THE SACRIFICE OF LOVE.
"And when he felt the arrow pricke,
Which in his tender heart did sticke,
He looketh as he would dye."
It is not to be denied that in the course of a few weeks Kophetua began
to find the hermits' marriage ceremony not a little irksome. It was not
that the idea was any the less attractive to his imagination. Their
notion of the real meaning of the period of affiance commended itself
entirely to his lofty sentiments. He felt it was a reproach to
civilisation that a few prayers and ritualistic forms should have been
suffered to supplant the long vigil of the betrothal. The matrimonial
state of his ideal was one long sacrament of transcendent sanctity, and
he had come to believe that only by months of mutual worship and
sacrifice could two lives be consecrated together. He grappled the
situation with all the fanatical ardour of which a poet alone is
capable; but from Penelophon he could get no response.
For hours he talked melodious mysticism to her in the homeliest phrases
he could find, but she only looked at him in ever-increasing wonder,
till her face grew so troubled that he was compelled to cease and take
her soothingly in his arms to pet her like a child. Then she could
understand; and, when his lips gently touched her cheek, she crept close
to him, and often began to cry quite quietly, to think how far they were
apart, though they sat so close. The old stained dress she wore was
always tearing on the rocks and brakes, and hung in rags about her. Each
new rent seemed to widen the gap; and, though she nestled never so near
when his arms closed about her, she felt him growing each day more
godlike, and herself sinking deeper back to beggardom.
He strove to make her set him tasks to do for her, and she never could
think of anything but a flower for him to fetch or a deer to kill, and
always she cried when he was gone, for very shame that such a man should
do such work for her.
One day, when he had tried his hardest to make her see with his eyes,
and she seemed still more troubled than ever, she had asked for a flower
that grew on the cliffs above, knowing it was the best way to please
him. So he hastened away with studied devotion, and quickly reached the
summit. There he picked the blossom, and hurried down again, keeping
steadfastly in his mind the while the wan, ragged figure, with the
unkempt hair, that was awaiting him below. Leaping from rock to rock,
he soon reached the zigzag path by which he himself had at first
descended. As he sprang down into it out of the bushes, he was startled
by a little cry, and the sound of a horse's feet.
He looked up to see a vision that made his brain reel. For there before
him, upon a splendid Arab, whose alarm she was controlling with
matchless grace and skill, sat, more lovely in his eyes than ever, Mlle
de Tricotrin. She was dressed in a riding costume of bewitching fashion,
and her face was flushed and her eyes glittering in her efforts to quiet
the startled horse. Everything about her was in perfect taste, and of
the latest mode, and the air seemed redolent with the freshest breath of
modern grace and refinement. He was painfully conscious of the
impression this sudden meeting had made on him. He felt ashamed to be so
caught, then angry at the intrusion, and turned on his heel to go. But
another little cry, and a plunge of the horse, arrested him. His new
movement had alarmed the frightened animal again. It was backing to the
edge of the narrow path, where the precipice sank away to a depth of a
hundred feet or more. Setting her lips, Mlle de Tricotrin was
courageously trying to check the perilous movement, but in vain. Already
her feet overhung the precipice. It was impossible for her to dismount,
and Kophetua saw that any attempt to grasp the bridle could only be
fatal. In a moment he was at her side. Seizing her by the waist, he
dragged her from the saddle, and then, with one frantic plunge, the Arab
crashed into the abyss below.
For a little while he was obliged to support her as they stood, fearing
she would faint. But she quickly recovered her strength. Then she
quietly disengaged herself from his arm, and stood a little aloof.
"Your majesty has saved my life," she said simply, and then stopped, as
though too moved to say more; but her words seemed to mean a thousand
things.
"And how can I serve you further?" he asked, unable to take his eyes
from her matchless beauty, as she stood before him trembling and
agitated, with downcast eyes.
"I only ask," she answered gently, "that you should pardon this
intrusion and hear my errand." He bent his head in royal assent, and she
continued. "I came not idly," she said; "I came to save your people from
the terrible calamity my wickedness has brought upon them. I come,
King," she burst out, looking full in his face, with a little tragic air
that well became the situation, "to summon you back to the duty you have
deserted, to call you to the throne you have abandoned, to bid you turn
your flight and face the fight once more. I come to charge you remember
the name you bear, and the memory of your ancestors. Full of the spirit
of the old knight I come, and with the voice of the mighty dead I charge
you rise from your enchantment. Traitors are creeping to your royal
hearth. Rise up and strangle them. It was never so shamed before."
Then, with glowing words, and form transfigured, as it were, by
inspiration, she told him of the plot which was on foot to wrest the
sceptre from him. As the rich voice rang in his ears, he began to catch
her enthusiasm, till anger filled his heart, and his eyes were open.
