The Lady Iduna was at first inclined to view the conduct of the Prince
of Athens as one of those passionate and passing ebullitions in which
her long acquaintance with him had taught her he was accustomed to
indulge. But when on retiring soon after to her apartments, she was
informed by her attendant matron that she must in future consider
herself a prisoner, and not venture again to quit them without
permission, she began to tremble at the possible violence of an
ill-regulated mind. She endeavoured to interest her attendant in her
behalf; but the matron was too well schooled to evince any feeling
or express any opinion on the subject; and indeed, at length, fairly
informed Iduna that she was commanded to confine her conversation to the
duties of her office.
The Lady Iduna was very unhappy. She thought of her father, she thought
of Iskander. The past seemed a dream; she was often tempted to believe
that she was still, and had ever been, a prisoner in the Serail of
Adrianople; and that all the late wonderful incidents of her life were
but the shifting scenes of some wild slumber. And then some slight
incident, the sound of a bell or the sign of some holy emblem, assured
her she was in a Christian land, and convinced her of the strange truth
that she was indeed in captivity, and a prisoner, above all others,
to the fond companion of her youth. Her indignation at the conduct of
Nicæus roused her courage; she resolved to make an effort to escape.
Her rooms were only lighted from above; she determined to steal forth at
night into the gallery; the door was secured. She hastened back to her
chamber in fear and sorrow, and wept.
Twice in the course of the day the stern and silent matron visited Iduna
with her food; and as she retired, secured the door. This was the only
individual that the imprisoned lady ever beheld. And thus heavily rolled
on upwards of a week. On the eve of the ninth day, Iduna was surprised
by the matron presenting her a letter as she quitted the chamber for
the night. Iduna seized it with a feeling of curiosity not unmixed
with pleasure. It was the only incident that had occurred during her
captivity. She recognised the hand-writing of Nicæus, and threw it down
with; vexation at her silliness in supposing, for a moment, that the
matron could have been the emissary of any other person.
Yet the letter must be read, and at length she opened it. It informed
her that a ship had arrived from Athens at the coast, and that to-morrow
she must depart for Italy. It told her also, that the Turks, under
Mahomed, had invaded Albania; and that the Hungarians, under the
command of her father, had come to support the Cross. It said nothing of
Iskander. But it reminded her that little more than the same time that
would carry her to the coast to embark for a foreign land, would, were
she wise, alike enable Nicæus to place her in her father’s arms, and
allow him to join in the great struggle for his country and his creed.
The letter was written with firmness, but tenderly. It left, however,
on the mind of Iduna an impression of the desperate resolution of the
writer.
Now it so happened, that as this unhappy lady jumped from her couch, and
paced the room in the perturbation of her mind, the wind of her drapery
extinguished her lamp. As her attendant, or visitor, had paid her
last visit for the day, there seemed little chance of its being again
illumined. The miserable are always more unhappy in the dark. Light is
the greatest of comforters. And so this little misfortune seemed to the
forlorn Iduna almost overwhelming. And as she attempted to look around,
and wrung her hands in very woe, her attention was attracted by a
brilliant streak of light upon the wall, which greatly surprised her.
She groped her way in its direction, and slowly stretching forth her
hand, observed that it made its way through a chink in the frame of one
of the great mirrors which were inlaid in the wall. And as she pressed
the frame, she felt to her surprise that it sprang forward. Had she not
been very cautious the advancing mirror would have struck her with great
force, but she had presence of mind to withdraw her hand very gradually,
repressing the swiftness of the spring. The aperture occasioned by
the opening of the mirror consisted of a recess, formed by a closed-up
window. An old wooden shutter, or blind, in so ruinous a state, that the
light freely made its way, was the only barrier against the elements.
Iduna, seizing the handle which remained, at once drew it open with
little difficulty.
The captive gazed with gladdened feelings upon the free and beautiful
scene. Beneath her rose the rich and aromatic shrubs tinged with the
soft and silver light of eve: before her extended wide and fertile
champaign, skirted by the dark and undulating mountains: in the clear
sky, glittering and sharp, sparkled the first crescent of the new moon,
an auspicious omen to the Moslemin invaders.
Iduna gazed with, joy upon the landscape, and then hastily descending
from the recess, she placed her hands to her eyes, so long unaccustomed
to the light. Perhaps, too, she indulged in momentary meditation. For
suddenly seizing a number of shawls; which were lying on one of the
couches, she knotted them together, and then striving with all her
force, she placed the heaviest, coach on one end of the costly cord, and
then throwing the other out of the window, and entrusting herself to
the merciful care of the holy Virgin, the brave daughter of Hunniades
successfully dropped down into the garden below.
