fiercely; “to
marry Helena! You promised that if I fulfilled your desire, and lured
him to Melnos, I would be your daughter’s husband”—
“If she accepted you, yes—if she refused you, no!”
“So you say now. Oh, I have been your tool and slave all along!”
“You have. I have met treachery with treachery, and baffled you.”
“I have obeyed your wishes,” hissed the Greek venomously; “I have kept
your secrets, but I will do so no longer. Whom you are, and what you
are, I will tell this man.”
“Be silent, wretch!”
“I will not be silent; I have been silent too long. You have betrayed
me, so now I will betray you. Maurice Roylands, look at this so-called
Justinian. Do you know whom he is? An outcast Englishman, a renegade
adventurer—your uncle Rudolph!”
“My uncle Rudolph!” replied Maurice, aghast.
“Yes. It was he who sent me to England for you; it is he who is heir to
your fine estate; and you—you are nothing but a pauper!”
“Crispin, turn that man out!” commanded the Demarch, rising. “Go to the
western pass, Count Caliphronas, and there you will find a boat in
charge of Alexandros. Leave this island before nightfall, or, by heaven,
I will have you drowned like the rat you are!”
“I go,” retorted the Greek fiercely, retreating before Crispin, and
clutching the curtains. “I go; but when I return, I swear by all the
saints that you shall suffer agonies for every word you have uttered
to-day. Scoundrel! wretch! renegade! outcast! _Và và!_”
And, uttering the bitterest malediction he could think of, the beaten
schemer vanished from the Acropolis, and later on from the island
itself; from whence he doubtless went to Kamila, in search of
Alcibiades, to assist him in his plans of revenge.
“Thank heaven, that is all over!” said Justinian, when they were once
more alone. “Now, at least, it will be open war, and not hidden
treachery, Maurice!”
“And you are really my uncle Rudolph?” said Roylands, grasping the
outstretched hand of the Demarch.
“Really and truly! Now you know the meaning of so many things which have
so often puzzled you. Did you never suspect the truth?”
“Never!” answered his nephew emphatically; “but Crispin”—
“Crispin knew it all along,” said the poet quickly; “but, as I had given
my sacred word to keep silence, of course I could say nothing.”
“I am glad you are my uncle, Justinian.”
“Oh, I am still Justinian, then!” said Rudolph, with a smile, as he
shook his nephew heartily by the hand. “Well, it is better so; I am too
old to learn new tricks, and, after forty years of Greek life, I cannot
turn Englishman in one moment.”
“Of course Roylands Grange is now yours.”
“Boy, boy,” observed the old Demarch, laying his hand on the young man’s
shoulder, “do you think so meanly of me as that? Were I a pauper, I
would not deprive you of a single acre; but, being as I am, rich and
happy, I would indeed be base to take your estate when I have all this.”
“Still, you are the head of our house.”
“A head that will soon be in the grave. No, no, my son, the property is
yours; and if you have any scruples, why, then, are you not going to
marry your cousin? so the Grange will still belong to you, and yet
remain with the elder branch of the family.”
“Why, Helena is my first cousin!”
“Of course she is!”
“A second Eunice,” said Crispin, smiling, “only not so charming.”
“Crispin! Helena is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“So is Eunice.”
“Come, that’s nonsense, you know!” objected Maurice warmly; “there can’t
be two most beautiful women in the world.”
Justinian settled the matter by bursting out laughing.
“Every one thinks his own crow the whitest,” he said gayly; “but come,
leave off arguing about the merits of your respective lady-loves. We
have other things to think of.”
“The coming war, eh?”
“Yes. Andros will do as he says, and bring Alcibiades here with his band
of scoundrels. Well,” added the Demarch, with a grim smile, “they will
get a rather warm reception when they do come. The Roylands are a
fighting family.”
“Ah, now I understand how you made that allusion before,” said Maurice
quickly; “and now I come to think of it, what with the many hints you
dropped, I must have been blind not to guess the truth.”
“When a man has been numbered with the dead forty years, it is hard to
believe that he is alive,” said the Demarch philosophically.
“You must have had a strange life, uncle.”
“Very,” replied Justinian, gratified by the title. “To-night, when
Helena has retired to bed, I will tell you all my adventures since
leaving the Grange.”
“Does Helena know I am her cousin?”
“She knows nothing beyond the fact that I am Demarch of Melnos. No, my
son, you have wooed and won your bride entirely on your merits, so now
you can understand how delighted I am at the prospect of this marriage,
which will blend both the elder and younger branch of the family in one
common line.”
“Can I tell Helena?”
“Certainly, whenever you please.”
“Here is Helena now,” said Crispin, as the girl, looking rather pale,
entered the court. “Come here, sister Helena; Maurice has something to
tell you.”
“About Caliphronas?” asked Helena, coming up close to her father.
“No, my dear,” said her father, kissing her fondly. “Caliphronas has
received the reward of his treachery, and has left Melnos forever.”
“I am glad of that, father,” said the girl, with a sigh of relief. “You
can have no idea how I disliked him. But has he been treacherous?”
“Very; he wanted to give up Melnos to Alcibiades.”
“Did he dare?”
“Yes; and was only deterred from doing so by being promised both
yourself and the island.”
“But, father,” cried Helena in great distress, “you did not want me to
marry Caliphronas?”
“Never! I wished you to marry Maurice.”
“Well, your wishes are going to be fulfilled,” said Helena, with a
lovely smile, turning to her lover.
“Helena,” remarked Maurice, with mock solemnity, taking her hands, “look
at me carefully.”
“I am doing so with both eyes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Of course—Maurice Roylands.”
“And what else?”
“My—my future husband,” said the girl, with an amused smile.
“Still, I am something even more.”
“I don’t understand,” began Helena in bewilderment, when Justinian
interposed.
“Do not tease the child so, Maurice. Helena, this is your future husband
and your first cousin.”
“My cousin!”
“By all the laws of the Medes and Persians,” said Maurice, kissing her.
“Your father is my long-lost uncle Rudolph, of whom I have spoken, and
you, my sweet bride to be, are my dear coz Helena.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
A ROLLING STONE.
In olden days folks mostly stayed at home,
Nor e’er in quest of unknown lands departed,
And tho’ some ne’er-do-weels at times would roam,
They came back poorer than the day they started:
From which disastrous lives there comes alone
That foolish proverb of a rolling stone.
If such advice in earnest we obeyed,
Its narrow views would certainly benumb us;
The progress of the world would be delayed,
For lack of Marco Polo and Columbus!
They tore aside the veil which hid our eyes,
And showed us unknown worlds and unknown skies.
So now that proverb trite is obsolete;
Our enterprise has made far lands alluring,
And north and south our fellow-men we meet,
With Cook and Gaze in restless parties touring,
A rolling stone gains something for its loss,
And polish is more valuable than moss.
In due time Alexandros came back to the Acropolis, and reported that
Caliphronas had left the island in a small boat, and when last seen his
craft was running before the wind in the direction of Kamila. On hearing
this, Justinian had no doubt but that the Greek was on his way to stir
up Alcibiades to immediate action; therefore resolved to lose no time in
putting Melnos in a thorough state of defence. In the meantime, he
placed a strong guard at the gate of the tunnel and in the western pass,
so as to prevent the island being taken by surprise. At all events,
there was no special necessity for prompt action, as Caliphronas had
only departed that day, and in all probability Alcibiades would not
attack Melnos for at least one week.