"By the splendour of God!" he cried, "they shall know a Kophetua is yet
alive and reigns. I will return and crush them. If I leave the throne,
it shall be of my own free will, and in favour of whom I will. I will
return and teach them what it is to rouse the soul of the knight. Come!
I will return, I say; I--and my Queen."
His voice fell nervously as he uttered the last words, and she dropped
her eyes and bowed her head in touching resignation that was almost more
than he could bear.
"You must descend with me," he said, with an embarrassed air, "to eat
and rest before we start."
So they went down together, he helping her past the difficult places;
and each time he touched her hand he felt a thrill pass through him, as
though some subtle poison was passing upon his life.
"It is difficult to know how to thank you, mademoiselle," he said,
after a long silence.
"It is not thanks I desire," she answered. "It is forgiveness."
"But how did you find my retreat," he asked quickly, to change the key.
"Devotion to your majesty is a cunning guide," she replied. "It was that
which showed me the way."
"May I not know who were your allies?" he asked.
"Your majesty may know anything that I have to tell. You have only to
command."
"Then I command; for, thanks to you, mademoiselle, I am still a King."
"It was Captain Pertinax," she said, looking up with a bright, happy
glance at his words. "He consented to bring me hither, when I told him
what my errand was. He followed your trail the day after you fled, but
never opened his lips till I begged him for your sake. He is waiting
above till I return."
"He shall not wait long," said the King, not a little touched by his new
follower's fidelity, and feeling there was much in the world he had
never known before. But he said no more; for now they emerged from the
bushes, and came suddenly upon a beggar-girl standing in the meadow, a
homely figure in shabby rags, with fingers stained with berry juice, and
hair matted and unkempt, and a wan, vacant face. What had happened? Was
this indeed the idol he had been gilding so long? Was she so suddenly
changed, or were his eyes dazzled by the vision on which he had been
gazing too long?
Penelophon it was, indeed, and quite unchanged. Mlle de Tricotrin knew
her at once; and, while Kophetua stood stricken with a sickening sense
of disillusionment, she went towards the wondering girl. On her finger
was the King's signet ring, and Héloise recognised it immediately. So,
with the air of resigned humility that was so telling in that queen of
women, she knelt upon the grass and loyally kissed the beggar-maid's
hand.
"I crave your majesty's pardon," she said, as she bent over the
berry-stained fingers.
Kophetua could endure no more. "She is not my wife!" he cried hastily.
"We are not married yet. Rise, and reserve your homage till our wedding
day."
Mlle de Tricotrin rose as he spoke. Their eyes met; the same thought
flashed across them both, bringing a flush on the face of each. As it
were in lines of fire, he saw the mistake he had made. He saw there was
nothing about his idol but the mystic robes in which he had clothed it.
It was his own dreaming he had been trying to love. Bright and
resistless as the morning Héloise had burst upon him, and he knew the
day from the night. Bitter indeed was the awakening; for, come what
would, he could never betray the woman to whom his troth was plighted.
"Here is your flower, Penelophon," he said, and kissed her as he gave
it. But the beggar-maid had no eyes but for her mistress, and she
blushed like a guilty thing to see the look of anguish that came over
the face she loved so well. Then suddenly she sprang from Kophetua's
embrace, and, flinging herself at Héloise's feet, she sobbed and sobbed
again.
It was long before Penelophon's agitation could be calmed; but Mlle de
Tricotrin coaxed away her tears at last, and then they sat beside the
stream maturing their plan of action. Long Kophetua and Héloise talked.
She was full of expedients, and he hung on her lips while she eagerly
poured out to him her schemes for saving the throne. And Penelophon sat
listening, but not to what their words were saying. Forgotten and
unnoticed, she sat gazing upon them with unspeakable sadness. Their
voices said things to her that were more than she could bear. They told
her plainly that in the pursuit of her own happiness no lasting joy was
to be found. How could she ever delight in her own poor ballad if it
stood in the way of so full a poem being sung. And, as she listened to
the harmony of the souls she loved, there came to her fragile face a
weary smile, sadder than all her tears. Still, unperceived, she quietly
rose and wandered away across the meadow. From time to time she looked
back to where they sat absorbed in each other. She marked Héloise's
animated talk, and she saw the noble look of resolution that illumined
her hero's face. Still smiling, as might some martyr as rude hands bound
her to the stake, she wandered on, nor ever stopped, except where she
could get a glimpse of the lessening figures beside the stream. At last
she came to where the gendarme's horse was cropping the turf, and
Captain Pertinax was snoring loudly on the sward. She looked at the
handsome, soldierly figure for a while with a strange expression, and
then awoke him.
"Rise, Captain," she cried; "I bring you orders from the King."
