The Armenian physician did not fail to attend his captive patient at an
early hour on the ensuing morn. His patron Kaflis received him with an
encouraging smile.
“The talisman already works;” said the eunuch: “she has passed a good
night, and confesses to an improvement. Our purses are safe. Methinks
I already count the gold. But I say, worthy Hakim, come hither, come
hither,” and Kaflis looked around to be sure that no one was within
hearing, “I say,” and here he put on a very mysterious air indeed, “the
prince is generous; you understand? We go shares. We shall not quarrel.
I never yet repented patronizing a man of science, and I am sure I never
shall. The prince, you see, is violent, but generous. I would not cure
her too soon, eh?”
“You take a most discreet view of affairs,” responded Iskander, with an
air of complete assent, and they entered the chamber of the tower.
Iduna performed her part with great dexterity; but, indeed, it required
less skill than herself and her advisers had at first imagined. Her
malady, although it might have ended fatally, was in its origin entirely
mental, and the sudden prospect of freedom, and of restoration to her
country and her family, at a moment when she had delivered herself up to
despair, afforded her a great and instantaneous benefit. She could not,
indeed, sufficiently restrain her spirits, and smiled incredulously when
Iskander mentioned the impending exertion and fatigues with doubt and
apprehension. His anxiety to return immediately to Epirus, determined
him to adopt the measures for her rescue without loss of time, and on
his third visit, he prepared her for making the great attempt on the
ensuing morn. Hitherto Iskander had refrained from revealing himself to
Iduna. He was induced to adopt this conduct by various considerations.
He could no longer conceal from himself that the daughter of Hunniades
exercised an influence over his feelings which he was unwilling to
encourage. His sincere friendship for Nicæus, and his conviction that It
was his present duty to concentrate all his thought and affection in the
cause of his country, would have rendered him anxious to have resisted
any emotions of the kind, even could he have flattered himself that
there was any chance of their being returned by the object of his rising
passion. But Iskander was as modest as he was brave and gifted. The
disparity of age between himself and Iduna appeared an insuperable
barrier to his hopes, even had there been no other obstacle. Iskander
struggled with his love, and with his strong mind the struggle, though
painful, was not without success. He felt that he was acting in a
manner which must ultimately tend to the advantage of his country,
the happiness of his friend, and perhaps the maintenance of his own
self-respect. For he had too much pride not to be very sensible to the
bitterness of rejection.
Had he perceived more indications of a very cordial feeling subsisting
between Nicæus and Iduna, he would perhaps not have persisted in
maintaining his disguise. But he had long suspected that the passion of
the Prince of Athens was not too favourably considered by the daughter
of Hunniades, and he was therefore exceedingly anxious that Nicæus
should possess all the credit of the present adventure, which Iskander
scarcely doubted, if successful, would allow Nicæus to urge irresistible
claims to the heart of a mistress whom he had rescued at the peril of
his life from slavery and dishonour, to offer rank, reputation, and
love. Iskander took, therefore, several opportunities of leading Iduna
to believe that he was merely the confidential agent of Nicæus, and that
the whole plan of her rescue from the Seraglio of Adrianople bad been
planned by his young friend. In the meantime, during the three days
on which they had for short intervals met, very few words had been
interchanged between Nicæus and his mistress. Those words, indeed, had
been to him of the most inspiring nature, and expressed such a deep
scale of gratitude, and such lively regard, that Nicæus could no
longer resist the delightful conviction that he had at length created a
permanent interest in her heart. Often he longed to rush to her
couch, and press her hand to his lips. Even the anticipation of future
happiness could not prevent him from envying the good fortune of
Iskander, who was allowed to converse with her without restraint; and
bitterly, on their return to the khan, did he execrate the pompous
eunuch for all the torture which he occasioned him by his silly
conversation, and the petty tyranny of office with which Kaflis always
repressed his attempts to converse for a moment with Iduna.
In the meantime all Adrianople sounded with the preparations for the
immediate invasion of Epirus, and the return of Iskander to his country
became each hour more urgent. Everything being prepared, the adventurers
determined on the fourth morning to attempt the rescue. They repaired as
usual to the Serail, and were attended by Kaflis to the chamber of
the tower, who congratulated Iskander on their way on the rapid
convalescence of the captive. When they had fairly entered the chamber,
the physician being somewhat in advance, Nicæus, who was behind,
commenced proceedings by knocking down the eunuch, and Iskander
instantly turning round to his assistance, they succeeded in gagging and
binding the alarmed and astonished Kaflis. Iduna then exhibited herself
in a costume exactly similar to that worn by Nicæus, and which her
friends had brought to her in their big. Iskander and Iduna then
immediately quitted the Serail without notice or suspicion, and hurried
to the khan, where they mounted their horses, that were in readiness,
and hastened without a moment’s loss of time to a fountain without the
gates, where they awaited the arrival of Nicæus with anxiety. After
remaining a few minutes in the chamber of the tower, the Prince of
Athens stole out, taking care to secure the door upon Kaflis, he
descended the staircase, and escaped through the Serail without meeting
any one, and had nearly reached the gate of the gardens, when he was
challenged by some of the eunuch guard at a little distance.
