Strange ape of man! who loathes thee while he scorns thee.
Half a reproach to us and half a jest.
What fancies can be ours ere we have pleasure
In viewing our own form, our pride and passions,
Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine!
ANONYMOUS.
Count Robert of Paris having ensconced himself behind the ruins of the
bed, so that he could not well be observed, unless a strong light was
at once flung upon the place of his retreat, waited with anxiety how
and in what manner the warder of the dungeon, charged with the task of
bringing food to the prisoners, should make himself visible; nor was it
long ere symptoms of his approach began to be heard and observed.
A light was partially seen, as from a trap-door opening in the roof,
and a voice was heard to utter these words in Anglo-Saxon, "Leap,
sirrah; come, no delay; leap, my good Sylvan, show your honour's
activity." A strange chuckling hoarse voice, in a language totally
unintelligible to Count Robert, was heard to respond, as if disputing
the orders which were received.
"What, sir," said his companion, "you must contest the point, must you?
Nay, if thou art so lazy, I must give your honour a ladder, and perhaps
a kick to hasten your journey." Something then, of very great size, in
the form of a human being, jumped down from the trap-door, though the
height might be above fourteen feet. This figure was gigantic, being
upwards of seven feet high. In its left hand it held a torch, and in
its right a skein of fine silk, which unwinding itself as it descended,
remained unbroken, though it was easy to conceive it could not have
afforded a creature so large any support in his descent from the roof.
He alighted with perfect safety and activity upon his feet, and, as if
rebounding from the floor, he sprung upwards again, so as almost to
touch the roof. In this last gambaud the torch which he bore was
extinguished; but this extraordinary warder whirled it round his head
with infinite velocity, so that it again ignited. The bearer, who
appeared to intend the accomplishment of this object, endeavoured to
satisfy himself that it was really attained by approaching, as if
cautiously, its left hand to the flame of the torch. This practical
experiment seemed attended with consequences which the creature had not
expected, for it howled with pain, shaking the burnt hand, and
chattering as if bemoaning itself.
"Take heed there, Sylvanus!" said the same voice in Anglo-Saxon, and in
a tone of rebuke. "Ho, there! mind thy duty, Sylvan! Carry food to the
blind man, and stand not there to play thyself, lest I trust thee not
again alone on such an errand!"
The creature--for it would have been rash to have termed it a
man--turning its eye upwards to the place from whence the voice came,
answered with a dreadful grin and shaking of its fist, yet presently
began to undo a parcel, and rummage in the pockets of a sort of jerkin
and pantaloons which it wore, seeking, it appeared, a bunch of keys,
which at length it produced, while it took from the pocket a loaf of
bread. Heating the stone of the wall, it affixed the torch to it by a
piece of wax, and then cautiously looked out for the entrance to the
old man's dungeon, which it opened with a key selected from the bunch.
Within the passage it seemed to look for and discover the handle of a
pump, at which it filled a pitcher that it bore, and bringing back the
fragments of the former loaf, and remains of the pitcher of water, it
ate a little, as if it were in sport, and very soon making a frightful
grimace, flung the fragments away. The Count of Paris, in the
meanwhile, watched anxiously the proceedings of this unknown animal.
His first thought was, that the creature, whose limbs were so much
larger than humanity, whose grimaces were so frightful, and whose
activity seemed supernatural, could be no other than the Devil himself,
or some of his imps, whose situation and office in those gloomy regions
seemed by no means hard to conjecture. The human voice, however, which
he had heard, was less that of a necromancer conjuring a fiend than
that of a person giving commands to a wild animal, over whom he had, by
training, obtained a great superiority.
"A shame on it," said the Count, "if I suffer a common jackanapes,--for
such I take this devil-seeming beast to be, although twice as large as
any of its fellows whom I have ever seen,--to throw an obstacle in the
way of my obtaining daylight and freedom! Let us but watch, and the
chance is that we make that furry gentleman our guide to the upper
regions."
