that the steamboat was gone;—he led Ladislas’ horse, who had put the
bridle into the man’s hands on embarking; and the fellow declared that
the fainting Idalie was his companion. Terror at the prospect of their
dark ride, indignation at the selfish proceeding of the lovers, raised
every voice against them; and the Princess, whom conscience had before
made the most silent, hearing that the Pole was alive and safe, was now
loudest and most bitter in her remarks. As they were thus all gathered
together in dismay, debating what was to be done, and the Princess
Dashkhoff in no gentle terms railing at the impropriety and ingratitude
of Idalie’s behaviour, and declaring that Poles alone could conduct
themselves with such mingled deceit and baseness, a figure all bloody
arose from the ground at her feet, and as the moon cast its pale rays on
his yet paler countenance, she recognised Giorgio. The ladies shrieked,
the men rushed towards him, while the Princess, desiring the earth to
open and swallow her, stood transfixed, as by a spell, gazing on the
dying man in terror and despair.
“He has escaped, lady,” said Giorgio; “Ladislas has escaped your plots,
and I am become their victim.” He fell as he spoke these words, and when
the Englishman drew near to raise, and if possible assist him, he found
that life had entirely flown.
Thus ended the adventures of the Pole at Naples. The Princess returned
in her calèche alone, for none would bear her company; the next day she
left Naples, and was on her way to Russia, where her crime was unknown,
except to those who had been accomplices in it. Marietta spread the
intelligence of her sister’s marriage, and thus entirely cleared
Idalie’s fair fame; and quitting Italy soon after, joined the happy
Ladislas and his bride at Paris.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XV.
_EUPHRASIA._
A TALE OF GREECE.
IT was not long after the breaking out of the Greek Revolution that
Harry Valency visited Greece. Many an Englishman was led thither at that
time by the spirit of adventure, and many perished. Valency was not
nineteen; his spirit was wild and reckless;—thought or care had never
touched his brow; his heart was too light for love. Restless and
energetic, he longed to try his powers, with the instinct that leads the
young deer to butt against trees, or to wrestle with each other in the
forest-dells. He was the only son of a widowed mother, whose life was
wrapped in his, and he loved her fondly; yet left her, impelled by a
desire for adventure, unable to understand what anxiety and fear meant;
and in his own person eager to meet even misfortune, so that it came in
a guise to call forth manly and active struggles. He longed to have the
pages of his young life written over by deeds that would hereafter be
memories, to which he could turn with delight. The cause of Greece
warmed his soul. He was in a transport of ecstasy when he touched the
shores of that antique land, and looked around on mountain and
mountain-stream, whose names were associated with the most heroic acts,
and the most sublime poetry man ever achieved or wrote. Yes, he was now
in Greece. He was about to fight in her cause against the usurping Turk.
He had prepared himself by a sedulous study of Romaic; he was on his way
to the seat of Government, to offer his services. To proceed thither
from the spot where he had disembarked was a matter of some difficulty;
the Turkish troops being then in possession of many of the passes. At
length he heard that a band of about fifty Greek soldiers, headed by a
young but brave and renowned chief, was about to pursue the same road;
he asked, and obtained leave to accompany them.
How delightful was the commencement of the journey! How beautiful the
country—defile and steep hill-side, by which they proceeded; where the
grey olive clothed the upland, or vines, embracing elms, red now with
late summer tints, varied the scene. The mountain-tops were bare, or
crowned with pines, and torrents ran down the sides and fed a stream in
the dell. The air was balmy; the cicada loud and merry—to live was to be
happy. Valency was mounted on a spirited horse; he made it leap and
caracole. He threw a spear against a tree, and dashed after to recover
it. He fired at a mark as he hurried on at full gallop; every feat was
insufficient to tame his exhaustless spirits.
The chief marked him with eyes, whose deep melancholy expression
darkened as he gazed. He was known as bravest among the brave; yet
gentle as a woman. He was young and singularly handsome; his countenance
was stamped with traces of intellectual refinement, while his person was
tall, muscular, and strong, but so gracefully formed, that every
attitude reminded you of some Praxitilean shape of his own native land.