Privately, Maurice wondered if the Greek, adrift in a small boat, would
succeed in reaching land safely, as, judging from his terror on the
night of the shipwreck, he had not much pluck in foul weather. The sky,
however, was perfectly clear, and there was no chance of the castaway
being caught in a storm, so Justinian laughed at the fears of his
nephew, and bade him set his mind at peace. Caliphronas, he said, knew
the waters of the Ægean Sea well, he had but a few miles to sail before
reaching Kamila, and once there he would doubtless meet with some of
Alcibiades’ followers to guide him to their chief. In his innermost
heart, the old Demarch rather regretted that Caliphronas should thus
escape safely, and would not have grieved much had the treacherous scamp
been drowned in the sea, instead of reaching Alcibiades without harm,
and stirring up that accomplished cut-throat to immediate war. There was
no chance, however, of such an event happening, and Justinian quite
expected within the week to see the Melnosian waters covered with the
boats of his bitter enemies.
Helena was much astonished and delighted to find that Maurice was her
cousin, and though she could scarcely be more in love with him than she
already was, yet felt that this bond of blood-relationship bound him to
her by a nearer and dearer tie than even that of her future husband.
They talked of a thousand things in connection with their future life,
but neither of them dreamed of returning to the family seat in England,
but hoped, when this war-cloud had blown over, to pass the rest of their
lives untouched by sorrow in this lotus-land of the East. Maurice, in
common with Crispin, was anxiously expecting letters from home, but as
yet none had reached them; so to all appearances it looked as though
they would be blockaded in the island by the pirates before any
communication arrived at Syra.
On the day of Caliphronas’ departure, however, they were thinking but
little of these things, as Maurice was anxious to learn the history of
his uncle; while Rudolph Roylands on his part—now being able to talk
freely of himself, owing to the revelation of his identity—was desirous
of hearing all about his late brother, the ancestral estate, and the
present position of the Roylands family. He did not want to speak of
these things before Helena, as he judged the girl had undergone quite
enough excitement for the present, and, besides, there were many things
in his own career which he did not care about speaking of before this
innocent child.
Justinian was not a bad man; but, having one of those restless,
adventurous spirits, whose impulsiveness leads them into strange
scrapes, had during his sojourn in the Levant indulged in many
escapades, which, if not exactly criminal, were yet daring and lawless
enough to startle a sober-minded person. The serious Justinian of the
present was very different from the dashing Rudolph of the past; and as
his daughter knew him only in his reverend old age, and respected him as
the wisest, kindest, and best of men, he naturally did not want to
disturb that feeling by a narration of the wild adventures of his
somewhat scampish youth.
Therefore it was not until Helena had retired to rest that he told
Maurice his story; and the three men sat up till nearly morning; the
eldest talking in the Arabian Nights vein, and the two younger listening
with rapt attention to the fascinating career of this free-lance of the
Middle Ages, born by some strange chance among the respectabilities of
the nineteenth century. Passionate as Benvenuto Cellini, ambitious as
the first Napoleon, reckless as Cæsar Borgia, and fascinating as Lord
Byron, this extraordinary being possessed all those vices, virtues,
charm, and astuteness, we find, not in our military machines of to-day,
but in those brilliant adventurers of the Renaissance, who burned
fiercely over the troubled world of those days like wandering stars;
terribly grand to look upon, but carrying destruction and dread
everywhere as they swept onward in their fatal path.
After supper Helena retired, and Justinian went with his guests into the
cool court, where they comfortably seated themselves under the
star-strewn sky with coffee and tobacco. But the coffee grew cold and
the tobacco burned untasted to ashes, as Maurice and Crispin, with their
elbows on their knees, leaned forward to listen to the wondrous story of
this modern Ulysses, who had seen many lands, knew many people, and had
done many reckless, wild deeds during his stormy career.
Justinian himself grew excited like an old war-horse, as he told of his
early life; and it was easily seen that his spirit was as dauntless as
ever, that a thirst for adventure still possessed his soul, and that he
chafed bitterly at the inglorious ease to which his frail body condemned
him. His bright eyes flashed at the memories of his hot youth, and his
grand voice pealed trumpet-like through the still air, as he strode up
and down before his enthralled listeners, reciting deeds of derring-do
done in the times that had been.
“Yes, those were grand days in Bolivia,” he said, resuming his seat,
after an outburst of stormy passion, as old memories awoke in his brain.
“I feel carried away to the past when I talk of them. If Jumez had only
brought his troops up in time, I might have been President of a South
American Republic instead of Demarch of Melnos. Well, at all events, my
late years have been peaceful enough; and as President I would have had
but a stormy time, ending, very likely, in a violent death.”
“And after you left South America, uncle?”
“I came back to England in a sailing vessel. There was a mutiny on board
of her, which I and three other fellows managed to quell; but we held
our lives in our hands all the way until we got to England. When I left
the ship, I went down to Roylands in disguise, to look after my people,
and found them all happy. I had not killed your father, as I had feared;
and he was now married to Rose. They seemed happy enough, so I had not
the heart to disturb them. It would have been no pleasure to me to take
the estate from Austin, as I had plenty of that treasure I found in
Bolivia, and the life of a country gentleman was irksome to me. Besides,
the woman I had loved so fondly was now my brother’s wife; so I had
nothing to gain by revealing myself. I strayed about the old place for a
time, and then returned to London, in order to think of my future. I was
very wealthy, in the prime of life, and anxious for adventure, so at
first I thought of returning to the army, but on reflection I decided
that my first experience of soldiering had been quite enough, so turned
my attention to travelling, and went all over Europe, which tour I found
but tame work. Asia was more exciting, however; and I had some good
tiger-hunting in India. When I left that place, I went down Cape Town
way, and explored the southern wilds of Africa, which were even more
savage than they are now. I got this wound there in a row with the
niggers.”
He drew up his sleeve, and showed a white cicatrice on his arm, which
must have been a dangerous wound; and then began to tell of his African
adventures, of battles with savage tribes, of explorings in unknown
wilds, fights with wild beasts, elephant hunts, witchcraft ceremonies of
the Obi kind, until the listeners did not know at which to marvel most,
his memory or the bizarre existence he had led.
“I had five years of that sort of thing,” he went on, after a pause,
“and it became rather tiresome. Besides, I was now thirty-five years of
age, and thought it was best to settle down, but where I could not make
up my mind. He who has prairie fever once always gets it again, and it
sends him off on his travels into the wilds as if he were stung by the
gadfly of Io. What I wanted was some big work to keep my mind and body
busy; but, with all my wealth, I really did not see where I could find
such occupation. True, I might have remained in Africa, and become a
kind of savage king; but, with all my buccaneering leanings, I had
intellect enough to despise such rusting away in tropical forests beyond
the reach of civilization. I wished to exercise my brain as well as my
body; yet, in spite of all my hard thinking, no scheme appeared feasible
enough to give me work, interest, and pleasure when I had passed the
meridian of life. England I disliked returning to, as a cramped
existence in that gray little island would have sent me mad; and unless
I had asserted my right to Roylands, and entered Parliament, I did not
see how I could employ my time. Besides, I was averse to disturbing
Austin; and the prejudices I would meet with on all sides from
narrow-minded stay-at-homes would have sent me back again to a savage
life. Unlike the Genii in the “Arabian Nights,” I could not go back to
my jar after once being released therefrom.
“England, therefore, being out of the question, I had serious thoughts
of returning to South America, and exploring up the Orinoco river, where
they say all sorts of buried cities, civilized Indians, and golden
temples are to be found. Then, changing my mind, I almost decided to go
to San Francisco, and have a try at gold-digging. Feeling doubtful of
this being worth undertaking, I fancied Australia, where fortunes were
being made up Ballarat way, would suit me; but this idea I also
abandoned. I did not wish to make my fortune, as I already had more
money than I knew what to do with; and it was all safely invested in
England. You see, Maurice, I had the price of my army commission, which
was no great sum, my mother’s fortune, which was considerable, and also
that enormous Incas treasure I dug up near Lake Titicaco, which nearly
cost me my life, as I told you; so you can fancy I was quite a
millionnaire long before the days of Chicago pig-sticking and
Pennsylvanian oil wells.”