Meantime the creature, which rummaged about everywhere, at length.
discovered the body of the tiger,--touched it, stirred it, with many
strange motions, and seemed to lament and wonder at its death. At once
it seemed struck with the idea that some one must have slain it, and
Count Robert had the mortification to see it once more select the key,
and spring towards the door of Ursel's prison with such alacrity, that
had its intention been to strangle him, it would have accomplished its
purpose before the interference of Count Robert could have prevented
its revenge taking place. Apparently, however, it reflected, that for
reasons which seemed satisfactory, the death of the tiger could not be
caused by the unfortunate Ursel, but had been accomplished by some one
concealed within the outer prison.
Slowly grumbling, therefore, and chattering to itself, and peeping
anxiously into every corner, the tremendous creature, so like yet so
very unlike to the human form, came stealing along the walls, moving
whatever he thought could seclude a man from his observation. Its
extended legs and arms were protruded forward with great strides, and
its sharp eyes, on the watch to discover the object of its search, kept
prying, with the assistance of the torch, into every corner.
Considering the vicinity of Alexius's collection of animals, the
reader, by this time, can have little doubt that the creature in
question, whose appearance seemed to the Count of Paris so very
problematical, was a specimen of that gigantic species of ape--if it is
not indeed some animal more nearly allied to ourselves--to which, I
believe, naturalists have given the name of the Ourang Outang. This
creature differs from the rest of its fraternity, in being
comparatively more docile and serviceable: and though possessing the
power of imitation which is common to the whole race, yet making use of
it less in mere mockery, than in the desire of improvement and
instruction perfectly unknown to his brethren. The aptitude which it
possesses of acquiring information, is surprisingly great, and
probably, if placed in a favourable situation, it might admit of being
domesticated in a considerable degree; but such advantages the ardour
of scientific curiosity has never afforded this creature. The last we
have heard of was seen, we believe, in the Island of Sumatra--it was of
great size and strength, and upwards of seven feet high. It died
defending desperately its innocent life against a party of Europeans,
who, we cannot help thinking, might have better employed the
superiority which their knowledge gave them over the poor native of the
forest. It was probably this creature, seldom seen, but when once seen
never forgotten, which occasioned the ancient belief in the god Pan,
with his sylvans and satyrs. Nay, but for the gift of speech, which we
cannot suppose any of the family to have attained, we should have
believed the satyr seen by St. Anthony in the desert to have belonged
to this tribe.
We can, therefore, the more easily credit the annals which attest that
the collection of natural history belonging to Alexius Comnenus,
preserved an animal of this kind, which had been domesticated and
reclaimed to a surprising extent, and showed a degree of intelligence
never perhaps to be attained in any other case. These explanations
being premised, we return to the thread of our story.
The animal advanced with long noiseless steps; its shadow on the wall,
when it held the torch so as to make it visible to the Frank, forming
another fiend-resembling mimicry of its own large figure and
extravagant-looking members. Count Robert remained in his lurking hole,
in no hurry to begin a strife, of which it was impossible to foretell
the end. In the meantime, the man of the woods came nigh, and every
step by which he approached, caused the Count's heart to vibrate almost
audibly, at the idea of meeting danger of a nature so strange and new.
At length the creature approached the bed--his hideous eyes were fixed
on those of the Count; and, as much surprised at seeing him as Robert
was at the meeting, he skipped about fifteen paces backwards at one
spring, with a cry of instinctive terror, and then advanced on tiptoe,
holding his torch as far forward as he could, between him and the
object of his fears, as if to examine him at the safest possible
distance. Count Robert caught up a fragment of the bedstead, large
enough to form a sort of club, with which he menaced the native of the
wilds.