Once he had been more beautiful; joy, as well as tenderness, and a
soldier’s ardour had lighted up his dark eye; his lip had been the home
of smiles, and the thoughts, which presided in his brow, had been as
clear and soft and gladsome as that godlike brow itself. Now this was
changed. Grief had become a master passion: his cheeks were sunken; his
eye seemed to brood eternally over melancholy regrets; his measured
harmonious voice was attuned to the utterance of no light fancy or gay
sallies; he spoke only the necessary words of direction to his
followers, and then silence and gloom gathered over his face. His sorrow
was respected; for it was known to be well founded, and to spring from a
recent disaster. If any of his troop desired to indulge in merriment,
they withdrew from his vicinity. It was strange to them to hear the
light laugh of the English youth ring through the grove, and to catch
the tones of his merry voice, as he sang some of their own gayest songs.
The chief gazed with interest. There was a winning frankness in the boy;
he was so very young, and all he did was in graceful accordance with his
age. We are alike mere youths, thought the chief, and how different! Yet
soon he may become like me. He soars like an eagle; but the eagle may be
wounded, and stoop to earth; because earth contains its secret and its
regret.
Suddenly Valency, who was some hundred yards in advance, was encountered
by a Greek, riding at full speed towards the advancing troop.
“Back! back! silence!” the man cried. He was a scout, who had been sent
on before, and now brought tidings that a troop of three or four hundred
of the Turkish army were entering the defile, and would soon advance on
the handful of men which Valency accompanied. The scout rode directly up
to the leader, and made his report, adding,—
“We have yet time. If we fall back but a quarter of a mile, there is a
path I know, by which I can guide you across the mountain; on the other
side we shall be safe.”
A smile of scorn for a moment wreathed the lip of the chief at the word
safety, but his face soon reassumed its usual sad composure. The troop
had halted; each man bent his eye on the leader. Valency, in particular,
marked the look of scorn, and felt that he would never retreat before
danger.
“Comrades!” the chief thus addressed his men, “it shall never be said
that Greeks fell back to make way for the destroyers; we will betake
ourselves to our old warfare. Before we entered this olive wood, we
passed a thick cover, where the dark jutting mountain-side threw a deep
shadow across our path, and the torrent drowned all sound of voice or
hoof. There we shall find ambush; there the enemy will meet death.”
He turned his horse’s head, and in a few minutes reached the spot he
named; the men were mostly eager for the fray—while one or two eyed the
mountain-side, and then the path that led to the village, which they had
quitted that morning. The chief saw their look, and he glanced also at
the English youth, who had thrown himself from his horse, and was busy
loading and priming his arms. The chief rode up to him.
“You are our guest and fellow-traveller,” he said, “but not our comrade
in the fight. We are about to meet danger—it may be that not one of us
shall escape. You have no injuries to avenge, no liberty to gain; you
have friends—probably a mother—in your native land. You must not fall
with us. I am going to send a message to warn the village we last passed
through—do you accompany my messengers.”
Valency had listened attentively at first; but as the chief continued,
his attention reverted to his task of loading his pistols. The last
words called a blush into his cheek.
“You treat me as a boy,” he cried; “I may be one in aspect, but you
shall find me a man in heart this day. You also young, I have not
deserved your scorn!”
The chief caught the youth’s flashing eye. He held out his hand to him,
saying, “Forgive me.”
“I will,” said Valency, “on one condition; give me a post of danger—of
honour. You owe it to me in reparation of the insult you offered.”
“Be it so,” said the chief; “your place shall be at my side.”
A few minutes more and his dispositions were made;—two of the most
down-hearted of the troop were despatched to alarm the village, the rest
were placed behind the rocks; beneath the bushes, wherever broken
ground, or tuft of underwood, or fragment from the cliff, afforded
shelter and concealment, a man was placed; while the chief himself took
his stand on an elevated platform, and, sheltered by a tree, gazed upon
the road. Soon the tramp of horses, the busy sound of feet and voices
were heard, overpowering the rushing of the stream; and turban and
musket could be distinguished as the enemy’s troop threaded the defile.
* * * * *
The shout of battle—the firing—the clash of weapons were over. Above the
crest of the hill, whose side had afforded ambush to the Greeks, the
crescent moon hung, just about to dip behind; the stars in her train
burnt bright as lamps floating in the firmament; while the fire-flies
flashed among the myrtle underwood and up the mountain-side; and
sometimes the steel of the arms strewn around, dropped from the hand of
the dead, caught and reflected the flashes of the celestial or earthly
stars. The ground was strewn with the slain. Such of the enemy as had
cut their way through were already far—the sound of their horses’ hoofs
had died away. The Greeks who had fled across the mountain had reached a
place of safety—none lay there but the silent dead—cold as the moonbeam
that rested for a moment on their pale faces. All were still and
motionless; some lay on the hill-side among the underwood—some on the
open road—horses and men had fallen, pell mell—none moved—none breathed.
