A RIDE FOR LIFE
The little troop had been picked from the boldest horsemen of Assyria.
Not a man but would have spent life freely under the banner of Ashur,
and charged home into the host of an enemy, though out-numbered ten to
one. Their warlike traditions, their national character, their pride and
self-respect, had taught them to shrink from no professional danger, to
yield before no living foe; but the bold faces were pale now, and the
proud eyes haggard. They rode in wild disorder, as though flying before
the shadow of death; while the pure-bred steeds that bore them snorted,
and shook their bridles gaily, exulting in the glory of their strength,
the easy freedom of their speed.
The simoon, even in its natural terrors, might well be an object of
dread to man and beast. No fate seems much more horrible than to be
overwhelmed and drowned in a storm of sand. But the Assyrian had been
also taught to regard this danger as a supernatural foe, a gigantic
demon of the desert, hidden in lurid clouds, advancing swift,
insatiable, portentous, swallowing furlongs at every stride, to seize
and stifle him in an inevitable embrace.
Even Sethos caught the infection, and pushed his horse to its speed with
reckless energy, panic-stricken as the rest.
Sarchedon could not forbear a laugh.
"Hold!" he exclaimed, while he shot with some difficulty to the front,
raising his bow horizontally above his head to stop the undisciplined
flight. "Hold, fools and faint of heart! Can you not turn for one look
in your enemy's face, ere you scour away before him like a herd of
frightened deer? Stop, I say; lest I drive an arrow through the foremost
of ye, and leave him to be picked clean by the vultures ere the sun goes
down!"
"The simoon!" gasped the leading horseman, pressing wildly onward
without pause.
"The simoon!" repeated Sarchedon, seizing the other's bridle, and thus
bringing him to an involuntary halt. "Do you call yourself a son of
Ashur, and not know better the arms and apparel of your enemy? Can you
see the violet spot that marks the demon's eye, the purple hem that
borders his garment, the golden spangles that glitter through his veil?
For shame, man! And you, too, Sethos; I could not have believed you
would turn and fly, with bow and spear in hand, from a bushel of dust
flung up on the wayside!"
Thus arguing, storming, and gesticulating, he succeeded in pacifying the
terror of his comrades, who consented to halt for a space and breathe
their horses, while they scanned the appearance that had given rise to
their alarm. The peril, when they examined it more coolly, was none the
less threatening that its cause seemed in no way supernatural. The
clouds of sand had indeed increased both in extent and volume; but
through the folds of that dusky curtain gleamed here and there a sparkle
of steel, while at its skirts an opaque winding line denoted to a
warrior's eye the approach of a strong body of horse.
The Assyrians became somewhat reassured, though Sethos and Sarchedon
looked doubtfully from each other's faces to the advancing host. Already
they could distinguish fluttering garments, uplifted spears, and the
banners of Egypt waving over all.
"He has sent to fetch us back!" exclaimed the cup-bearer. "He has
repented him of his counsel, and we have not done with Pharaoh yet!"
Sarchedon burst into a mocking laugh.
"Have they wings like the south wind," said he, "that they hope to
overtake the horses of Assyria in the open desert with heads turned for
home? If, as in good truth it seems, there be too many to fight, let us
put on at speed, and the hosts of Pharaoh shall toil after us in vain."
They galloped on accordingly at a steady even pace, which, while it
could be kept up for a considerable distance, gained surely though
gradually on their pursuers.
But the desert, flat, open, and boundless as the sea, has also its ports
and havens, to which men put in for fresh water and repose, thus
diverging from the straight line of their direct course. The Assyrians,
therefore, now resuming the shortest way to their own land, found they
had described an arc, of which, in order to overtake them, their
pursuers needed only to speed along the chord. And thus it fell out
that, nearing a range of rocks, one of the few landmarks in the
wilderness, they came suddenly on an ambush of Egyptian horsemen, who
had pushed forward to post themselves in that hiding-place.
The little troop now found an enemy in front and rear, the latter
overwhelming in numbers, the former too strong for so scanty a force to
break through.
They halted, and took counsel, inclining to dash forward in a desperate
charge, when an old man rode out from the ranks of their opponents,
making signs of parley and peace.
Even a bowshot off they recognised Phrenes. Sarchedon and Sethos
advanced therefore to meet him, bidding their comrades remain in the
saddle with bows bent, watching every movement of the Egyptians.