Apparently this poor creature's education, like education of most
kinds, had not been acquired without blows, of which the recollection
was as fresh as that of the lessons which they enforced. Sir Robert of
Paris was a man at once to discover and to avail himself of the
advantage obtained by finding that he possessed a degree of ascendancy
over his enemy, which he had not suspected. He erected his warlike
figure, assumed a step as if triumphant in the lists, and advanced
threatening his enemy with his club, as he would have menaced his
antagonist with the redoutable Tranchefer. The man of the woods, on the
other hand, obviously gave way, and converted his cautious advance into
a retreat no less cautious. Yet apparently the creature had not
renounced some plan of resistance; he chattered in an angry and hostile
tone, held out his torch in opposition, and seemed about to strike the
crusader with it. Count Robert, however, determined to take his
opponent at advantage, while his fears influenced him, and for this
purpose resolved, if possible, to deprive him of his natural
superiority in strength and agility, which his singular form showed he
could not but possess over the human species. A master of his weapon,
therefore, the Count menaced his savage antagonist with a stroke on the
right side of his head, but suddenly averting the blow, struck him with
his whole force on the left temple, and in an instant was kneeling
above him, when, drawing his dagger, he was about to deprive him of
life.
The Ourang Outang, ignorant of the nature of this new weapon with which
he was threatened, attempted at one and the same moment, to rise from
the ground, overthrow his antagonist, and wrench the dagger from his
grasp. In the first attempt, he would probably have succeeded; and as
it was, he gained his knees, and seemed likely to prevail in the
struggle, when he became sensible that the knight, drawing his poniard
sharply through his grasp, had cut his paw severely, and seeing him aim
the trenchant weapon at his throat, became probably aware that his
enemy had his life at command. He suffered himself to be borne
backwards without further resistance, with a deep wailing and
melancholy cry, having in it something human, which excited compassion.
He covered his eyes with the unwounded hand, as if he would have hid
from his own sight the death which seemed approaching him.
Count Robert, notwithstanding his military frenzy, was, in ordinary
matters, a calm-tempered and mild man, and particularly benevolent to
the lower classes of creation. The thought rushed through his mind,
"Why take from this unfortunate monster the breath which is in its
nostrils, after which it cannot know another existence? And then, may
it not be some prince or knight changed to this grotesque shape, that
it may help to guard these vaults, and the wonderful adventures that
attach to them? Should I not, then, be guilty of a crime by slaying
him, when he has rendered himself, rescue or no rescue, which he has
done as completely as his transformed figure permits; and if he be
actually a bestial creature, may he not have some touch of gratitude? I
have heard the minstrels sing the lay of Androcles and the Lion. I will
be on my guard with him."'
So saying, he rose from above the man of the woods, and permitted him.
also to arise. The creature seemed sensible of the clemency, for he
muttered in a low and supplicating tone, which seemed at once to crave
for mercy, and to return thanks for what he had already experienced. He
wept too, as he saw the blood dropping from his wound, and with an
anxious countenance, which had more of the human now that it was
composed into an expression of pain and melancholy, seemed to await in
terror the doom of a being more powerful than himself.
The pocket which the knight wore under his armour, capable of
containing but few things, had, however, some vulnerary balsam, for
which its owner had often occasion, a little lint, and a small roll of
linen; these the knight took out, and motioned to the animal to hold
forth his wounded hand. The man of the woods obeyed with hesitation and
reluctance, and Count Robert applied the balsam and the dressings,
acquainting his patient, at the same time, in a severe tone of voice,
that perhaps he did wrong in putting to his use a balsam compounded for
the service of the noblest knights; but that, if he saw the least sign
of his making an ungrateful use of the benefit he had conferred, he
would bury the dagger, of which he had felt the efficacy, to the very
handle, in his body.
The Sylvan looked fixedly upon Count Robert, almost as if he understood
the language used to him, and, making one of its native murmurs, it
stooped to the earth, kissed the feet of the knight, and embracing his
knees, seemed to swear to him eternal gratitude and fidelity.