Yet there was a sigh—it was lost in the murmur of the stream; a groan
succeeded, and then a voice feeble and broken, “My mother, my poor
mother!”—the pale lips that spoke these words could form no other, a
gush of tears followed. The cry seemed to awake another form from among
the dead. One of the prostrate bodies raised itself slowly and painfully
on its arm, the eyes were filmy, the countenance pallid from approaching
death, the voice was hollow, yet firm, that said, “Who speaks?—who
lives?—who weeps?”
The question struck shame to the wounded man; he checked his overflow of
passionate sobbings. The other spoke again, “It was not the voice of a
Greek—yet I thought I had saved that gallant boy—the ball meant for him
is now in my side.—Speak again, young Englishman—on whom do you call?”
“On her who will weep my death too bitterly—on my mother,” replied
Valency, and tears would follow the loved name.
“Art thou wounded to death?” asked the chief.
“Thus unaided I must die,” he replied; “yet, could I reach those waters,
I might live—I must try.” And Valency rose; he staggered a few steps,
and fell heavily at the feet of the chief. He had fainted. The Greek
looked on the ghastly pallor of his face; he half rose—his own wound did
not bleed, but it was mortal, and a deadly sickness had gathered round
his heart, and chilled his brow, which he strove to master, that he
might save the English boy. The effort brought cold drops on his brow,
as he rose on his knees and stooped to raise the head of Valency; he
shuddered to feel the warm moisture his hand encountered. It is his
blood; his life-blood he thought; and again he placed his head on the
earth, and continued a moment still, summoning what vitality remained to
him to animate his limbs. Then with a determined effort he rose, and
staggered to the banks of the stream. He held a steel cap in his
hand—and now he stooped down to fill it; but with the effort the ground
slid from under him, and he fell. There was a ringing in his ears—a cold
dew on his brow—his breath came thick—the cap had fallen from his
hand—he was dying. The bough of a tree, shot off in the morning’s melée,
lay near;—the mind, even of a dying man, can form swift, unerring
combinations of thought;—it was his last chance—the bough was plunged in
the waters, and he scattered the grateful, reviving drops over his face;
vigour returned with the act, and he could stoop and fill the cap, and
drink a deep draught, which for a moment restored the vital powers. And
now he carried water to Valency; he dipped the unfolded turban of a Turk
in the stream, and bound the youth’s wound, which was a deep sabre cut
in the shoulder, that had bled copiously. Valency revived—life gathered
warm in his heart—his cheeks, though still pale, lost the ashy hue of
death—his limbs again seemed willing to obey his will—he sat up, but he
was too weak, and his head dropped. As a mother tending her sick
first-born, the Greek chief hovered over him; he brought a cloak to
pillow his head; as he picked up this, he found that some careful
soldier had brought a small bag at his saddle-bow, in which was a loaf
and a bunch or two of grapes; he gave them to the youth, who ate.
Valency now recognised his saviour; at first he wondered to see him
there, tending on him, apparently unhurt; but soon the chief sank to the
ground, and Valency could mark the rigidity of feature, and ghastliness
of aspect, that portended death. In his turn he would have assisted his
friend; but the chief stopped him—“You die if you move,” he said; “your
wound will bleed afresh, and you will die, while you cannot aid me. My
weakness does not arise from mere loss of blood. The messenger of death
has reached a vital part—yet a little while and the soul will obey the
summons. It is slow, slow is the deliverance; yet the long creeping hour
will come at last, and I shall be free.”
“Do not speak thus,” cried Valency; “I am strong now—I will go for
help.”
“There is no help for me,” replied the chief, “save the death I desire.
I command you, move not.”
Valency had risen, but the effort was vain: his knees bent under him,
his head spun round; before he could save himself he had sunk to the
ground.
