_Alroy Falls Among Thieves_
TRADITION taught that the sceptre of Solomon could be found only in the
unknown sepulchres of the ancient Hebrew monarchs, and that none might
dare to touch it but one of their descendants. Armed with the cabalistic
talisman, which was to guide him in his awful and difficult researches,
Alroy commenced his pilgrimage to the Holy City. At this time, the love
of these sacred wanderings was a reigning passion among the Jews as well
as the Christians.
The Prince of the Captivity was to direct his course into the heart
of those great deserts which, in his flight from Hamadan, he had only
skirted. Following the track of the caravan, he was to make his way
to Babylon, or Bagdad. From the capital of the caliphs, his journey
to Jerusalem was one comparatively easy; but to reach Bagdad he must
encounter hardship and danger, the prospect of which would have
divested any one of hope, who did not conceive himself the object of an
omnipotent and particular Providence.
Clothed only in a coarse black frock, common among the Kourds, girded
round his waist by a cord which held his dagger, his head shaven, and
covered with a large white turban, which screened him from the heat, his
feet protected only by slippers, supported by his staff, and bearing on
his shoulders a bag of dried meat and parched corn, and a leathern skin
of water, behold, toiling over the glowing sands of Persia, a youth
whose life had hitherto been a long unbroken dream of domestic luxury
and innocent indulgence.
He travelled during the warm night or the early starlit morn. During the
day he rested: happy if he could recline by the side of some
charitable well, shaded by a palm-tree, or frighten a gazelle from its
resting-place among the rough bushes of some wild rocks. Were these
resources wanting, he threw himself upon the sand, and made an awning
with his staff and turban.
Three weeks had elapsed since he quitted the cavern of the Cabalist.
Hitherto he had met with no human being. The desert became less arid.
A scanty vegetation sprang up from a more genial soil; the ground broke
into gentle undulations; his senses were invigorated with the odour
of wild plants, and his sight refreshed by the glancing form of some
wandering bird, a pilgrim like himself, but more at ease.
Soon sprang up a grove of graceful palm-trees, with their tall thin
stems, and bending feathery crowns, languid and beautiful. Around, the
verdant sod gleamed like an emerald: silver streams, flowing from a
bubbling parent spring, wound their white forms within the bright green
turf. From the grove arose the softening song of doves, and showers of
gay and sparkling butterflies, borne on their tinted wings of shifting
light, danced without danger in the liquid air. A fair and fresh Oasis!
Alroy reposed in this delicious retreat for two days, feeding on the
living dates, and drinking of the fresh water. Fain would he have
lingered, nor indeed, until he rested, had he been sufficiently
conscious of his previous exertion. But the remembrance of his great
mission made him restless, and steeled him to the sufferings which yet
awaited him.
At the dawn of the second day of his journey from the Oasis he beheld to
his astonishment, faintly but distinctly traced on the far horizon, the
walls and turrets of an extensive city.[13] Animated by this unexpected
prospect, he continued his progress for several hours after sunrise. At
length, utterly exhausted, he sought refuge from the overpowering heat
beneath the cupola of the ruined tomb of some Moslem saint. At sunset
he continued his journey, and in the morning found himself within a few
miles of the city. He halted, and watched with anxiety for some evidence
of its inhabitants. None was visible. No crowds or cavalcades issued
from the gates. Not a single human being, not a solitary camel, moved in
the vicinity.
The day was too advanced for the pilgrim to proceed, but so great was
his anxiety to reach this unknown settlement, and penetrate the mystery
of its silence, that ere sunset Alroy entered the gates.
A magnificent city, of an architecture with which he was unacquainted,
offered to his entranced vision its gorgeous ruins and deserted
splendour; long streets of palaces, with their rich line of lessening
pillars, here and there broken by some fallen shaft, vast courts
surrounded by ornate and solemn temples, and luxurious baths adorned
with rare mosaics, and yet bright with antique gilding; now an arch of
triumph, still haughty with its broken friezes; now a granite obelisk
covered with strange characters, and proudly towering over a prostrate
companion; sometimes a void and crumbling theatre, sometimes a long and
elegant aqueduct, sometimes a porphyry column, once breathing with the
heroic statue that now lies shivered at its base, all suffused with the
warm twilight of an eastern eve.