Accordingly, when the Count retired to the bed and assumed his armour,
to await the re-opening of the trap-door, the animal sat down by his
side, directing its eyes in the line with his, and seemed quietly to
wait till the door should open. After waiting about an hour, a slight
noise was heard in the upper chamber, and the wild man plucked the
Frank by the cloak, as if to call his attention to what was about to
happen. The same voice which had before spoken, was, after a whistle or
two, heard to call, "Sylvan, Sylvan! where loiterest thou? Come
instantly, or, by the rood, thou shalt abye thy sloth!"
The poor monster, as Trinculo might have called him, seemed perfectly
aware of the meaning of this threat, and showed his sense of it by
pressing close to the side of Count Robert, making at the same time a
kind of whining, entreating, it would seem, the knight's protection.
Forgetting the great improbability there was, even in his own opinion,
that the creature could understand him, Count Robert said, "Why, my
friend, thou hast already learned the principal court prayer of this
country, by which men. entreat permission, to speak and live. Fear
nothing, poor creature--I am thy protector."
"Sylvan! what, ho!" said the voice again; "whom hast thou got for a
companion?--some of the fiends, or ghosts of murdered men, who they say
are frequent in these dungeons? or dost thou converse with the old
blind rebel Grecian?--or, finally, is it true what men say of thee,
that thou canst talk intelligibly when thou wilt, and only gibberest
and chatterest for fear thou art sent to work? Come, thou lazy rascal!
thou shalt have the advantage of the ladder to ascend by, though thou
needest it no more than a daw to ascend the steeple of the Cathedral of
St. Sophia. [Footnote: Now the chief mosque of the Ottoman capital.]
Come along then," he said, putting a ladder down the trap-door, "and
put me not to the trouble of descending to fetch thee, else, by St.
Swithin, it shall be the worse for thee. Come along, therefore, like a
good fellow, and for once I shall spare the whip."
The animal, apparently, was moved by this rhetoric, for, with a doleful
look, which Count Robert saw by means of the nearly extinguished torch,
he seemed to bid him farewell, and to creep away towards the ladder
with the same excellent good-will wherewith a condemned criminal
performs the like evolution. But no sooner did the Count look angry,
and shake the formidable dagger, than the intelligent animal seemed at
once to take his resolution, and clenching his hands firmly together in
the fashion of one who has made up his mind, he returned from the
ladder's foot, and drew up behind Count Robert,--with the air, however,
of a deserter, who feels himself but little at home when called into
the field against his ancient commander.
In a short time the warder's patience was exhausted, and despairing of
the Sylvan's voluntary return, he resolved to descend in quest of him.
Down the ladder he came, a bundle of keys in one hand, the other
assisting his descent, and a sort of dark lantern, whose bottom was so
fashioned that he could wear it upon his head like a hat. He had scarce
stept on the floor, when he was surrounded by the nervous arms of the
Count of Paris. At first the warder's idea was, that he was seized by
the recusant Sylvan.
"How now, villain!" he said; "let me go, or thou shalt die the death."
"Thou diest thyself," said the Count, who, between the surprise and his
own skill in wrestling, felt fully his advantage in the struggle.
"Treason! treason!" cried the warder, hearing by the voice that a
stranger had mingled in the contest; "help, ho! above there! help,
Hereward--Varangian!--Anglo-Saxon, or whatever accursed name thou
callest thyself!"
While he spoke thus, the irresistible grasp of Count Robert seized his
throat, and choked his utterance. They fell heavily, the jailor
undermost, upon the floor of the dungeon, and Robert of Paris, the
necessity of whose case excused the action, plunged his dagger in the
throat of the unfortunate. Just as he did so, a noise of armour was
heard, and, rattling down the ladder, our acquaintance Hereward stood
on the floor of the dungeon. The light, which had rolled from the head
of the warder, continued to show him streaming with blood, and in the
death-grasp of a stranger. Hereward hesitated not to fly to his
assistance, and, seizing upon the Count of Paris at the same advantage
which that knight had gained over his own adversary a moment before,
held him forcibly down with his face to the earth. Count Robert was one
of the strongest men of that military age; but then so was the
Varangian; and save that the latter had obtained a decided advantage by
having his antagonist beneath him, it could not certainly have been
conjectured which way the combat was to go.