The old man broke his spear across, and cast it at their feet in token
of amity.
"Your servant has ridden far and fast," said he, "to bid you return into
Egypt, and look on the light of Pharaoh's countenance once more. Behold,
my lords, these also are your servants, sent to bring you in honour to
his palace beyond the Nile."
"We have taken our leave of my lord the king," returned Sethos
courteously, but keeping his horse well in hand under him; "Pharaoh has
given gifts to his servants, bidding them depart in peace. Why, then,
should we return at an untoward season, to the encumbrance of my lord
the king?"
Phrenes cast one glance back amongst his followers, a glance not
unobserved by those he addressed, while he replied:
"What am I, that I should interpret between my lords and the king my
master? I pray you, now, return with me of good will. So shall you come
to great honour, and sit on thrones in the land of Egypt."
While he spoke, he edged his horse gradually round, showing no slight
skill in the art of managing it, so as to place himself between the
Assyrians and their comrades.
"Not a bowshot will I return," answered Sethos, "until I have fulfilled
mine embassy, and sought in the land of Shinar a new command from the
Great King."
The Egyptians, meanwhile, continued to move their horses imperceptibly
nearer the two Assyrians, who were now separated from their companions.
The cup-bearer, suspecting treachery, held his bow in readiness with an
arrow fitted to the string, while his movements were exactly copied by
the Assyrians, narrowly watching and mistrusting the parley. Sarchedon
too grasped a broad-headed javelin, prepared to hurl it at a moment's
notice into the ranks of the enemy.
"I bid you once more in peace," said Phrenes, holding up his hand as it
seemed for a signal to his followers. "If you think to resist the might
of Egypt, your blood be on your own head! Pharaoh lives for--"
He never finished the sentence, with the conclusion of which it was
doubtless intended that the two isolated horsemen should be surrounded
and taken prisoners. The cup-bearer's bowstring rattled even while he
spoke, and Phrenes fell heavily to the ground, with a shaft quivering
in his heart. At the same moment Sarchedon's weapon transfixed the
nearest Egyptian, and a storm of arrows from the Assyrians created no
small confusion in the rest of the band. Horses reared, men lost their
seats and weapons, shouting, storming, jostling each other, and looking
in vain for some one to direct; while the Assyrians turned bridle
without delay, to speed over the plain at a pace which put them many an
arrow's flight from their enemies ere the latter had sufficiently
recovered to form line and bend their bows.
It was a ride for life through the desert. The rest of Pharaoh's army
had been advancing rapidly during the parley; their horses were fresher
than those they pursued; and it would have been madness for the
Assyrians to dream of resisting such a force, if it should succeed in
overtaking them. Sarchedon seemed to see the well-remembered gloom of
his Egyptian dungeon gathering round him once again. His horse, too,
began to fail, labouring to keep up with its companions. Bitterly did he
now regret the childish enthusiasm that had tempted him to waste its
strength and mettle at the commencement of their journey.
"It is enough," said he. "My time is come. I will strive all that one
man can to delay a host. Peradventure when they have slain or taken me,
they will suffer you to escape unhurt."
"Not so," replied Sethos, looking anxiously over his shoulder. "They
gain on us but little. Nay, take heart, my friend; we may baffle them
yet. Surely we are in the land of Shinar now. And yonder, by the beard
of Nimrod and the beauty of Ashtaroth! I see the City of Towers, and the
Silver Lake glittering in the sun!"
"It is but the paradise of the desert," answered Sarchedon sadly. "I
have ridden after it many a weary hour, but never reached it yet."
In spite of the enemy's rapid approach, Sethos reined in his horse, and
shaded his brows with his hand, in sore misgiving that he was the dupe
of that mirage which is so remarkable an effect of a level surface, a
rarified atmosphere, and a dazzling sun. Then he observed with the
utmost calmness:
"Lofty palms, and shining pinnacles, and golden waters, all these adorn
the paradise of the desert; but who hath yet seen the banner of Ashur
floating over its walls? If those be not the towers of Ascalon, may I
never drink a cup of Damascus wine, nor drive an arrow through a false
Egyptian heart again! We are safe, my friend. Look yonder at that
glitter in the sky-line; it is the flash of sunlight on the western
sea."