“Hilloa!” exclaimed one; “I thought you passed just now?”
“So I did,” replied Nicæus, with nervous effrontery; “but I came back
for my bag, which I left behind,” and, giving them no time to reflect,
he pushed his way through the gate with all the impudence of a page. He
rushed through the burial-ground, hurried through the streets, mounted
his horse, and galloped through the gates. Iskander and Iduna were in
sight, he waved his hand for them at once to proceed, and in a moment,
without exchanging a word, they were all galloping at full speed, nor
did they breathe their horses until sunset.
By nightfall they had reached a small wood of chestnut-trees, where they
rested for two hours, more for the sake of their steeds than their own
refreshment, for anxiety prevented Iduna from indulging in any repose,
as much as excitement prevented her from feeling any fatigue. Iskander
lit a fire and prepared their rough meal, unharnessed the horses, and
turned them out to their pasture. Nicæus made Iduna a couch of fern
and supported her head, while, in deference to his entreaties she
endeavoured in vain to sleep. Before midnight they were again on their
way, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the mountains, until a few
hours before noon, when their horses began to sink under the united
influence of their previous exertions and the increasing heat of the
day. Iskander looked serious, and often threw a backward glance in the
direction of Adrianople.
“We must be beyond pursuit,” said Nicæus. “I dare say poor Kaflis is
still gagged and bound.”
“Could we but reach the mountains,” replied his companion, “I should
have little fear, but I counted upon our steeds carrying us there
without faltering. We cannot reckon upon more than three hours’ start,
prince. Our friend Kaflis is too important a personage to be long
missed.”
“The Holy Virgin befriend us!” said the Lady Iduna. “I ca urge my poor
horse no more.”
They had now ascended a small rising ground, which gave the wide
prospect over the plain. Iskander halted and threw an anxious glance
around him.
“There are some horsemen in the distance whom I do not like,” said the
physician.
“I see them,” said Nicæus; “travellers like ourselves.”
“Let us die sooner than be taken,” said Iduna.
“Move on,” said the physician, “and let me observe these horsemen
alone. I would there were some forest at hand. In two hours we may gain
the mountains.”
The daughter of Hunniades and the Prince of Athens descended the rising
ground. Before them, but at a considerable distance was a broad and
rapid river, crossed by a ruinous Roman bridge. The opposite bank of the
river was the termination of a narrow plain, which led immediately to
the mountains.
“Fair Iduna, you are safe,” said the Prince of Athens.
“Dear Nicæus,” replied his companion, “imagine what I feel.”
“It is too wild a moment to express my gratitude.”
“I trust that Iduna will never express her gratitude to Nicæus,”
answered the prince; “it is not, I assure you, a favourite word with
him.”
Their companion rejoined them, urging his wearied horse to its utmost
speed.
“Nicæus!” he called out, “halt.”
They stopped their willing horses.
“How now! my friend;” said the prince; “you look grave.”
“Lady Iduna!” said the Armenian, “we are pursued.”
Hitherto the prospect of success, and the consciousness of the terrible
destiny that awaited failure, had supported Iduna under exertions, which
under any other circumstances must have proved fatal. But to learn, at
the very moment that she was congratulating herself on the felicitous
completion of their daring enterprise, that that dreaded failure was
absolutely impending, demanded too great an exertion of her exhausted
energies. She turned pale; she lifted up her imploring hands and eyes to
heaven in speechless agony, and then, bending down her head, wept with
unrestrained and harrowing violence. The distracted Nicæus sprung from
his horse, endeavoured to console the almost insensible Iduna, and then
woefully glancing at his fellow adventurer, wrung his hands in despair.
His fellow adventurer seemed lost in thought.
“They come,” said Nicæus, starting; “methinks I see one on the brow of
the hill. Away! fly! Let us at least die fighting. Dear, dear Iduna,
would that my life could ransom thine! O God! this is indeed agony.”
“Escape is impossible,” said Iduna, in a tone of calmness which
astonished them. “They must overtake us. Alas! brave friends, I have
brought ye to this! Pardon me, pardon me! I am ashamed of my selfish
grief. Ascribe it to other causes than a narrow spirit and a weak mind.
One course alone is left to us. We must not be taken prisoners. Ye are
warriors, and can die as such. I am only a woman, but I am the daughter
of Hunniades. Nicæus, you are my father’s friend; I beseech you sheathe
your dagger in my breast.”
The prince in silent agony pressed his hands to his sight. His limbs
quivered with terrible emotion. Suddenly he advanced and threw himself
at the feet of his hitherto silent comrade. “Oh! Iskander!” exclaimed
Nicæus, “great and glorious friend! my head and heart are both too weak
for these awful trials; save her, save her!”
“Iskander! exclaimed the thunderstruck Iduna. Iskander!”