"Yield, as your own jargon goes, rescue or no rescue," said the
Varangian, "or die on the point of my dagger!"
"A French Count never yields," answered Robert, who began to conjecture
with what sort of person he was engaged, "above all to a vagabond slave
like thee!" With this he made an effort to rise, so sudden, so strong,
so powerful, that he had almost freed himself from the Varangian's
grasp, had not Hereward, by a violent exertion of his great strength,
preserved the advantage he had gained, and raised his poniard to end
the strife for ever; but a loud chuckling laugh of an unearthly sound
was at this instant heard. The Varangian's extended arm was seized with
vigour, while a rough arm embracing his throat, turned him over on his
back, and gave the French Count an opportunity of springing up.
"Death to thee, wretch!" said the Varangian, scarce knowing whom he
threatened; but the man of the woods apparently had an awful
recollection of the prowess of human beings. He fled, therefore,
swiftly up the ladder, and left Hereward and his deliverer to fight it
out with what success chance might determine between them.
The circumstances seemed to argue a desperate combat; both were tall,
strong, and courageous, both had defensive armour, and the fatal and
desperate poniard was their only offensive weapon. They paused facing
each other, and examined eagerly into their respective means of defence
before hazarding a blow, which, if it missed, its attaint would
certainly be fatally requited. During this deadly pause, a gleam shone
from the trapdoor above, as the wild and alarmed visage of the man of
the woods was seen peering down by the light of a newly kindled torch
which he held as low into the dungeon as he well could.
"Fight bravely, comrade," said Count Robert of Paris, "for we no longer
battle in private; this respectable person, having chosen to constitute
himself judge of the field."
Hazardous as his situation was, the Varangian looked up, and was so
struck with the wild and terrified expression which the creature had
assumed, and the strife between curiosity and terror which its
grotesque features exhibited, that he could not help bursting into a
fit of laughter.
"Sylvan is among those," said Hereward, "who would rather hold the
candle to a dance so formidable than join in it himself."
"Is there then," said Count Robert, "any absolute necessity that thou
and I perform this dance at all?"
"None but our own pleasure," answered Hereward; "for I suspect there is
not between us any legitimate cause of quarrel demanding to be fought
out in such a place, and before such a spectator. Thou art, if I
mistake not, the bold Frank, who was yesternight imprisoned in this
place with, a tiger, chained within no distant spring of his bed?"
"I am," answered the Count.
"And where is the animal who was opposed to thee?"
"He lies yonder," answered the Count, "never again to be the object of
more terror than the deer whom he may have preyed on in his day." He
pointed to the body of the tiger, which Hereward examined by the light
of the dark lantern already mentioned.
"And this, then, was thy handiwork?" said the wondering Anglo-Saxon.
"Sooth to say it was," answered the Count, with indifference.
"And thou hast slain my comrade of this strange watch?" said the
Varangian.
"Mortally wounded him at the least," said Count Robert.
"With your patience, I will be beholden to you for a moment's truce,
while I examine his wound," said Hereward.
"Assuredly," answered the Count; "blighted be the arm which strikes a
foul blow at an open antagonist!"
Without demanding further security, the Varangian quitted his posture
of defence and precaution, and set himself, by the assistance of the
dark lantern, to examine the wound of the first warder who appeared on
the field, who seemed, by his Roman military dress, to be a soldier of
the bands called Immortals. Pie found him in the death-agony, but still
able to speak.
