The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was
suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian eye. A light breeze rose; the
olive-groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustled with returning
animation, and the pennons of the Turkish squadron, that lay at anchor
in the harbour of Piræus, twinkled in the lively air. From one gate
of the city the women came forth in procession to the fountain; from
another, a band of sumptuous horsemen sallied out, and threw their
wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they galloped over the
plain. The voice of birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of
fragrant flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the pattering
call of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, shrinking from
the embrace of the twilight breeze, filled the purple air with music and
with odour.
A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the Acropolis, amid
the ruins of the Temple of Minerva, and gazed upon the inspiring scene.
Around him rose the matchless memorials of antique art; immortal columns
whose symmetry baffles modern proportion, serene Caryatides, bearing
with greater grace a graceful burthen, carvings of delicate precision,
and friezes breathing with heroic life. Apparently the stranger, though
habited as a Moslemin, was not insensible to the genius of the locality,
nor indeed would his form and countenance have misbecome a contemporary
of Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life and far above the common
stature, but with a frame the muscular power of which was even exceeded
by its almost ideal symmetry, white forehead, his straight profile, his
oval countenance, and his curling lip, exhibited the same visage that
had inspired the sculptor of the surrounding demigods.
The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, however, certainly
not classic. A crimson shawl was wound round his head and glittered with
a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest which set tight to his form,
was of green velvet, richly embroidered with gold and pearls. Over this
he wore a very light jacket of crimson velvet, equally embroidered, and
lined with sable. He wore also the full white camese common among the
Albanians; and while his feet were protected by sandals, the lower part
of his legs was guarded by greaves of embroidered green velvet. From
a broad belt of scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled hilts of
a variety of daggers, and by his side was an enormous scimitar, in a
scabbard of chased silver.
The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect before him with an air of
pensive abstraction. “Beautiful Greece,” he exclaimed, “thou art still
my country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not
uncheered by hope. I am at least a warrior; and this arm, though trained
to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour of battle,
the blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved Greece and died
a Satrap: I am bred one, let me reverse our lots, and die at least a
patriot.”
At this moment the Evening Hymn to the Virgin arose from a neighbouring
convent. The stranger started as the sacred melody floated towards
him, and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he kissed it with
devotion, and then descending the steep of the citadel, entered the
city.
He proceeded alone the narrow winding streets of Athens until he at
length arrived in front of a marble palace, in the construction of which
the architect had certainly not consulted the surrounding models which
Time bad spared to him, but which, however, it might have offended
a classic taste, presented altogether a magnificent appearance.
Half-a-dozen guards, whose shields and helmets somewhat oddly contrasted
with the two pieces of cannon, one of which was ostentatiously placed on
each side of the portal, and which had been presented to the Prince of
Athens by the Republic of Venice, lounged before the entrance, and paid
their military homage to the stranger as he passed them. He passed
them and entered a large quadrangular garden, surrounded by arcades,
supported by a considerable number of thin, low pillars, of barbarous
workmanship, and various-coloured marbles. In the midst of the garden
rose a fountain, whence the bubbling waters flowed in artificial
channels through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the side of the
fountain on a luxurious couch, his eyes fixed upon a richly-illuminated
volume, reposed Nicæus, the youthful Prince of Athens.
“Ah! is it you?” said the Prince, looking up with a smile, as the
stranger advanced. “You have arrived just in time to remind me that we
must do something more than read the Persæ, we must act it.”
“My dear Nicæus,” replied the stranger, “I have arrived only to bid you
farewell.”
“Farewell!” exclaimed the Prince in a tone of surprise and sorrow; and
he rose from the couch. “Why! what is this?”
“It is too true;” said the stranger, and he led the way down one of the
walks. “Events have occurred which entirely baffle all our plans and
prospects, and place me in a position as difficult as it is harrowing.
Hunniades has suddenly crossed the Danube in great force, and carried
everything before him. I am ordered to proceed to Albania instantly, and
to repair to the camp at the head of the Epirots.”
“Indeed!” said Nicæus, with a thoughtful air. “My letters did not
prepare me for this. ‘Tis sudden! Is Amurath himself in the field?”
“No; Karam Bey commands. I have accounted for my delay to the Sultan by
pretended difficulties in our treaty, and have held out the prospect of
a larger tribute.”
“When we are plotting that that tribute should be paid no longer!” added
Nicæus, with a smile.
“Alas! my dear friend,” replied the Turkish commander, “my situation
has now become critical. Hitherto my services for the Moslemin have been
confined to acting against nations of their own faith. I am now suddenly
summoned to combat against my secret creed, and the best allies of what
I must yet call my secret country. The movement, it appears to me, must
be made now or never, and I cannot conceal from myself, that it never
could have been prosecuted under less auspicious circumstances.”
“What, you desponding!” exclaimed Nicæus; “then I must despair. Your
sanguine temper has alone supported me throughout all our dangerous
hopes.”
“And Æschylus?” said the stranger, smiling.
“And Æschylus, certainly,” replied Nicæus; “but I have lived to find
even Æschylus insipid. I pant for action.”
“It may be nearer than we can foresee,” replied the stranger. “There is
a God who fashions all things. He will not desert a righteous cause.
He knoweth that my thoughts are as pure as my situation is difficult. I
have some dim ideas still brooding in my mind, but we will not discuss
them now. I must away, dear Prince. The breeze serves fairly. Have you
ever seen Hunniades?”
“I was educated at the Court of Transylvania,” replied Nicæus,
looking down with a somewhat embarrassed air. “He is a famous knight,
Christendom’s chief bulwark.”
The Turkish commander sighed. “When we meet again,” he said, “may we
meet with brighter hopes and more buoyant spirits. At present, I must,
indeed, say farewell.”
The Prince turned with a dejected countenance, and pressed his
companion to his heart. “‘Tis a sad end,” said he, “to all our happy
hours and lofty plans.”
“You are as yet too young to quarrel with Fortune,” replied the
stranger, “and for myself, I have not yet settled my accounts with her.
However, for the present farewell, dear Nicæus!”
“Farewell,” replied the Prince of Athens, “farewell, dear Iskander!”