“I have, indeed, the misfortune to be Iskander, beloved lady,” he
replied. “This is, indeed, a case almost of desperation, but if I have
to endure more than most men, I have, to inspire me, influences which
fall to the lot of few, yourself and Epirus. Come! Nicæus, there is but
one chance, we must gain the bridge.” Thus speaking, Iskander caught
Iduna in his arms, and remounting his steed, and followed by the Prince
of Athens, hurried towards the river.
“The water is not fordable,” said Iskander, when they had arrived at its
bank. “The bridge I shall defend; and it will go hard if I do not keep
them at bay long enough for you and Iduna to gain the mountains. Away;
think no more of me; nay! no tear, dear lady, or you will unman me.
An ins inspiring smile, and all will go well. Hasten to Croia, and let
nothing tempt you to linger in the vicinity, with the hope of my again
joining you. Believe me, we shall meet again, but act upon what I say,
as if they were my dying words. God bless you, Nicæus! No murmuring. For
once let the physician, indeed, command his page. Gentle lady, commend
me to your father. Would I had such a daughter in Epirus, to head my
trusty brethren if I fall. Tell the great Hunniades my legacy to him is
my country. Farewell, farewell!”
“I will not say farewell!” exclaimed Iduna; “I too can fight. I will
stay and die with you.”
“See they come! Believe me I shall conquer. Fly, fly, thou noble girl!
Guard her well, Nicæus. God bless thee, boy! Live and be happy. Nay,
nay, not another word. The farther ye are both distant, trust me, the
stronger will be my arm. Indeed, indeed, I do beseech ye, fly!”
Nicæus placed the weeping Iduna in her saddle, and after leading her
horse over the narrow and broken bridge, mounted his own, and then they
ascended together the hilly and winding track. Iskander watched them as
they went. Often Iduna waved her kerchief to her forlorn champion. In
the meantime Iskander tore off his Armenian robes and flung them into
the river, tried his footing on the position he had taken up, stretched
his limbs, examined his daggers, flourished his scimitar.
The bridge would only permit a single rider to pass abreast. It was
supported by three arches, the centre one of very considerable size, the
others small, and rising out of the shallow water on each side. In many
parts the parapet wall was broken, in some even the pathway was almost
impassable from the masses of fallen stone, and the dangerous fissures.
In the centre of the middle arch was an immense key-stone, on which was
sculptured, in high relief, an enormous helmet, which indeed gave, among
the people of the country, a title to the bridge.
A band of horsemen dashed at full speed, with a loud shout, down the
bill. They checked their horses, when to their astonishment they found
Iskander with his drawn scimitar, prepared to resist their passage. But
they paused only for a moment, and immediately attempted to swim the
river. But their exhausted horses drew back with a strong instinct from
the rushing waters: one of the band alone, mounted on a magnificent
black mare, succeeding in his purpose. The rider was half-way in the
stream, his high-bred steed snorting and struggling in the strong
current. Iskander, with the same ease as if he were plucking the ripe
fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and hurled it with fatal
precision at his adventurous enemy. The rider shrieked and fell, and
rose no more: the mare, relieved from her burthen, exerted all her
failing energies, and succeeded in gaining the opposite bank. There,
rolling herself in the welcome pasture, and neighing with a note of
triumph, she revelled in her hard escape.
“Cut down the Giaour!” exclaimed one of the horsemen, and he dashed
at the bridge. His fragile blade shivered into a thousand pieces as it
crossed the scimitar of Iskander, and in a moment his bleeding head fell
over the parapet.
Instantly the whole band, each emulous of revenging his comrades, rushed
without thought at Iskander, and endeavoured to overpower him by their
irresistible charge. His scimitar flashed like lightning. The two
foremost of his enemies fell, but the impulse of the numbers prevailed,
and each instant, although dealing destruction with every blow, he felt
himself losing ground. At length he was on the centre of the centre
arch, an eminent position, which allowed him for a moment to keep
them at bay, and gave him breathing time. Suddenly he made a desperate
charge, clove the head of the leader of the band in two, and beat them
back several yards; then swiftly returning to his former position, he
summoned all his supernatural strength, and stamping on the mighty, but
mouldering keystone, he forced it from its form, and broke the masonry
of a thousand years. Amid a loud and awful shriek, horses and horsemen,
and the dissolving fragments of the scene for a moment mingled as it
were in airy chaos, and then plunged with a horrible plash into the
fatal depths below. Some fell, and, stunned by the massy fragments, rose
no more; others struggled again into light, and gained with difficulty
their old shore. Amid them, Iskander, unhurt, swam like a river god, and
stabbed to the heart the only strong swimmer that was making his way
in the direction of Epirus. Drenched and exhausted, Iskander at length
stood upon the opposite margin, and wrung his garments, while he watched
the scene of strange destruction.
Three or four exhausted wretches were lying bruised and breathless on
the opposite bank: one drowned horse was stranded near them, caught by
the rushes. Of all that brave company the rest had vanished, and the
broad, and blue, and sunny waters rushed without a shadow beneath the
two remaining arches.
“Iduna! thou art safe,” exclaimed Iskander. “Now for Epirus!” So
saying, he seized the black mare, renovated by her bath and pasture,
and vaulting on her back, was in a few minutes bounding over his native
hills.