He was on his feet in a moment, rigidly saluting her. "To-morrow at dawn
his majesty will set out for the capital to do the work you know of. To
you he commits me. You saved me once, and it is to you he trusts me
again. Mount and away. For you are to go before and see me to a place of
safety. See, here is your warrant," and with that she held out to him
her hand, on which was the King's signet ring.
"But how are we to travel?" said the Captain uneasily, saluting the
ring.
"You must take me on the saddle before you," she answered, with a pretty
smile, that redoubled the gendarme's uneasiness. "You do not mind that?"
"Mind it, mistress!" said he. "No, but----"
"Then, I pray you lose no time," she replied, "but this instant strap
your cloak upon the saddle to make a seat for me."
She went to him as she spoke, and laid her hand coaxingly on his arm.
Poor Penelophon! she could be woman enough with this rough soldier, and
she did not scruple to turn against him the honourable weapons with
which her weakness was armed. Where is the true woman who would not do
the same, and do it well in a good cause?
Never in her life had Penelophon so armed herself before. But the skill
to wield the gentle weapons is born in every woman that is worth the
name, and she knew her part as though she had practised it all her life,
and she saw she was gaining ground by strides. Men's fullest might may
appear when they are struggling for themselves, but a woman is strongest
for those she loves. She saw he could not hold out long, and grew more
winsome every moment, as the bitter end for which she fought drew near.
While Captain Pertinax was getting ready her seat, she prattled such
gentle nothings, and helped him with such pretty confusion, that the big
soldier was almost undone; and, as soon as they were on their way, an
ominous silence fell upon them.
Penelophon was holding on by the Captain's belt, and he, with a
troubled air, sitting far back away from her, as though she were a
noxious thing. Presently she looked up at him shyly, as though she were
about to say something. He was looking resolutely in front of him. Still
it could not be but that their eyes met. He quickly stared ahead again,
and twisted his moustache fiercely. In a few minutes it happened again,
and this time he desperately struck his spurs into the horse to relieve
his feelings. The animal started forward, Penelophon reeled in the
saddle, and he had to put his arm about her to prevent her falling.
"Thank you," she said, looking up at him again with pretty diffidence;
"I feel much safer now. There is no one takes care of me like you."
Then once more her prattle flowed; and, beating down the shame she felt
as his arm closed more and more fondly about her, she stabbed him with
tongue and eye and dimpled smiles till flesh and blood could endure no
more.
The pretty little form was now nestling close to him in frank
confidence. Once more he struggled to be loyal to his master's charge,
and then he bent down and kissed the delicate face. She winced just a
little--he could feel that--and the blood rushed to her face; and
somehow he felt, in a moment, thoroughly ashamed of himself.
"Do you love me then so much?" she asked, looking up at him frankly
once more.
"'Sblood! lass," he burst out, "could iron and stone help loving such a
little flower? I love you more than my sword, and more than my
horse--ay, and more than the King himself."
"Ah! then," she said, "I can give you all the King's orders. I did not
like to before."
He could feel her trembling in his embrace, and his voice was very
gentle as he answered, "Why, pretty one," he said, "what were they?"
"He said," she answered, bravely meeting his passionate gaze, "that I
should never be safe from my persecutors till I was some brave fellow's
wife."
"And he said that I was to be the man?" cried Pertinax eagerly.
"But I could not give you his order," she answered shyly.
"Heaven bless him! Heaven bless you!" he said, with feeling, and kissed
her again, and pressed her to him so fondly that she began to feel very
peaceful and reconciled. She continued to beguile him with such pretty
talk as she never could find for the King, and the big soldier was
beside himself with love and tenderness. He begged her to tell him when
she would marry him. Once more he thought she shuddered in his embrace,
but it might have been fancy; for directly afterwards she put her hand
in his, and looked up at him tenderly as she answered. "When we reach
the castle," she said. "There is no need to wait. The priest shall do it
in the little chapel at the foot of the hills. It is better so; for then
all will be safe, and we can wait till the King comes, and journey
onward all in one company."
Vainly Kophetua and Héloise sought for Penelophon when the time came to
set out. Not a trace of her could they find, and the Titanic walls of
the cañon flung back their cries unanswered. They looked one at the
other guiltily, and made their search far apart and in different
directions. At last the abbot told them he had seen her climbing the
bridle-path that led out of the cañon. There was no time to lose. The
journey could not be delayed. So the King lifted Héloise on to his
horse, and himself going on foot, led it up the ravine in pursuit.
Not a word he spoke, but looked resolutely onward, trying to catch a
glimpse of the grey rags. Nor did she seek to break the silence or
attract his attention. She saw well his agitation at being thus alone
with her, and she sat upon the horse with downcast eyes, as though she
too were ashamed. She was resolved to do no treason to the girl she had
wronged. The self-respect for which she longed told her it was best, and
love told her that resignation was the only means to turn to her the
heart for which she pined.