“How did you decide to come to the Ægean?”
“Well, that came about in a queer sort of way,” said the Demarch,
lighting his pipe. “When I was up at Zanzibar, which was about as far
north as I had then got, I met a poor devil of a Greek who was starving,
so took him about with me as a kind of companion. He had been mixed up
in the War of Independence, and got on the bad side of King Otho, who
was, at that time, ruling Greece about as badly as it could be ruled. My
Greek had a dream of reviving the old Hellenic learning; but with the
country under a Bavarian king, and overrun with brigands, he did not see
how this could be done. I told him of my desire to find something to
occupy my mind and body; so he suggested, as I had such a lot of money,
I ought to try to start a little kingdom of my own on an intellectual
basis. The idea took my fancy greatly, as I was always of an
administrative turn of mind; and then he told me about this island of
Melnos, and how it could be cultivated, fortified, and made into a kind
of Elysium by a man with capital. After some deliberation I decided to
do this, and pose as a second Lord Byron; therefore, with my Greek, I
went up the coast in a trading vessel, and into the Red Sea. It was very
uncivilized in those days, and we had all kinds of adventures, in one of
which my poor Hellene was knocked on the head; so I was left to battle
my way on alone over the isthmus to the Mediterranean.”
“I wonder you were not killed.”
“I was pretty nearly,” rejoined Justinian grimly; “especially up Suez
way. Of course, at that time, there was no canal, and no Suez; but I
managed somehow to get across the isthmus to Alexandria. I need not tell
you all my adventures from the time I left Zanzibar, as it would take
too long; but they were just as exciting as the Bolivian escapades, if
not quite as bloodthirsty.”
“You ought to publish a book of your career.”
“My dear Crispin, they would call me a second Baron Munchausen, for many
of my adventures would seem impossible in these tame days of Cook’s
tourist parties. The thirties were a great falling off from the
buccaneering times, but in these days the thirties seem quite
bloodthirsty; and where the next generation of born adventurers, such as
I was, will find scope for the exercise of their talents, I am sure I do
not know.”
“Well, uncle, and what did you do after Alexandria?”
“I came on to Athens to see about my new Hellas. There I hired a kind of
small schooner, and, with picked men, went down among the islands, until
I came across Melnos. I recognized it from the description of the Greek
at Zanzibar; and, having landed, climbed up over the peaks. When I saw
this valley, I was enchanted, for it was indeed a fortress, formed by
the hand of Nature herself. True, at first, I hesitated about
establishing a colony in the crater of an extinct volcano, for one would
never know when it would break out again. However, when I saw this
Temple of Hephaistos, I felt pretty safe, as the crater must have been
extinct when it was built by the old Hellenes, thousands of years
before. So I thought, if the volcano had kept quiet since the days of
Pericles, it would surely keep quiet for the next thousand years.”
“And probably will!”
“I hope so; at least I have seen no signs of eruption; besides, there is
a vent for the volcanic forces at Santorin, so that ought to preserve
Melnos intact forever. Well, as I said, I saw this island, found it
suitable for my proposed scheme, and went back to Athens, to buy it of
the Greek Government. There I was told the island belonged to Turkey, as
the Greek tributary islands only extend as far down as Santorin. Nothing
daunted, I went to Stamboul, and, after about a year’s hard work,
managed to buy Melnos for a good round sum—it was a pretty stiff price,
I can tell you, but my Incas treasure proved equal to it, and even when
I had paid down the money, I still found myself with plenty in hand with
which to start my colony.”
“So Melnos is absolutely your own?”
“Absolutely! I can leave it to whom I please. It is my private estate,
and, as I have always kept friends with the Sublime Porte, there is no
chance of it being taken from me. When you succeed me here, Maurice, you
will find everything drawn out, fair and square, with my lawyers in
London.”
“What! have you not the Sultan’s firman here?”
“No. London is safer; for even if Alcibiades were to take the island, I
can still prove my right to it by my papers in London. I paid too
sweetly for it to those greedy Turks, not to take all precautions to
keep my title safely stowed away, where it would meet with no accidents.
London is the safest city in the world for the preservation of such
things; so in London I placed all papers recognizing my right to the
ownership of this island.”
“Well, uncle, now you had your new Rome, but what about the citizens?”
“Oh, as to that, I did not find any difficulty in obtaining plenty of
men eager to settle down under my protection. In those days, what with
Turkish misrule, pirates at sea, and brigands on land, the islanders
fared badly enough, and when I promised such as became my subjects
absolute immunity from such ills, the difficulty I found was as to
quality, not quantity. It was the pure Hellenic stock I wanted, from
which to develop my new learning, and there is a good deal of mixed
blood, even among these insular Greeks. However, by careful selection, I
managed to get together a goodly number of pure-blooded males, and these
brought their wives and sweethearts to my island colony. Children and
old men I would not have, as the latter were useless for my purpose; and
with regard to children, I wanted to regulate the births myself, so as
to keep the new race up to my standard. In time, I populated Melnos
accorded to my mind, and then set my new subjects to work on dwellings
and industries. First, I repaired this temple for my own accommodation,
and arranged my system of government; planted mulberry trees, obtained
silkworms, built factories, and so on. Olives, vineyards, and currant
vines, I also planted, and after a few years they began to flourish
greatly, so gradually I established a commerce with the surrounding
islands, and thus Melnos, by its exports, was able to earn an income for
itself. What with keeping the island going in its infancy, buying what
was required for my people, and carrying out engineering occupations, my
capital, large as it was, had dwindled considerably, and I was delighted
when I found that from all my outlay I was now realizing an income
sufficient not only to carry out further works, but also to leave a
surplus, which I saved up against bad seasons. Every year I devote part
of the income derived from my industries to public works in connection
with the place and the people, and the balance I place out at interest
in London.”
“Still London!”
“Well, you would not have me risk all my hard earnings in Athens, would
you? A commercial crisis, a revolution, a war, and where would my money
be; while London, though liable to social depression, is at least safe
as regards the other two contingencies. No! year after year, I have sent
my money to England, and now Melnos has an assured income which would
keep her going, even though she earned nothing for many years.”
“And have you been to England since you settled here?”
“Yes,” replied the Demarch, with a half sigh. “I went once, in order to
arrange about the safe investment of my Melnosian moneys, and remained
in London some months. When I returned, I brought back your mother,
Crispin, and you.”
“My mother!” echoed Crispin, with a deep flush; “and her name?”
“I cannot tell you that now,” answered Justinian, a trifle sadly; “but
when all these troubles are over, I will do so.”
“Why not now?”
“I have a reason for not doing so.”
Crispin did not like this further putting off, but he knew Justinian was
iron when once he had made up his mind, so submitted to the further
procrastination of the important secret with a sufficiently good grace,
although he made one objection.
“You might be killed in the mean time.”
“If that happens, you will find all papers necessary to establish your
legitimacy with my London solicitors. You think I am harsh and unkind,
Crispin, in not telling you what you wish to know now, but, when I
reveal all, you will see I have a good reason for my not doing so. One
thing I can comfort you with, however,—your father is alive, and I will
restore you to his arms.”
“And my mother?”
“She is dead. You know she died here, my boy. It is a sad story I will
have to tell you, but, at all events, you will have a father, and a name
as good as any in England.”