He gazed with wonder and admiration upon the strange and fascinating
scene. The more he beheld, the more his curiosity was excited. He
breathed with difficulty; he advanced with a blended feeling of
eagerness and hesitation. Fresh wonders successively unfolded
themselves. Each turn developed a new scene of still and solemn
splendour. The echo of his step filled him with awe. He looked around
him with an amazed air, a fluttering heart, and a changing countenance.
All was silent: alone the Hebrew Prince stood amid the regal creation of
the Macedonian captains. Empires and dynasties flourish and pass away;
the proud metropolis becomes a solitude, the conquering kingdom even a
desert; but Israel still remains, still a descendant of the most ancient
kings breathed amid these royal ruins, and still the eternal sun could
never rise without gilding the towers of living Jerusalem. A word, a
deed, a single day, a single man, and we might be a nation.
A shout! he turns, he is seized; four ferocious Kourdish bandits grapple
and bind him.
The bandits hurried their captive through a street which appeared to
have been the principal way of the city. Nearly at its termination,
they turned by a small Ionian temple, and, clambering over some fallen
pillars, entered a quarter of the city of a more ruinous aspect than
that which Alroy had hitherto visited. The path was narrow, often
obstructed, and around were signs of devastation for which the exterior
of the city had not prepared him.
The brilliant but brief twilight of the Orient was fast fading away; a
sombre purple tint succeeded to the rosy flush; the distant towers rose
black, although defined, in the clear and shadowy air; and the moon,
which, when he first entered, had studded the heavens like a small white
cloud, now glittered with deceptive light.
Suddenly, before them rose a huge pile. Oval in shape, and formed by
tiers of arches, it was evidently much dilapidated, and one enormous,
irregular, and undulating rent, extending from the top nearly to the
foundation, almost separated the side to which Alroy and his companions
advanced.
Clambering up the remainder of this massive wall, the robbers and their
prisoner descended into an immense amphitheatre, which seemed vaster in
the shadowy and streaming moonlight. In it were groups of men, horses,
and camels. In the extreme distance, reclining or squatting on mats and
carpets, was a large assembly, engaged in a rough but merry banquet. A
fire blazed at their side, its red and uncertain flame mingling with the
white and steady moonbeam, and throwing a flickering light over their
ferocious countenances, their glistening armour, ample drapery, and
shawled heads.
‘A spy,’ exclaimed the captors, as they dragged Alroy before the leader
of the band.
‘Hang him, then,’ said the chieftain, without even looking up.
‘This wine, great Scherirah, is excellent, or I am no true Moslem,’
said a principal robber; ‘but you are too cruel; I hate this summary
punishment. Let us torture him a little, and extract some useful
information.’
‘As you like, Kisloch,’ said Scherirah; ‘it may amuse us. Fellow, where
do you come from? He cannot answer. Decidedly a spy. Hang him up.’
The captors half untied the rope that bound Alroy, that it might serve
him for a further purpose, when another of the gentle companions of
Scherirah interfered.
‘Spies always answer, captain. He is more probably a merchant in
disguise.’
‘And carries hidden treasure,’ added Kisloch; ‘these rough coats often
cover jewels. We had better search him.’
‘Ah! search him,’ said Scherirah, with his rough brutal voice; ‘do what
you like, only give me the bottle. This Greek wine is choice booty. Feed
the fire, men. Are you asleep? And then Kisloch, who hates cruelty, can
roast him if he likes.’
The robbers prepared to strip their captive. ‘Friends, friends!’
exclaimed Alroy, ‘for there is no reason why you should not be friends,
spare me, spare me. I am poor, I am young, I am innocent. I am neither a
spy nor a merchant. I have no plots, no wealth. I am a pilgrim.’
‘A decided spy,’ exclaimed Scherirah; ‘they are ever pilgrims.’