In this way they reached the spot where Pertinax had waited. He was
gone too. Again the King searched and shouted, and the echoes seemed to
laugh and mock at him, as though they knew he did not hope to find, but
only dreaded to begin the journey anew. But it could not be put off for
long. Time was flying, and if the throne were to be saved they must
hasten on their way. He returned nervous and agitated to where the
beauty lay, resting amongst the flowers in an attitude of enchanting
grace. Her loveliness was like a pain to him; but fate had fastened them
together, and the ordeal to which he felt his manhood unequal must begin
at last.
"Mademoiselle," said he abruptly, "it is useless to seek further. We
must ride away fast in pursuit."
Their eyes met a moment. A flush overspread her face, and Kophetua
turned away, to throw himself fiercely into the saddle. No sooner was he
mounted than she came to his side, with a little air of embarrassment.
At his curt request she put her dainty foot on his, and he lifted her up
in front of him on to Penelophon's cushion. A glade of turf stretched
away before them, and it was necessary to make the most of it before the
difficult desert was reached, in order to recover the time they had
lost. For one moment the King sat irresolute; in another he had
desperately put his arm about the bewitching shape, drawn the soft
burden to his breast, and with heart aflame, and head in a delirious
whirl, was spurring on at a rapid pace between the rustling trees.
So, like Pertinax and Penelophon, upon one horse, and with hearts that
beat as one, Kophetua and Héloise came to the King's hunting-tower.
The shades of night had closed the day that followed. The moonlight was
glimmering in through the narrow windows of the chamber where Mlle de
Tricotrin lay. Not a sign of Penelophon had been found, nor had Captain
Pertinax returned. Oppressed with the silence of the night in the lonely
castle, Héloise was haunted by a terrible idea. She began to be certain
that her handmaid had destroyed herself. The awful stillness seemed to
whisper "murderess" to her uneasy conscience, and an appalling sense of
guilt tormented her. Long she lay in fevered unrest; but at last,
wearied with her arduous journey, and exhausted with the sweet
excitement of the ride, she fell into a restless slumber.
But still she tossed uneasily upon her couch. The arm of him she had
tried to steal from her victim seemed still about her. The last
passionate kiss, in which he had said "Good night," still tingled on her
lips. With a distinctness that terrified her, she felt his hand was
once more pressing hers, and she started up wide awake.
Still the pressure was there. Something was holding the hand which, in
her restlessness, she had tossed outside the coverlet. With a low cry of
terror she snatched it away; for there, crouching by her bedside in the
ghostly moonlight, was the dim grey figure of her whose blood was on her
head. In an agony she looked to find some brand upon her flesh where the
spectre had touched it. She could see, in the white beams which fell
upon it, there was none; but, with even greater terror, she knew her
hand was wet with tears, and on it glistened the signet ring of the
King.
Then into the midst of her terror broke a stifled sob, and the spell
began to dissolve.
"Child," said Héloise, in a hoarse whisper, "is it you?"
No answer came, but another sob, and Héloise stretched out her hand to
touch what seemed her handmaid's tangled hair. Slowly she moved it, with
bated breath, in an agony lest she should feel nothing. But it was flesh
and blood indeed, and Penelophon seized the hand that touched her, and
covered it with kisses. In a few broken words she told her tale, and
Héloise listened and blushed like a culprit who receives the reprimand
of some august and stainless court.
"But where have you been?" was all she could think of to say when the
tale was done.
"We hid in the town down there away from you," Penelophon answered. "For
after we were married he was afraid of the King's anger, and bid me let
no one know till he had set Trecenito on the throne again, and then he
would be forgiven. But I could not wait. So at dusk I stole up to the
castle, and lay in the outhouses till all was still; then I crept up
here, where I heard them say you were lodged, for I could not bear to
think you were mourning for Trecenito; so I thought to come and put his
ring on your finger that you might know he was yours and you were his at
last. I would have done it secretly, and then departed; but you awoke,
and I could not but tell you all, and hear your voice. For God knows,"
she continued, breaking down again, "I want comfort. He is kind and
good, but it is a terrible thing I have done. I have given myself to buy
the happiness of him we both love--you and I. It is done, and I would
not have it undone; but, indeed, it is a terrible thing, and hard to
bear when I am not near you or him."
"Stay, stay, Penelophon!" cried Mlle de Tricotrin; "I cannot bear to
hear you speak like this. You are a saint, an angel, and I am worse than
the fiends. You shall always be near me, and make me like yourself. You
shall never leave me again. Come now to me; come and lie in my arms, and
try to make me like yourself."
As she spoke she clasped the slight grey figure to her breast, and soon
the two loves of Kophetua were sleeping peacefully in each other's arms.