“With that promise I am content,” said Crispin gladly; “as you have
brought me up from infancy, I would be indeed ungrateful if I did not
trust you to the end.”
“Yet you left me in anger!”
“I think you must blame Caliphronas for that. It was his machinations
that caused you to misjudge me, as I misjudged you.”
“Caliphronas has been the bad genius of us all,” said Justinian
decisively; “but now, thank heaven, he is gone, and will trouble us no
more.”
“My faith!” cried Maurice lightly, “he will trouble us a good deal, if
he brings Alcibiades here.”
“Ah, that is open war! I do not mind that. It was his hidden treachery
to which I referred.”
“By the way,” said Roylands meditatively, “I suppose that Caliphronas
thinks you have untold treasures in this Acropolis?”
“He does; and that is one of the reasons he desires to plunder Melnos.
Fortunately, all my money derived from the island is in London.”
“What a disappointment for Alcibiades & Company when they find no
treasure here!” cried Crispin, laughing.
“They must never get here!” said the Demarch resolutely; “I will defend
the island to the bitter end, and, in spite of their strength, I fancy
they will find it difficult to force either the western pass or the
tunnel.”
“If you had the western pass as an entrance to Melnos, why did you
pierce the tunnel?” asked Maurice curiously; “would it not have been
better to have only one entrance?”
“Decidedly. But you see the western side of Melnos is exposed to the
gales; and, in spite of the harbor, its anchorage is hardly safe; so I
was forced to build a breakwater on the eastern side of the island. Of
course, this being the case, when ships were loaded or unloaded there,
the goods could not be taken round to the western pass,—hence the
tunnel.”
“I think your scheme is a wonderful one,” said Maurice, with great
admiration; “and wonderfully carried out.”
“It is yet only in its infancy, and needs a wise ruler to carry it on to
ripe fruition. That ruler, Maurice, I expect to find in you.”
“I trust you will not be disappointed in my administrative ability.”
“Well, I am satisfied so far. You have courage, judgment, and
self-control, which are the main things needed to control these
excitable Greeks. But let us not go too fast, for I know not yet if you
intend to stay in Melnos.”
“Assuredly I do; especially now I have discovered you are my uncle. Why
did you not tell me of our relationship before?”
“Because I wished you to fall in love with your cousin on your own
account. Had I revealed myself, and suggested the marriage, with the
natural dislike of a young man to be forced into matrimony, you might
have objected. Oh, my dear nephew, I have had these plans in my head for
a long time. Long ago I saw that neither Crispin nor Andros, whom I had
trained as my successors, would suit the post. You, Crispin, are a poet,
and not a ruler, while as for Andros, whom you know better as
Caliphronas, he is but an idle scamp, who would undo all my forty years’
work. When I saw my failure in this respect, I married a Greek girl,
more from policy than love, in order to beget an heir, but she died when
Helena was born, and thus I was disappointed of a son.”
“But you surely do not regret it, uncle, when you have Helena.”
“No; I do not now, as I love my child dearly, but I did then, as I was
at my wits’ end whom to select as a successor. Then I heard all about
you, Maurice, from my agents in England, and resolved to send for you
here, and, before revealing myself, ascertain for myself whether you
were fit for such a responsible post as ruler of Melnos. The task of
bringing you in ignorance here was a delicate one, and I entrusted it to
Andros, who promised to fulfil it on the ground that I would permit him
to pay his addresses to Helena. I agreed to this, and the result you
see; but there was no question of a forced marriage until lately, when
it was rendered necessary to mislead Caliphronas, out of policy. He
brought you here, Maurice, and the rest you know, as everything has
turned out better than I expected. You are going to marry Helena, and
succeed me here,—that is, if you have quite decided to stay.”
“I have decided,” replied Maurice, grasping his uncle’s hand warmly. “I
hesitated at first, but now do so no longer. There is nothing to keep me
in England, and when Crispin marries Eunice, they can stay at the Grange
and look after the estate, while Helena and myself stay here.”
“But your old tutor?”
“If my old tutor comes out, I am sure he will be delighted for me to
stay here and forward your plans of a new Hellas. He is an ardent Greek
scholar, and will approve thoroughly of my undertaking a good work like
the revival of learning, rather than idling away a discontented
existence in England.”
“Good!” said Justinian, with great satisfaction; “all this sets my mind
at rest. Never fear about this Alcibiades trouble, Maurice, for Melnos
is strong, and I think we can defend her stanchly. When all these storms
are at an end, I will devote the remainder of my days to teaching you
all the necessary rules of my policy, so that you can carry it out
completely when I die. You, as my heir, Maurice, will inherit this
island, and all the invested moneys in London; so you will find
everything smooth before you to carry on the work which I have begun.”
“Well, after all this conversation, I think we had better go to bed,”
said Crispin, rising with a yawn.
“I am afraid it will be morning soon,” replied Justinian, with a smile,
as he followed his example, “so you will not get much sleep; but I am
glad I have told you all my history.”
“It is wonderful!” cried Maurice enthusiastically; “and quite gives the
lie to the proverb, that ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“Stones that rest in inglorious ease gain moss,” said Justinian wisely;
“but rolling stones which circle the world gather polish. Marco Polo,
Columbus, Drake, Napoleon, Cæsar, were all rolling stones, and I think
have been of more benefit to the world than those wiseacres who remain
gathering moss in the dulness of their homes, in the belief that such
vegetating is the true aim of existence.”
CHAPTER XXX.
KEEPING VIGIL.
All day, all night, with anxious eyes,
I vigil keep,
To watch the ever-changing skies,
The changeless deep;
Yet though for rest the spirit sighs,
I dare not sleep.
For in the skies will comets pale
Burn warningly,
When filled with foes black vessels sail
Across the sea.
To wake upon our shores the wail
Of misery.
Yet though such ships and stars appear
As portents vile,
Our faces will devoid of fear
With courage smile,
For Greek and Englishman will here
Defend the isle.
Two weeks passed since the departure of Caliphronas to stir up war
against Melnos. Yet Alcibiades made no sign of attacking the island, so
doubtless his plans had not yet matured sufficiently to permit of the
assault, or else he was trying to lull the Melnosians into a false
security, so as to storm them unawares. Justinian himself thought this
latter supposition the more likely, but was too old a campaigner to be
thus caught napping, and day and night had sentinels posted on the
highest peaks of the island to give notice of the approach of the enemy
by lighting watch-fires which were all ready prepared.
As before stated, the defenders of Melnos, inclusive of the Englishmen,
numbered about a hundred and twenty; certainly a small force to hold the
island against three hundred enemies, which, as Caliphronas had told
Justinian, was the strength of Alcibiades’ army. Melnos, however,
strongly fortified by nature, was quite the Gibraltar of the Ægean, and,
owing to the ruggedness and height of the surrounding peaks, no enemy
could gain the crater of the volcano save by the western pass or the
tunnel, both of which were skilfully defended by wooden palisades.
Maurice himself thought it a mistake that these barriers were not
constructed of stone, but Justinian explained that they were thus built
so as to admit of the approach of the enemy being seen, when a few
determined men intrenched behind could keep at bay a large force in the
narrowness of the tunnel or of the pass, whereas, if a stone wall
intervened, an outside foe could perhaps batter it down without hurt
from the defenders.
