The Eremite rose with the Sun; and while he was yet at matins, was
joined by Iduna, refreshed and cheerful after her unusual slumbers.
After performing their devotions, her venerable host proposed that
they should go forth and enjoy the morning air. So, descending the
precipitous bank of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the
bed of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beautiful clumps of
birch-trees and tall thin poplars, rose on each side among the rocks
covered with bright mosses, and parasitical plants of gay and various
colours. One side of the glen was touched with the golden and grateful
beams of the rising sun, and the other was in deep shadow.
“Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in security;” said the Eremite,
“for your enemies, if they have not already given up their pursuit, will
scarcely search this sweet solitude.”
“It is indeed sweet, holy father,” said Iduna; “but the captive, who has
escaped from captivity, can alone feel all its sweetness.”
“It is true,” said the Eremite; “I also have been a captive.”
“Indeed! holy father. To the Infidels?”
“To the Infidels, gentle pilgrim.”
“Have you been at Adrianople?”
“My oppressors were not the Paynim,” replied the Eremite, “but they
were enemies far more dire, my own evil passions. Time was when my eye
sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure.”
“God is merciful,” said Iduna, “and without His aid, the strongest are
but shadows.”
“Ever think so,” replied the Eremite, “and you will deserve rather His
love than His mercy. Thirty long years have I spent in this solitude,
meditating upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in instruction.
My hours are never heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other
men.”
“You have seen much, holy father?”
“And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my
experience very slight, for I can only say unto thee, trust not in
thyself.”
“It is a great truth,” remarked Iduna, “and leads to a higher one.”
“Even so,” replied the Eremite. “We are full of wisdom in old age, as
in winter this river is full of water, but the fire of youth, like the
summer sun, dries up the stream.”
Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her attention to a patch of
cresses on the opposite bank of the stream. “Every morn I rise only
to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence,” he exclaimed.
“Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my fish. To-day I can offer ye a fresh
dainty. We will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here,
gentle youth, and I will summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much
he does not bear so contented a spirit as thyself.”
“He is older, and has seen more,” replied Iduna.
The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, returned to
the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a mossy rock, listening to the
awakening birds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was
indulging in this reverie, her name was called. She looked up with a
blush, and beheld Nicæus.
“How fares my gentle comrade?” inquired the Prince of Athens.
“As well as I hope you are, dear Nicæus. We have been indeed fortunate
in finding so kind a host.”
“I think I may now congratulate you on your safety,” said the Prince.
“This unfrequented pass will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I
indeed now fear pursuit.”
“Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you,” said
Iduna. “My joy would be complete if my father only knew of our safety,
and if our late companion were here to share it.”
“Fear not for my friend,” replied Nicæus. “I have faith in the fortune
of Iskander.”
“If any one could succeed under such circumstances, he doubtless is the
man,” rejoined Iduna; “but it was indeed an awful crisis in his fate.”
“Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy thoughts.”
“We can give him only our thoughts,” said Iduna, “and when we remember
how much is dependent on his life, can they be cheerful?”
“Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna,” replied Nicæus.
The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock, and threw it into
the stream.
“Dear lady,” said the Prince of Athens, seating himself by her side,
and stealing her gentle hand. “Pardon me, if an irrepressible feeling at
this moment impels me to recur to a subject, which, I would fain hope,
were not so unpleasing to you, as once unhappily you deemed it. O!
Iduna, Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together; once more
I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the music of that
matchless voice. I sought you, I perhaps violated my pledge, but I
sought you in captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! Oh!
Iduna, if possible, love me!”
She turned away her head, she turned away her streaming eyes. “It
is impossible not to love my deliverers,” she replied, in a low and
tremulous voice, “even could he not prefer the many other claims
to affection which are possessed by the Prince of Athens. I was not
prepared for this renewal of a most painful subject, perhaps not under
any circumstances, but least of all under those in which we now find
ourselves.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the prince, “I can no longer control my passion. My
life, not my happiness merely, depends upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear
with me, my beloved, bear with me! Were you Nicæus, you too would need
forgiveness.”
“I beseech you, cease!” exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer voice; and,
withdrawing her hand, she suddenly rose. “This is neither the time nor
place for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, but a few days
back, I was a hopeless captive, and that my life and fame are even now
in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but still I perhaps
need the hourly interposition of heavenly aid. Other than such worldly
thoughts should fill my mind, and do. Dear Nicæus,” she continued, in a
more soothing tone, “you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise:
fulfil it in like spirit.”
He would have replied; but at this moment the staff of the Eremite
sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark with rage and passion, the
Prince of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the upper part of
the glen, to conceal his anger and disappointment.
“Eat, gentle youth,” said the Eremite. “Will not thy brother join us?
What may be his name?”
“Nicæus, holy father.”
“And thine?”
Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her confusion, she replied,
“Iskander.”
“Nicæus,” called out the Eremite, “Iskander and myself await thee!”
Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when the prince returned
with a smiling countenance, and joined in the meal, with many cheerful
words.
“Now I propose,” said the Eremite, “that yourself and your brother
Iskander should tarry with me some days, if, indeed, my simple fare have
any temptation.”
“I thank thee, holy father,” replied Nicæus, “but our affairs are
urgent; nor indeed could I have tarried here at all, had it not been
for my young Iskander here, who, as you may easily believe, is little
accustomed to his late exertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must
proceed.”
“Bearing with us,” added Iduna, “a most grateful recollection of our
host.”
“God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed,” replied the Eremite.
“My trust is indeed in Him,” rejoined Iduna.