“Why torture yourself?” said the chief. “A few hours and help will come:
it will not injure you to pass this interval beneath this calm sky. The
cowards who fled will alarm the country; by dawn succour will be here:
you must wait for it. I too must wait—not for help, but for death. It is
soothing even to me to die here beneath this sky, with the murmurs of
yonder stream in my ear, the shadows of my native mountains thrown
athwart. Could aught save me, it would be the balmy airs of this most
blessed night; my soul feels the bliss, though my body is sick and fast
stiffening in death. Such was not the hour when she died whom soon I
shall meet, my Euphrasia, my own sweet sister, in heaven!”
It was strange, Valency said, that at such an hour, but half saved from
death, and his preserver in the grim destroyer’s clutches, that he
should feel curiosity to know the Greek chief’s story. His youth, his
beauty, his valour—the act, which Valency well remembered, of his
springing forward so as to shield him with his own person—his last words
and thoughts devoted to the soft recollection of a beloved
sister,—awakened an interest beyond even the present hour, fraught as it
was with the chances of life and death. He questioned the chief.
Probably fever had succeeded to his previous state of weakness, imparted
a deceitful strength, and even inclined him to talk; for thus dying,
unaided and unsheltered, with the starry sky overhead, he willingly
reverted to the years of his youth and to the miserable event which a
few months before had eclipsed the sun of his life and rendered death
welcome.
* * * * *
They—brother and sister, Constantine and Euphrasia—were the last of
their race. They were orphans; their youth was passed under the
guardianship of the brother by adoption of their father, whom they named
father, and who loved them. He was a glorious old man, nursed in classic
lore, and more familiar with the deeds of men who had glorified his
country several thousand years before than with any more modern names.
Yet all who had ever done and suffered for Greece were embalmed in his
memory, and honoured as martyrs in the best of causes. He had been
educated in Paris, and travelled in Europe and America, and was aware of
the progress made in the science of politics all over the civilised
world. He felt that Greece would soon share the benefits to arise from
the changes then operating, and he looked forward at no distant day to
its liberation from bondage. He educated his young ward for that day.
Had he believed that Greece would have continued hopelessly enslaved, he
had brought him up as a scholar and a recluse: but, assured of the
impending struggle, he made him a warrior; he implanted a detestation of
the oppressor, a yearning love for the sacred blessings of freedom, a
noble desire to have his name enrolled among the deliverers of his
country. The education he bestowed on Euphrasia was yet more singular.
He knew that though liberty must be bought and maintained by the sword,
yet that its dearest blessings must be derived from civilisation and
knowledge; and he believed women to be the proper fosterers of these.
They cannot handle a sword nor endure bodily labour for their country,
but they could refine the manners, exalt the souls—impart honour, and
truth, and wisdom to their relatives and their children. Euphrasia,
therefore, he made a scholar. By nature she was an enthusiast and a
poet. The study of the classic literature of her country corrected her
taste and exalted her love of the beautiful. While a child, she
improvised passionate songs of liberty; and as she grew in years and
loveliness, and her heart opened to tenderness, and she became aware of
all the honour and happiness that a woman must derive from being held
the friend of man, not his slave, she thanked God that she was a Greek
and a Christian; and holding fast by the advantages which these names
conferred, she looked forward eagerly to the day when Mohammedanism
should no longer contaminate her native land, and when her countrywomen
should be awakened from ignorance and sloth in which they were plunged,
and learn that their proper vocation in the creation was that of mothers
of heroes and teachers of sages.
Her brother was her idol, her hope, her joy. And he who had been taught
that his career must be that of deeds, not words, yet was fired by her
poetry and eloquence to desire glory yet more eagerly, and to devote
himself yet more entirely and with purer ardour to the hope of one day
living and dying for his country. The first sorrow the orphans knew was
the death of their adopted father. He descended to the grave full of
years and honour. Constantine was then eighteen; his fair sister had
just entered her fifteenth year. Often they spent the night beside the
revered tomb of their lost friend, talking of the hopes and aspirations
he had implanted. The young can form such sublime, such beautiful
dreams. No disappointment, no evil, no bad passion shadows their
glorious visions. To dare and do greatly for Greece was the ambition of
Constantine. To cheer and watch over her brother, to regulate his wilder
and more untaught soul, to paint in celestial colours the bourne he
tended towards by action, were Euphrasia’s tasks.
“There is a heaven,” said the dying man as he told his tale,—“there is a
paradise for those who die in the just cause. I know not what joys are
there prepared for the blest; but they can scarcely transcend those that
were mine as I listened to my own sweet sister, and felt my heart swell
with patriotism and fond, warm affection.”