Another advantage which Justinian had over a hostile force was the fact
of the tunnel being a staircase, as his men posted on the heights could
sweep down the enemy climbing slowly upward. In order to do away with
the necessity of fighting in the dark, or by the feeble glare of
torches, Justinian had a powerful electric search light placed at the
inner entrance of the
tunnel, so as to command the palisade. Indeed, the Demarch, having
unlimited money at his disposal, had the latest European inventions
obtainable for the defence of his island, and much regretted that he had
been unable to obtain the new magazine rifle which had lately been
served out to the English army. This rifle holds six cartridges, which
can be fired one after the other, and, unlike the revolver, has no
barrel, as the cartridges lie in a line one at the back of the other;
but as Justinian was not able to obtain this efficient weapon, he was
obliged to put up with the Martini-Henry rifle, which was a deadly
enough weapon in the hands of his excellent marksmen.
The western pass was a narrow, winding gorge, created by some primeval
convulsion of the volcano, which severed the low semicircle of mountains
in a deep cleft; and at the inner entrance was commanded by two old
brass cannon which the Demarch had found in some dismantled tower of the
Venetians. These cannon, however, in spite of their age, were in an
excellent state of preservation, and could do a deal of damage when
sweeping down the narrow pass. The middle of the cleft was fortified by
a strong wooden palisade, and at the outer entrance was another of
similar construction; thus the defenders, intrenched behind these
barriers, held the invading enemy at considerable disadvantage.
Justinian had also another search light sweeping the pass in the event
of a night surprise, and thus, the two entrances being so well defended
by nature and art, it was feasible enough that the little band could
keep at bay even a larger host than that which Alcibiades was bringing
against them.
Even if the beleaguerment of the island lasted for months, there was no
danger as long as the pass and tunnel were defended, for there was
plenty of provision, and all food eaten by the inhabitants was grown on
the fertile sides of the crater; so it was likely Alcibiades, despairing
of taking the place by storm, would retire his men after a few weeks.
The Demarch was perfectly satisfied that he occupied too strong a
position to be dislodged, and the only chance of capture lay in inside
treachery, or the enemy scaling the peaks and coming down unawares in
the rear. Neither of these things was likely to happen, as there was no
chance of treachery from the Melnosians, who were all devoted to
Justinian; and the enemy, consisting of all the scum of the Levant, had
neither the engineering skill nor the courage to climb over the
forbidding-looking mountains which enclosed the central crater of the
volcano.
During the two weeks the watchmen on the heights kept a constant watch
for the foe, and Justinian, assisted by Maurice and Dick, looked after
the military preparations with right good will. The rifles were duly
served out to the men, who practised shooting daily, also swords and
cutlasses, in the use of which Dick instructed them; yet all this time
they went on with their work, and only after it was over did they attend
to their military duties. There was no fear of the ammunition giving
out, as the Demarch had constructed a magazine in a lonely part of the
valley, which was filled with cartridges, cannon balls, and plenty of
powder.
All this elaborate military preparation to defend a rocky little island
may sound childish enough in Western ears accustomed to the gigantic
military powers of Europe; but the coming assault on Melnos was no
holiday battle, but would probably involve a good deal of hard fighting,
as the desperadoes of Alcibiades were by no means to be despised. They
thought that Melnos was full of treasure, quite unaware of Justinian’s
wise precaution of sending the public revenue of Melnos to London to be
in safety; and, lusting for gold, they were ready to fight like demons
in order to plunder the island. The defenders, on their side, valued
their homes, wives, and children too much to permit a loose band of
absolute wretches to gain entrance into their stronghold; so it seemed
as though the fight on both sides would be fought with dogged
determination to the bitter end.
Maurice and Dick were the principal assistants of Justinian at this
juncture, as Crispin knew nothing about military matters, and the testy
old Demarch said he was more trouble than use; so he wandered about a
good deal with Helena, quite the idler of the community. In spite of
this, however, all knew that Crispin was as keen as any one on fighting,
and would defend the island with the best of them; besides which, being
the minstrel of the party, he wrote war-songs after the mode of Tyrtæus,
to fire the Melnosians with martial enthusiasm.
The old fighting blood of the Roylands showed itself plainly in the
Demarch and his nephew, for they both looked anxiously forward to the
anticipated invasion, and would have been seriously annoyed had it not
come off. Justinian himself quite renewed his youth at the idea of once
more smelling powder, and his fiery energy, overriding all obstacles,
occupying itself ceaselessly with all military matters, at times even
tired out his muscular nephew. Yet Maurice worked bravely, and showed
himself to be made of the stuff required for leaders of men, and,
despite his ignorance of matters military, made several valuable
suggestions from a common-sense point of view, which were greatly
approved of by the Demarch.
“Egad, Maurice!” he said, grimly surveying his nephew, “if I had only
had you instead of Caliphronas, I would have made a man of you.”
“Meaning I’m not a man now,” said Maurice, rather nettled.
“By no means. You’ve got the Roylands spirit, my boy, and will fight
like the devil himself when needs be; but when I think of all those
years of idleness in England, it makes me angry. Such a loss of good
material which could be made use of, and I dare say there are hundreds
of fellows of your physique and stamina, who write their lives away in
offices instead of going in for an adventurous career and dying rich.
What I mean is that you are made of the same stuff as I, and had I
possessed you as my right hand when I started this scheme, egad, I’d
have had a kingdom instead of an island!”
“You forget, I was not born forty years ago.”
“No more you were—more’s the pity! Those were glorious times, and, in
spite of my years, I do not regret having been born early in the
century. Life is too tame now, all bread and butter and explosive
machines. Give me the good old days of hand-to-hand combat, lots of
adventure, rows galore, and the devil take the hindmost.”
“I never met such a man as you, uncle.”
“Then you never met yourself. I don’t mean your _doppelganger_, but your
inner self, for you are exactly what I was, though how the deuce your
father ever came to have such a son, I do not know. He was as mild as
milk, my brother Austin.”
“Was he?” said Maurice grimly, thinking of the many family rows that had
taken place.
“Oh, I don’t deny he had a spice of the Roylands temper, but as to
ambition and enterprise, he might as well have been born a carrot. Why,
he nearly ruined you, my boy, with neglecting to put you on the right
track—no wonder you got melancholia and all that rubbish. You are a
worker, not a dreamer.”
“I have brains, I suppose?”
“Yes, and so has Crispin; but he uses his brains in the right way, you
don’t. Crispin is born to sit down and tinkle a lute, you are born to
handle a sword and lead an exciting career. Why didn’t you go into the
army?”
“My father wouldn’t let me.”
“Of course!” said Justinian, with a snort of disdain; “he wanted to make
you a mollycoddle like himself. I wonder you did not go out of your mind
in that smoky London, chipping away at marble and cutting it out. Why,
you have been here only a couple of months, and already you are in your
right mind. Go back to England indeed!—you are a fool if you do. Like
myself, you are born to be a ruler, not a unit in English civilization.
I’m glad I got you to myself before it was too late.”
“Well, if my career has begun late, I am at least young, and have a long
life before me.”
“Yes; I envy you that, Maurice. Look at me! youthful in spirit, old in
years. I shall die in the prime of my spiritual strength, just because
my wretched body is of an inferior quality to my soul.”
“Still you are good for a few years yet. And, uncle, don’t you think it
would be wise of you not to expose yourself in battle?”
“What!” roared the old Demarch in a voice of thunder; “stay in the
background! Never while I can handle a sword. I’m not going to let every
one else have the fun, and leave myself out of it. Why, this coming war
in a teacup is the first bit of amusement I have had for years, and yet
you grudge it to me.”
“I don’t want you to be killed, uncle.”
“Oh, I’ll look after myself, never you be afraid! I won’t live any the
longer for wrapping myself up in cotton wool, and if I die, why, like
Tennyson’s farmer, I die, but I’ll have one stirring fight before I give
up the ghost.”
“You have the Baresark fury in you, uncle.”