She stopped to breathe, and to revel in her emancipated existence. It
was a bold enterprise gallantly achieved. But the danger had now only
commenced. She found that she had alighted at the back of the castle.
She stole along upon tip-toe, timid as a fawn. She remembered a small
wicket-gate that led into the open country. She arrived at the gate. It
was of course guarded. The single sentinel was kneeling before an image
of St. George, beside him was an empty drinking-cup and an exhausted
wineskin.
“Holy Saint!” exclaimed the pious sentinel, “preserve us from all
Turkish infidels!” Iduna stole behind him. “Shall men who drink no wine
conquer true Christians!” continued the sentinel. Iduna placed her hand
upon the lock. “We thank thee for our good vintage,” said the sentinel.
Iduna opened the gate with the noiseless touch which a feminine finger
can alone command. “And for the rise of the Lord Iskander!” added the
sentinel. Iduna escaped!
Now she indeed was free. Swiftly she ran over the wide plain. She hoped
to reach some town or village before her escape could be discovered, and
she hurried on for three hours without resting. She came to a beautiful
grove of olive-trees that spread in extensive ramifications about the
plain. And through this beautiful grove of olive-trees her path seemed
to lead. So she entered and advanced. And when she had journeyed for
about a mile, she came to an open and very verdant piece of ground,
which was, as it were, the heart of the grove. In its centre rose a fair
and antique structure of white marble, shrouding from the noon-day sun
the perennial flow of a very famous fountain. It was near midnight.
Iduna was wearied, and she sat down upon the steps of the fountain for
rest. And while she was musing over all the strange adventures of her
life, she heard a rustling in the wood, and being alarmed, she rose and
hid herself behind a tree.
And while she stood there, with palpitating heart, the figure of a man
advanced to the fountain from an opposite direction of the grove. He
went up the steps, and looked down upon the spring as if he were about
to drink, but instead of doing that, he drew his scimitar, and plunged
it into the water, and called out with a loud voice the name of
“Iskander!” three times. Whereupon Iduna, actuated by an irresistible
impulse, came forward from her hiding-place, but instantly gave a loud
shriek when she beheld the Prince Mahomed!
“Oh! night of glory!” exclaimed the prince, advancing. “Do I indeed
behold the fair Iduna! This is truly magic!”
“Away! away!” exclaimed the distracted Iduna, as she endeavoured to fly
from him.
“He has kept his word, that cunning leech, better than I expected,” said
Mahomed, seizing her.
“As well as you deserve, ravisher!” exclaimed a majestic voice. A tall
figure rushed forward from the wood, and dashed back the Turk.
“I am here to complete my contract, Prince Mahomed,” said the stranger,
drawing his sword.
“Iskander!” exclaimed the prince.
“We have met before, prince. Let us so act now that we may meet for the
last time.”
“Infamous, infernal traitor,” exclaimed Mahomed, “dost thou, indeed,
imagine that I will sully my imperial blade with the blood of my
run-away slave! No I came here to secure thy punishment, but I cannot
condescend to become thy punisher. Advance, guards, and seize him! Seize
them both!”
Iduna flew to Iskander, who caught her in one arm, while he waved his
scimitar with the other. The guards of Mahomed poured forth from the
side of the grove whence the prince had issued.
“And dost thou indeed think, Mahomed,” said Iskander, “that I have been
educated in the Seraglio to be duped by Moslemin craft. I offer thee
single combat if thou desirest it, but combat as we may, the struggle
shall be equal.” He whistled, and instantly a body of Hungarians,
headed by Hunniades himself, advanced from the side of the grove whence
Iskander had issued.
“Come on, then,” said Mahomed; “each to his man.” Their swords clashed,
but the principal attendants of the son of Amurath deeming the affair
under the present circumstances assumed the character of a mere rash
adventure, bore away the Turkish prince.
“To-morrow then, this fray shall be decided on the plains of Kallista,”
said Mahomed.
“Epirus is prepared,” replied Iskander.
The Turks withdrew. Iskander bore the senseless form of Iduna to her
father. Hunniades embraced his long-lost child. They sprinkled her face
with water from the fountain. She revived.
“Where is Nicæus?” inquired Iskander; “and how came you again, dear
lady, in the power of Mahomed?”