"So, Varangian, thou art come at last,--and is it to thy sloth or
treachery that I am to impute my fate?--Nay, answer me not!--The
stranger struck me over the collar-bone--had we lived long together, or
met often, I had done the like by thee, to wipe out the memory of
certain transactions at the Golden Gate.--I know the use of the knife
too well to doubt the effect of a blow aimed over the collar-bone by so
strong a hand--I feel it coming. The Immortal, so called, becomes now,
if priests say true, an immortal indeed, and Sebastes of Mytilene's bow
is broken ere his quiver is half emptied."
The robber Greek sunk back in Hereward's arms, and closed his life with
a groan, which was the last sound he uttered. The Varangian laid the
body at length on the dungeon floor.
"This is a perplexed matter," he said; "I am certainly not called upon
to put to death a brave man, although my national enemy, because he
hath killed a miscreant who was privately meditating my own murder.
Neither is this a place or a light by which to fight as becomes the
champions of two nations. Let that quarrel be still for the
present.--How say you then, noble sir, if we adjourn the present
dispute till we effect your deliverance from the dungeons of the
Blacquernal, and your restoration to your own friends and followers? If
a poor Varangian should be of service to you in this matter, would you,
when it was settled, refuse to meet him in fair fight, with your
national weapons or his own?"
"If," said Count Robert, "whether friend or enemy, thou wilt extend thy
assistance to my wife, who is also imprisoned somewhere in this
inhospitable palace, be assured, that whatever be thy rank, whatever be
thy country, whatever be thy condition, Robert of Paris will, at thy
choice, proffer thee his right hand in friendship, or raise it against
thee in fair and manly battle--a strife not of hatred, but of honour
and esteem; and this I vow by the soul of Charlemagne, my ancestor, and
by the shrine of my patroness, Our Lady of the Broken Lances."
"Enough said," replied Hereward. "I am as much bound to the assistance
of your Lady Countess, being a poor exile, as if I were the first in
the ranks of chivalry; for if any thing can make the cause of worth and
bravery yet more obligatory, it must be its being united with that of a
helpless and suffering female."
"I ought," said Count Robert, "to be here silent, without loading thy
generosity with farther requests; yet thou art a man, whom, if fortune
has not smiled at thy birth, by ordaining thee to be born within the
ranks of noblesse and knighthood, yet Providence hath done thee more
justice by giving thee a more gallant heart than is always possessed, I
fear, by those who are inwoven in the gayest wreath of chivalry. There
lingers here in these dungeons, for I cannot say he lives--a blind old
man, to whom for three years every thing beyond his prison has been a
universal blot. His food is bread and water, his intercourse limited to
the conversation of a sullen warder, and if death can ever come as a
deliverer, it must be to this dark old man. What sayst thou? Shall he,
so unutterably miserable, not profit by perhaps the only opportunity of
freedom that may ever occur to him?"
"By St. Dunstan," answered the Varangian, "thou keepest over truly the
oath thou hast taken as a redresser of wrongs! Thine own case is
well-nigh desperate, and thou art willing to make it utterly so by
uniting with it that of every unhappy person whom fate throws in thy
way!"
"The more of human misery we attempt to relieve," said Robert of Paris,
"the more we shall carry with us the blessing of our merciful saints,
and Our Lady of the Broken Lances, who views with so much pain every
species of human suffering or misfortune, save that which occurs within
the enclosure of the lists. But come, valiant Anglo-Saxon, resolve me
on my request as speedily as thou canst. There is something in thy face
of candour as well as sense, and it is with no small confidence that I
desire to see us set forth in quest of my beloved Countess, who, when
her deliverance is once achieved, will be a powerful aid to us in
recovering that of others."
"So be it, then," said the Varangian; "we will proceed in quest of the
Countess Brenhilda; and if, on recovering her, we find ourselves strong
enough to procure the freedom of the dark old man, my cowardice, or
want of compassion, shall never stop the attempt."