At length there was a stir through the land, and Constantine made a
journey of some distance, to confer with the capitani of the mountains,
and to prepare for the outbreak of the revolution. The moment came,
sooner even than he expected. As an eagle chained when the iron links
drop from him, and with clang of wing and bright undazzled eye he soars
to heaven, so did Constantine feel when freedom to Greece became the
war-cry. He was still among the mountains when first the echoes of his
native valleys repeated that animating, that sacred word. Instead of
returning, as he intended, to his Athenian home, he was hurried off to
Western Greece, and became a participator in a series of warlike
movements, the promised success of which filled him with transport.
Suddenly a pause came in the delirium of joy which possessed his soul.
He received not the accustomed letters from his sister—missives which
had been to him angelic messengers, teaching him patience with the
unworthy—hope in disappointment—certainty of final triumph. Those dear
letters ceased; and he thought he saw in the countenances of his friends
around a concealed knowledge of evil. He questioned them: their answers
were evasive. At the same time, they endeavoured to fill his mind with
the details of some anticipated exploit in which his presence and
co-operation was necessary. Day after day passed; he could not leave his
post without injury to the cause, without even the taint of dishonour.
He belonged to a band of Albanians, by whom he had been received as a
brother and he could not desert them in the hour of danger. But the
suspense grew too terrible; and at length, finding that there was an
interval of a few days which he might call his own, he left the camp,
resting neither day nor night; dismounting from one horse only to
bestride another, in forty-eight hours he was in Athens, before his
vacant, desecrated home. The tale of horror was soon told. Athens was
still in the hands of the Turks; the sister of a rebel had become the
prey of the oppressor. She had none to guard her. Her matchless beauty
had been seen and marked by the son of the pasha; she had for the last
two months been immured in his harem.
“Despair is a cold, dark feeling,” said the dying warrior; “if I may
name that despair which had a hope—a certainty—an aim. Had Euphrasia
died I had wept. Now my eyes were horn—my heart stone. I was silent. I
neither expressed resentment nor revenge. I concealed myself by day; at
night I wandered round the tyrant’s dwelling. It was a pleasure-palace,
one of the most luxurious in our beloved Athens. At this time it was
carefully guarded: my character was known, and Euphrasia’s worth; and
the oppressor feared the result of his deed. Still, under shadow of
darkness I drew near. I marked the position of the women’s apartments—I
learned the number—the length of the watch—the orders they received, and
then I returned to the camp. I revealed my project to a few select
spirits. They were fired by my wrongs, and eager to deliver my
Euphrasia.”—
Constantine broke off—a spasm of pain shook his body. After this had
passed he lay motionless for a few minutes; then starting up, as fever
and delirium, excited by the exertion of speaking, increased by the
agonies of recollection, at last fully possessed him. “What is this?” he
cried. “Fire! Yes, the palace burns. Do you not hear the roaring of the
flames, and thunder too—the artillery of Heaven levelled against the
unblest? Ha! a shot—he falls—they are driven back—now fling the
torches—the wood crackles—there, there are the women’s rooms—ha! poor
victims! lo! you shudder and fly! Fear not; give me only my
Euphrasia!—my own Euphrasia! No disguise can hide thee, dressed as a
Turkish bride crowned with flowers, thy lovely face, the seat of
unutterable woe—still, my sweet sister, even in this smoke and tumult of
this house, thou art the angel of my life! Spring into my arms, poor,
frightened bird; cling to me—it is herself—her voice—her fair arms are
round my neck—what ruin—what flame—what choking smoke—what driving storm
can stay me? Soft! the burning breach is passed—there are
steps—gently—dear one, I am firm—fear not!—what eyes glare?—fear not,
Euphrasia, he is dead—the miserable retainers of the tyrant fell beneath
our onset—ha! a shot—gracious Panagia, is this thy protection?” Thus did
he continue to rave: the onset, the burning of the palace, the
deliverance of his sister, all seemed to pass again vividly as if in
present action. His eyes glared; he tossed up his arms; he shouted as if
calling his followers around him; and then in tones of heartfelt
tenderness he addressed the fair burden he fancied that he bore—till,
with a shriek, he cried again, “A shot!” and sank to the ground as if
his heartstrings had broken.
An interval of calm succeeded; he was exhausted; his voice was broken.