“An inheritance from our Norman ancestors, my boy. You are more of
courtly old Sir Guyon, who went to the Crusades, but I resemble Jarl
Hagon, who came sailing to Normandy with Rollo. Indeed, if the theory of
transmigration be true, I believe the spirit of that old Norse savage is
incarnate in my body. I am born too late! I am an anachronism in this
dull, peaceful century, all gas and steam engines. I ought to have
fought with Drake and Frobisher. However, I have done my best to make my
surroundings agree with my nature, and the result is—Melnos.”
“Which is the result, not of war, but of peace!”
“Eh!—oh, I daresay—it is a toy with which I can amuse myself; but you
forget that before I colonized Melnos, I had battled all over the world,
and thus expended a good deal of my Baresark fit.”
“And now it comes again!”
“The last upleaping of the flame, my boy,” said Justinian sadly; “and
then death. But there, I talk so much about myself, that you must think
me egotistical. What about that electric light I wish to try?”
“Alexandros and Gurt are fitting it up on the platform.”
“Good! but say Gurt and Alexandros in future. An Englishman goes before
every one else.”
“How patriotic you are, uncle! Yet you have forsaken England.”
“England was an unjust stepmother to me, but absence makes the heart
grow fonder, and, in spite of my residence here, I have as patriotic a
spirit as any of your jingoists, who shout War! war! war! on the least
provocation. Come, let us go and look at this search light on the
terrace.”
Justinian, during the last few years, had dabbled considerably in
electric matters, and had sent Alexandros to England in order to learn
all about the science. Alexandros, keen-witted in all things, had soon
picked up all that was necessary, and was quite an accomplished
electrician; so when he returned to Melnos, he brought with him, by
Justinian’s instructions, all machines necessary for the production of
the light. The powerful engine for working the dynamo was placed at the
back of the Acropolis, under the eye of the Demarch himself, and from
this centre the wires were laid to the tunnel and the western pass. Thus
the machine, being, so to speak, in the heart of the island, was safe
from being captured by enemies, and the lighting of both places was
quite under the control of Alexandros. The Demarch had also a third
apparatus rigged up on the terrace, in order to make a trial of the
power of the light, which was to be tried that night; for Justinian
wished everything to be in thorough working order against the arrival of
Alcibiades and his army.
While they were examining the electric apparatus on the terrace in front
of the Acropolis, Helena, in company with Dick and Zoe, came to them in
a great state of excitement.
“Papa, give me the key of the tunnel, for Crispin says the boat has
arrived from Syra with letters!”
“By Jove, that’s good news!” cried Maurice, as the Demarch handed the
key to his daughter. “Now we will know all about the new yacht, uncle,
and if Melnos is taken, we can go to Syra, and escape on board of her.”
“Melnos won’t be taken,” said Justinian with a frown. “I am quite
astonished at your suggesting such a thing, Maurice. Besides, the yacht
is going to Athens.”
“Yes, but Crispin sent a letter to the telegraph office there, telling
them to wire to the agents that the yacht was to stop at Syra.”
“Humph! well, that is not bad news. As you say, it is as well to be
prepared for emergencies. Here is the key, Helena. Where is Crispin?”
“Waiting at the tunnel entrance!” replied Helena brightly, and went away
with the key of the island, guarded by Dick and Zoe.
There was every sign that these two were following in the footsteps of
their master and mistress, for as Zoe, tutored by Helena, could speak
English very well, there was no obstacle to Dick’s wooing. The bos’n was
a handsome young fellow, with a masterful manner about him, which the
Greek maiden found very pleasant, so she was not at all indisposed to
yield to his solicitations, and become Mrs. Dick, the more so, as she
thought this marriage would not part her from Helena, whom she loved
dearly. Her early flame, Gurt, had quite vacated the field in favor of
his handsome young rival, and now took a paternal interest in the match.
As yet, Zoe, with innate coquetry, had not given Dick a direct answer,
but there was little doubt, in the end, she would accept this assiduous
lover who worshipped her very shadow.
While the three had departed to take Crispin the key of the gate,
Justinian continued examining the electric apparatus, and questioning
Alexandros concerning the mode of working.
“The moon is not up till late to-night,” said the Demarch, looking at
the sky, “so in the darkness we will be able to test it splendidly. Are
the lights at the tunnel and the western pass in order, Alexandros?” he
added in Greek.
“Yes, Kyrion. I attended to them to-day, myself.”
“And the engine?”
“Works perfectly, Kyrion.”
“Capital!” said Justinian in English, turning to Maurice. “I think our
electric powers will rather startle Alcibiades!”
“No doubt; but do you know, uncle, I think it is a pity you did not
place a search light on one of those peaks, so as to sweep the ocean,
and thus reveal their approach if they try to steal in to the beach
under the cover of darkness.”
“True, true!” said the Demarch thoughtfully, nursing his chin, “we will
think of that, but meanwhile try this light to-night. As to the watchmen
on the peaks, Maurice, you know there are also two on the beach, one on
each side of the island, so if they see Alcibiades’ approach first, they
will light their fires to signal to the peaks, and those above will fire
theirs to warn us. It is easier to see from the beach than from above,
where everything looks flat. Besides, the nights are so still, that the
sound of oars can easily be heard a long way off, especially by men
trained to hear like my Greeks.”
“But suppose Alcibiades uses no oars?”
“Oh, well, in any case we will be warned in time. But in case of a night
attack, the men can muster rapidly, I suppose?”
“In a few minutes.”
“And the guard?”
“There is a strong one in the tunnel, under the command of Gurt, and
another in the pass, commanded by Temistocles.”
“Good! With such precautions we cannot very well be surprised. But here
is Crispin.”
“In a state of great excitement, too,” said Maurice, laughing. “He has
got a satisfactory answer to his letter.”
“It’s all right!” called out Crispin, mounting the steps, waving an open
letter in his hand; “the yacht has left England for Syra, with Mrs.
Dengelton, the Rector, and Eunice!”
“Is there a letter for me?” asked Maurice, nodding his satisfaction at
this intelligence.
“Yes, one from the Rector. See if it encloses one from Eunice to me.”
Maurice tore open the letter of his old tutor, and out dropped an
envelope, directed to “Crispin,” in dainty feminine handwriting, of
which the poet at once took greedy possession. On the balustrade of the
terrace, Maurice sat down to read his letter, and Crispin, after
glancing at Eunice’s private note, rattled on to Justinian about the
contents of his own correspondence, which he had read on the way hither
from the tunnel.
“The agents got my letter all right, sir,” he said gayly, “and had no
difficulty in securing the yacht I wanted, which was still in the
market. She left England a week ago.”
“For Athens?”
“Why, no. As there was danger of a row, I thought it best she should be
near at hand, so wired to the agents that she was to stop at Syra, where
she ought to arrive shortly.”
“She left Southampton after your letters, I presume?”
“Yes, a day or so after. Of course they came overland to Brindisi, which
gained them five days, or thereabouts, and then caught the boat to Syra,
and came straight on here with Georgios. The Eunice!”
“Oh, is that the name of the yacht?” cried Helena roguishly.
“Yes; the old Eunice is under water, but I call the new boat by the old
name.”
“So The Eunice is carrying her namesake?”
“Exactly. Well, The Eunice will run down to Syra in about twelve days; a
week has already gone by, so we may expect her there in a few days.”
“When she arrives, what do you propose to do?”
“With your permission, go over to Syra and bring her here.”
“By all means, if we are not blockaded in the mean time; but if we are,
you will have to stay here.”
“And The Eunice at Syra!” rejoined Crispin in a vexed tone. “Well,
perhaps it will be for the best, as your sister, niece, and Mr.