‘He speaks too well to speak truth,’ exclaimed Kisloch.
‘All talkers are liars,’ exclaimed Scherirah.
‘That is why Kisloch is the most eloquent of the band.’
‘A jest at the banquet may prove a curse in the field,’ replied Kisloch.
‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Scherirah. ‘Fellows, why do you hesitate? Search the
prisoner, I say!’
They advanced, they seized him. In vain he struggled.
‘Captain,’ exclaimed one of the band, ‘he wears upon his breast a
jewel!’
‘I told you so,’ said the third robber.
‘Give it me,’ said Scherirah.
But Alroy, in despair at the thought of losing the talisman, remembering
the injunctions of Jabaster, and animated by supernatural courage, burst
from his searchers, and, seizing a brand from the fire, held them at
bay.
‘The fellow has spirit,’ said Scherirah, calmly. ‘‘Tis pity it will cost
him his life.’
‘Bold man,’ exclaimed Alroy, ‘for a moment hear me! I am a pilgrim,
poorer than a beggar. The jewel they talk of is a holy emblem, worthless
to you, to me invaluable, and to be forfeited only with my life. You
may be careless of that. Beware of your own. The first man who advances
dies. I pray you humbly, chieftain, let me go.’
‘Kill him,’ said Scherirah.
‘Stab him!’ exclaimed Kisloch.
‘Give me the jewel,’ said the third robber.
‘The God of David be my refuge, then!’ exclaimed Alroy.
‘He is a Hebrew, he is a Hebrew,’ exclaimed Scherirah, jumping up.
‘Spare him, my mother was a Jewess.’
The assailants lowered their arms, and withdrew a few paces. Alroy still
remained upon his guard.
‘Valiant pilgrim,’ said Scherirah, advancing, with a softened voice,
‘are you for the holy city?’
‘The city of my fathers.’
‘A perilous journey. And whence from?’
‘Hamadan.’
‘A dreary way. You need repose. Your name?’
‘David.’
‘David, you are among friends. Rest, and repose in safety. You hesitate.
Fear not! The memory of my mother is a charm that always changes me!’
Scherirah unsheathed his dagger, punctured his arm,[14] and, throwing
away the weapon, offered the bleeding member to Alroy. The Prince of the
Captivity touched the open vein with his lips.
‘My troth is pledged,’ said the bandit; ‘I can never betray him in whose
veins my own blood is flowing.’ So saying, he led Alroy to his carpet.
‘Eat,’ David,’ said Scherirah.
‘I will eat bread,’ answered Alroy.
‘What! have you had so much meat lately that you will refuse this
delicate gazelle that I brought down this morning with my own lance?
‘Tis food for a caliph.’
‘I pray you give me bread.’
‘Oh! bread if you like. But that a man should prefer bread to meat, and
such meat as this, ‘tis miraculous.’
‘A thousand thanks, good Scherirah; but with our people the flesh of the
gazelle is forbidden. It is unclean. Its foot is _cloven_.’
‘I have heard of these things,’ replied Scherirah, with a thoughtful
air. ‘My mother was a Jewess, and my father was a Kourd. Whichever be
right, I hope to be saved.’
‘There is but one God, and Mahomed is his prophet!’ exclaimed Kisloch;
‘though I drink wine. Your health, Hebrew.’
‘I will join you,’ said to the third robber. ‘My father was a Guebre,
and sacrificed his property to his faith; and the consequence is, his
son has got neither.’
‘As for me,’ said a fourth robber, of very dark complexion and
singularly small bright eyes, ‘I am an Indian, and I believe in the
great golden figure with carbuncle eyes, in the temple of Delhi.’
‘I have no religion,’ said a tall negro in a red turban, grinning with
his white teeth; ‘they have none in my country; but if I had heard of
your God before, Calidas, I would have believed in him.’
‘I almost wish I had been a Jew,’ exclaimed Scherirah, musing. ‘My
mother was a good woman.’ ‘The Jews are very rich,’ said the third
robber. ‘When you get to Jerusalem, David, you will see the Christians,’
continued Scherirah.