“Alas! noble sir, my twice deliverer,” answered Iduna, “I have, indeed,
again been doomed to captivity, but my persecutor, I blush to say, was
this time a Christian prince.”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Iskander. “Who can this villain be?”
“The villain, Lord Iskander, is your friend; and your pupil, dear
father.”
“Nicæus of Athens!” exclaimed Hunniades.
Iskander was silent and melancholy.
Thereupon the Lady Iduna recounted to her father and Iskander, sitting
between them on the margin of the fount, all that had occurred to her,
since herself and Nicæus parted with Iskander; nor did she omit to
relate to Hunniades all the devotion of Iskander, respecting which,
like a truly brave man, he had himself been silent. The great Hunniades
scarcely knew which rather to do, to lavish his affection on his beloved
child, or his gratitude upon Iskander. Thus they went on conversing
for some time, Iskander placing his own cloak around Iduna, and almost
unconsciously winding his arm around her unresisting form.
Just as they were preparing to return to the Christian camp, a great
noise was heard in the grove, and presently, in the direction whence
Iduna had arrived, there came a band of men bearing torches and
examining the grove in all directions in great agitation. Iskander and
Hunniades stood upon their guard, but soon perceived they were Greeks.
Their leader, seeing a group near the fountain, advanced to make
inquiries respecting the object of his search, but when he indeed
recognised the persons who formed the group, the torch fell from his
grasp, and he turned away his head and hid his face in his hands.
Iduna clung to her father; Iskander stood with his eyes fixed upon the
ground, but Hunniades, stern and terrible, disembarrassing himself of
the grasp of his daughter, advanced and laid his hand upon the stranger.
“Young man,” said the noble father, “were it contrition instead of shame
that inspired this attitude, it might be better. I have often warned you
of the fatal consequences of a reckless indulgence of the passions.
More than once I have predicted to you, that however great might be your
confidence in your ingenuity and your resources, the hour would arrive
when such a career would place you in a position as despicable as it was
shameful. That hour has arrived, and that position is now filled by the
Prince of Athens. You stand before the three individuals in this world
whom you have most injured, and whom you were most bound to love and to
protect. Here is a friend, who hazarded his prosperity and his existence
for your life and your happiness. And you have made him a mere pander
to your lusts, and then deserted him in his greatest necessities. This
maiden was the companion of your youth, and entitled to your kindest
offices. You have treated her infinitely worse than her Turkish captor.
And for myself, sir, your father was my dearest friend. I endeavoured to
repay his friendship by supplying his place to his orphan child. How I
discharged my duty, it becomes not me to say: how you have discharged
yours, this lady here, my daughter, your late prisoner, sir, can best
prove.”
“Oh! spare me, spare me, sir,” said the Prince of Athens, turning and
falling upon his knee. “I am most wretched. Every word cuts to my
very core. Just Providence has baffled all my arts, and I am grateful.
Whether this lady can, indeed, forgive me, I hardly dare to think, or
even hope. And yet forgiveness is a heavenly boon. Perhaps the memory
of old days may melt her. As for yourself, sir--but I’ll not speak, I
cannot. Noble Iskander, if I mistake not, you may whisper words in that
fair ear, less grating than my own. May you be happy! I will not profane
your prospects with my vows. And yet I’ll say farewell!”
The Prince of Athens turned away with an air of complete wretchedness,
and slowly withdrew. Iskander followed him.
“Nicæus,” said Iskander; but the prince entered the grove, and did not
turn round.
“Dear Nicæus,” said Iskander. The prince hesitated.
“Let us not part thus,” said Iskander. “Iduna is most unhappy. She bade
me tell you she had forgotten all.”
“God bless her, and God bless you, too!” replied Nicæus. “I pray you let
me go.”
“Nay! dear Nicæus, are we not friends?”
“The best and truest, Iskander. I will to the camp, and meet you in your
tent ere morning break. At present, I would be alone.”
“Dear Nicæus, one word. You have said upon one point, what I could well
wish unsaid, and dared to prophesy what may never happen. I am not made
for such supreme felicity. Epirus is my mistress, my Nicæus. As there is
a living God, my friend, most solemnly I vow, I have had no thoughts in
this affair, but for your honour.”
“I know it, my dear friend, I know it,” replied Nicæus. “I keenly feel
your admirable worth. Say no more, say no more! She is a fit wife for a
hero, and you are one!”