Carriston are on board, and won’t care about being mixed up in a
battle.”
“My sister!” repeated Justinian thoughtfully; “she was born after I left
England, and I only caught a glimpse of her when I went back, so she is
quite a stranger to me. Is she a—a pleasant sort of person?”
“Well, she talks a good deal,” said Crispin, with some hesitation.
“Then I am afraid she will tire me dreadfully,” said the Demarch dryly,
“for I do not like chatterboxes. However, Helena will be glad to see her
aunt. Will you not, child?”
“Of course, papa. I will be glad to see all my relations if they are as
charming as Cousin Maurice.”
“Eunice is an angel.”
“Of course,” said Helena mockingly; “that is because you love her. Why,
Maurice says the same thing about me.”
“What does Maurice say?” asked that gentleman, looking up from his
letter.
“That I am the dearest girl in the world,” laughed Helena, going up to
him.
“I will find that out when your milliner’s bills come in.”
“Milliner!” said the child of Nature; “what is a milliner?”
They all laughed at this, particularly Justinian, who pinched his
daughter’s ear gently.
“Ah, a milliner is a very important person, my child. She makes gowns.”
“Like this white one of mine?”
“No, more’s the pity,” said Crispin, with a laughing glance at the
simple white garment; “if all gowns were of that style, the bills would
not be so large, and husbands would frown less. Well, Maurice, and what
says the Rector?”
“He declines to commit himself to an opinion until he sees Melnos with
his own eyes,” said Maurice, putting the letter in his pocket, “and is
coming out especially to see the new Hellas. There, uncle, is that not a
compliment?”
“I will be glad to see Mr. Carriston,” observed Justinian a little
stiffly, as Maurice thought. “Crispin, did Georgios see anything of
Alcibiades?”
“No, nothing.”
“Or hear anything?”
“Not a word.”
“They must be keeping all their preparations very quiet,” muttered the
Demarch to himself as he went inside; “but, for all that, I believe an
attack will take place within the week.”
The party on the terrace broke up after his withdrawal, leaving
Alexandros still busy at his electric apparatus, which was in complete
order by night-time. After a merry supper, every one came out again on
to the terrace to make experiments with the light, and Alexandros went
away to look after his dynamo.
Such a still night as it was, with not a breath of air to cool the hot
atmosphere, and the sky in the shimmering heat seemed closer to the
earth than usual. No moon was yet in the heavens, but the dark blue
vault was bright with innumerable stars, large and mellow, like tropical
constellations. The valley below was in complete shadow, not the glimmer
of a white-walled house being visible, and the sides of the gigantic cup
which formed the crater of the volcano were veiled in diaphanous
darkness. So intensely quiet was everything, that even the nightingales
were silent, and there seemed something awesome in this breathless
stillness of Nature, as though the whole earth were dead, and only the
handful of people assembled there alive.
“I don’t like this sultry night,” whispered Helena to Maurice uneasily,
as he stood by one of the pillars with his arm round her waist. “I hope
nothing is wrong with the volcano!”
“What! after thousands of years’ quiet?” laughed Maurice gently. “My
dear child, the volcano is as extinct as the dodo.”
“I don’t know what a dodo is,” replied Helena, panting; “but the whole
place seems so unnaturally still that it gives me the idea of some
coming trouble.”
“Perhaps Alcibiades!”
“Oh, we can fight against him, but we can’t fight against an eruption.”
“Who is talking about an eruption?” said Justinian, turning round from
the electric apparatus he was examining.
“Helena. She is afraid there will be one soon.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” said the old man testily, yet with an anxious
frown on his face. “If there was danger of an upheaval, we would be
warned by the hot springs, but they are just bubbling as usual. Besides,
Georgois tells me there is an eruption at Santorin, so with that vent
for the volcanic forces we are quite safe. Why, I have lived here for
forty years in safety, and the crater has been extinct for thousands of
years, so we need not be afraid of anything going wrong now.”
Thus pacified, Helena, in common with the rest, turned her attention to
the electric light, which at this moment flashed out from the carbon
points in terrible splendor. Alexandros began to move it about, and like
the flaming sword of St. Michael, or the tail of a comet, it swept in a
tremendous arc across the dark sky. Turned down on the valley, it
revealed everything as if it were day, the lake, the houses, the trees,
the streets—all sprang out of the darkness with the minuteness of a
photograph. Then the intolerable brilliance began to move slowly round
the sides of the crater, the black pine forests, the arid rocks, and
then the rugged peaks, white with chill snows. But, lo! as it travelled
eastward along the jagged heights, on one burned a huge red star.
“The watchfire!” cried Maurice, springing to his feet.
“Turn off the light!” commanded Justinian hastily.
Alexandros did so, and there on the cold peak, amid the luminous
twilight, flamed the bonfire of the watch like a baneful star, telling
of destruction, war, and death.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE BATTLE OF TROGLODYTES.
I hear the noise of battle tumultuous!
It is not on the earth, nor do spectral hosts contend in the cloudy sky;
Under my feet it is raging, in the heart of the globe skirmish the
struggling armies.
The cries of horror, the clash of weapons, the sharp crack of the deadly
rifle,
Strike dully on my ear, as though the crust of the earth intervened
between them fighting, and I listening.
Yes, the battle is subterranean! Do the gnomes assault one another
Over some new vein of gold but lately discovered?
Or do the dead, not rising from stone-sealed sepulchres,
Renew those quarrels below, which on earth ended their existence?
I know not indeed whether it be the dead or the gnomes,
But I hear the noise of battle tumultuous!
There was no doubt that a night attack was intended, and that
Alcibiades, hoping to take Justinian by surprise, trusted he would be
able to break in through the tunnel before his secret arrival was
discovered. Unfortunately for himself, he did not know the military
alertness of the Demarch, who, warned by the watchfires, marshalled his
men with the greatest rapidity, and in the space of half an hour every
man on the island was drawn up, under arms, in the space before the
Acropolis. The powerful electric light flooded the whole crater, so that
the little army manœuvred as though it were day, and in profound
silence every man took his place in the ranks, ready to march to the
front.
Justinian held a hurried council of war with Maurice, Crispin, and Dick,
as to the disposal of the troops, for the question was whether
Alcibiades would concentrate his forces in the tunnel, and make one bold
dash for the island, or, dividing his men into two bodies, attack both
entrances simultaneously. Messengers had now arrived from the watchmen
on the heights and on the beach, from whose report it appeared that the
advancing enemy were all making in a body for the eastern side of the
island, therefore the Demarch came to the conclusion that for the
present only the tunnel was threatened by the invader. However, to
obviate any chance of the western pass being taken by surprise, about
thirty men, under the command of Crispin and Dick, marched in that
direction, and the remaining eighty-six, with Justinian and his nephew
as leaders, took up their station inside the tunnel palisade.
Alexandros, of course, remained behind at the Acropolis to attend to the
working of the electric lights, which were burning with full power at
the western pass and in the tunnel, the middle apparatus being turned
off after the departure of the men, so as to increase the brilliance of
the other two. Temistocles was employed as a messenger between the two
forces, so as to keep the four leaders thoroughly cognizant of what
occurred either on the western or eastern side of the island.
The watchmen on the beach had waited until the boats of Alcibiades were
near shore, then rapidly fled up the tunnel to the palisade, through the
door of which they were admitted by Justinian, who listened to their
excited report concerning the number of the enemy with the greatest
calmness. Indeed, the Roylands capability for command showed itself in
both the Demarch and his nephew, for the more perilous did the situation
become, the cooler they were, and never for a moment lost their heads in
giving orders to their men. This self-control had a wonderful effect on
the nerve of the Melnosians, who, thoroughly efficient as regards drill,
and absolutely blind in their implicit obedience to their leaders,
carried out all commands with the utmost skill and promptitude.