‘The accursed Giaours,’ exclaimed Kisloch, ‘we are all against them.’
‘With their white faces,’ exclaimed the negro. ‘And their blue eyes,’
said the Indian. ‘What can you expect of men who live in a country
without a sun?’ observed the Guebre.
Alroy awoke about two hours after midnight. His companions were in deep
slumber. The moon had set, the fire had died away, a few red embers
alone remaining; dark masses of shadow hung about the amphitheatre. He
arose and cautiously stepped over the sleeping bandits. He was not
in strictness a prisoner; but who could trust to the caprice of these
lawless men? To-morrow might find him their slave, or their companion in
some marauding expedition, which might make him almost retrace his steps
to the Caucasus, or to Hamadan. The temptation to ensure his freedom
was irresistible. He clambered up the ruined wall, descended into the
intricate windings that led to the Ionic fane, that served him as a
beacon, hurried through the silent and starry streets, gained the great
portal, and rushed once more into the desert.
A vague fear of pursuit made him continue his course many hours without
resting. The desert again became sandy, the heat increased. The breeze
that plays about the wilderness, and in early spring is often scented
with the wild fragrance of aromatic plants, sank away. A lurid
brightness suffused the heavens. An appalling stillness pervaded nature;
even the insects were silent. For the first time in his pilgrimage,
a feeling of deep despondency fell over the soul of Alroy. His energy
appeared suddenly to have deserted him. A low hot wind began to rise,
and fan his cheek with pestiferous kisses, and enervate his frame with
its poisonous embrace. His head and limbs ached with a dull sensation,
more terrible than pain; his sight was dizzy, his tongue swollen. Vainly
he looked around for aid; vainly he extended his forlorn arms, and
wrung them to the remorseless heaven, almost frantic with thirst. The
boundless horizon of the desert disappeared, and the unhappy victim, in
the midst of his torture, found himself apparently surrounded by bright
and running streams, the fleeting waters of the false mirage!
The sun became blood-red, the sky darker, the sand rose in fierce
eddies, the moaning wind burst into shrieks and exhaled more ardent
and still more malignant breath. The pilgrim could no longer sustain
himself.[15] Faith, courage, devotion deserted him with his failing
energies. He strove no longer with his destiny, he delivered himself
up to despair and death. He fell upon one knee with drooping head,
supporting himself by one quivering hand, and then, full of the anguish
of baffled purposes and lost affections, raising his face and arm to
heaven, thus to the elements he poured his passionate farewell.
‘O life! once vainly deemed a gloomy toil, I feel thy sweetness now!
Farewell, O life, farewell my high resolves and proud conviction of
almighty fame. My days, my short unprofitable days, melt into the past;
and death, with which I struggle, horrible death, arrests me in this
wilderness. O my sister, could thy voice but murmur in my ear one single
sigh of love; could thine eye with its soft radiance but an instant
blend with my dim fading vision, the pang were nothing. Farewell,
Miriam! my heart is with thee by thy fountain’s side. Fatal blast,
bear her my dying words, my blessing. And ye too, friends, whose too
neglected love I think of now, farewell! Farewell, my uncle; farewell,
pleasant home, and Hamadan’s serene and shadowy bowers! Farewell,
Jabaster, and the mighty lore of which thou wert the priest and I the
pupil! Thy talisman throbs on my faithful heart. Green earth and golden
sun, and all the beautiful and glorious sights ye fondly lavish on
unthinking man, farewell, farewell! I die in the desert: ‘tis bitter. No
more, oh! never more for me the hopeful day shall break, and the fresh
breeze rise on its cheering wings of health and joy. Heaven and earth,
water and air, my chosen country and my antique creed, farewell,
farewell! And thou, too, city of my soul, I cannot name thee, unseen
Jerusalem----’
Amid the roar of the wind, the bosom of the earth heaved and opened,
swift columns of sand sprang up to the lurid sky, and hurried towards
their victim. With the clang of universal chaos, impenetrable darkness
descended on the desert.