At the entrance of the tunnel burned the great round of the electric
light, like a full moon, illuminating the neighborhood of the palisade
with steady splendor, so that the defensive operations could be carried
out to the minutest detail without the slightest difficulty. Earthen
works had been built half-way up the wooden structure to the height of a
man’s shoulders, and now on top of this the Melnosians laid bags of sand
diagonally, the one overlapping the other, to either side of the tunnel,
with interstices between them at intervals for the barrels of the
rifles. All this was arranged so as to afford those inside a good view
of the attack, while protecting them in a great measure from the fire of
the stormers. The electric light also gained them a considerable
advantage, as, being at their backs, they could carry on their
operations with ease, while it dazzled the eyes of the enemy, who in
front of them would see but the black mass of the palisade, and at
intervals catch a glimpse of the defenders like silhouettes against the
bright glare, which would have a considerable influence on the fire of
the attacking party.
Both Maurice and the Demarch were armed with revolvers and sabres, while
the sailors had their cutlasses, and the Melnosians their Martini-Henry
rifles; thus, what with these and the protecting palisade, everything
was in their favor, especially as the steepness of the ascent hampered
the enemy considerably in their dash to carry the barrier by storm. Thus
intrenched, they waited in absolute silence, with calm courage, for the
onslaught, and shortly heard the tramp of approaching feet, the ring of
guns and swords, and the exclamations of astonishment uttered by the
invaders, when the powerful rays of the electric light flashed on their
advancing mass.
Alcibiades might be a good commander, but he was a confoundedly bad
drill-sergeant, for his men came up the staircase in a singularly
disorderly fashion, rushing forward pell-mell, as though they
anticipated an easy victory. However, at the sight of the electric
light, and the barricade, from which protruded the deadly barrels of the
rifles, their impetus received a decided check, and the foremost,
recoiling on those in the rear, threw the whole body into confusion.
Hesitating thus for a second in bewilderment, they offered a fair mark
to the defenders, who, at a given signal by Justinian, poured a heavy
fire into the huddled mass of human beings. Some fell dead, many
wounded, and the yells of the discomfited assailants vibrated under the
vaulted roof of the tunnel, as they retired in disorder.
Then the stentorian voice of Alcibiades was heard urging them forward,
and with sudden resolution they dashed forward like a wave on a rock,
only to retire again before the deadly volley of the Melnosians. The
ground was cumbered with the dead and dying, while the air was so thick
with gunpowder smoke that it hung like a veil between the contending
parties, and not even the powerful rays of the electric light could
break through the opaque cloud. As yet, protected by their earthworks,
the Melnosians had not lost one man, for the bullets of the enemy passed
harmlessly over their heads or buried themselves in the sand and turf.
Justinian ordered his men to reserve their fire, as the attacking party
were now retreating for the third time in confusion, and therefore,
being considerably scattered, did not offer so good a mark as when they
rushed forward in a dense mass.
Evidently they were holding a consultation, for when they again
assaulted the barricade, one party dashed forward under a heavy fire,
with hatchets to cut away the timbers, while the others remained behind
and kept up a fusillade at a safe distance. In order to avert this
danger, and save the palisade from being cut down, the marksmen returned
the fire of the rear rank, while, using the bayonets at close quarters,
their comrades stabbed the stormers whenever they could get a chance.
Notwithstanding this warm reception, the assaulting party still stuck to
their work, and amid the infernal din of yells from wounded and
fighters, could be heard the steady blows of the hatchets, the sharp
crack of the guns, and the ping, ping, ping of the bullets whizzing
through the smoky air. At last, in spite of their valor, the stormers
were forced to retire, but not without doing considerable damage, for
they had cut through a considerable number of the barrier posts, so that
the palisade was now in a somewhat shaky condition.
“Egad! they’ll have this down in no time, Maurice,” said Justinian to
his nephew, with a grim smile, “and then it will be hand-to-hand
fighting.”
“All the better!” replied Maurice, coolly examining the edge of his
sword. “I fancy they will find it hard to drive us back from this
position. Here they come again. The devil!”
“What’s the matter?”
“They are going to fire the barricade! that is Caliphronas’ idea, I’ll
bet!”
A party of men now surged forward, bearing huge bundles of brushwood,
smeared with tar and inflammable oils, which they threw at the foot of
the barrier, and ignited without a moment’s delay. The Melnosians,
adopting their former tactics, shot and stabbed with right good will,
but the advantage was with the enemy, for, in the space of a few
minutes, the wooden poles and crossbars of the barricade were in flames.
Against this new peril nothing could be done, as, not anticipating this
stratagem, Justinian had not provided himself with water; so the flames,
leaping redly out of the thick smoke, roared upward to the roof of the
tunnel, while the little band, some with bayonets fixed, others with
guns loaded, awaited the assault which would follow the downfall of the
protective palisade.
As if to hasten this catastrophe, the enemy, with infinite labor,
dragged a small cannon up the steep stairs, and, having placed it in
position, fired recklessly into the centre of the blazing mass, with the
hope of the ball cutting a lane through the Melnosians. Luckily, owing
to the irregularity of the ground, they were unable to depress the
muzzle of the gun sufficiently, and the shot passed innocuously
overhead, having no other effect than to bring down a small shower of
stones from the roof of the tunnel. Justinian was rather dismayed when
he found they had succeeded in bringing up a gun, but when he saw the
effect of the shot, he smiled contemptuously.
“That’s no good,” he said confidently; “they can’t get the muzzle low
enough to be effective.”
“Nevertheless, if the roof”—
The end of his sentence was lost in a tremendous explosion, which nearly
stunned them all, for, in their eagerness to fire, Alcibiades’ men had
overloaded their cannon, with the result that it burst at the
application of the light, and killed five men.
“Glory! glory!” yelled Gurt, when he heard the row; “they can’t do much
now, d—n them!”
“No!” cried Maurice rapidly; “the barricade will soon be down, and it
will be a hand-to-hand fight. If they bring up another gun, we’ll take
it by storm.”
The heat by this time was something intense, owing to the near
neighborhood of the fierce flames, while the thick white smoke, rolling
upward in clouds, nearly choked them with its pungent odor. The
Melnosians were getting the worst of it in this case, as the draught
blowing upward from the sea drove the eddying wreaths of acrid vapor
full against their faces, while the enemy was quite free from such
annoyance. Headed by Alcibiades and Caliphronas, who, for a wonder, had
pluck enough to place himself in front of his men, they awaited with
impatience the fall of the barricade, and, quite anticipating that the
Melnosians would be choked by the pungent smoke, were prepared to dash
forward and carry the earthworks by storm while the defenders were yet
stupefied. Justinian saw this danger, made up his mind, and acted
thereon with promptitude and decision.
“Maurice, we must make a sally, and get into the clear air beyond, else
this smoke will suffocate us, and thus give them the advantage.”
“Right!” replied his nephew, recognizing the necessity for immediate
action. “The flames are now pretty low, so let us dash through at once
and take them by surprise. I will lead. You stay here, sir.”
“I’m hanged if I will!”
“You must, uncle, so as to help me if I need it. Tell the men to follow
me, as I am not well enough up in Greek.”
At this moment, the barricade fell down with a crash, amid a sudden
shower of sparks and rolling vapors. They could hear the triumphant
shouts of Alcibiades at the achievement of this result, and Maurice
ground his teeth with anger, as he caught the taunting tones of
Caliphronas’ voice, rejoicing over this catastrophe.