Such was the story, of which this innocent girl gave me, in her own
touching language, the outline.
The sun was just rising as she finished her narrative. Fearful of
encountering the expression of those feelings with which, she could not
but observe, I was affected by her recital, scarcely had she concluded the
last sentence, when, rising abruptly from her seat, she hurried into the
pavilion, leaving me with the words already crowding for utterance to my
lips.
Oppressed by the various emotions, thus sent back upon my heart, I lay
down on the deck in a state of agitation, that defied even the most
distant approaches of sleep. While every word she had uttered, every
feeling she expressed, but ministered new fuel to that flame within me, to
describe which, passion is too weak a word, there was also much of her
recital that disheartened, that alarmed me. To find a Christian thus under
the garb of a Memphian Priestess, was a discovery that, had my heart been
less deeply interested, would but have more powerfully stimulated my
imagination and pride. But, when I recollected the austerity of the faith
she had embraced,—the tender and sacred tie, associated with it in her
memory, and the devotion of woman’s heart to objects thus consecrated,—her
very perfections but widened the distance between us, and all that most
kindled my passion at the same time chilled my hopes.
Were we left to each other, as on this silent river, in this undisturbed
communion of thoughts and feelings, I knew too well, I thought, both her
sex’s nature and my own, to feel a doubt that love would ultimately
triumph. But the severity of the guardianship to which I must resign
her,—some monk of the desert, some stern Solitary,—the influence such a
monitor would gain over her mind, and the horror with which, ere long, she
would be taught to regard the reprobate infidel on whom she now smiled,—in
all this prospect I saw nothing but despair. After a few short hours, my
happiness would be at an end, and such a dark chasm open between our
fates, as must sever them, far as earth is from heaven, asunder.
It was true, she was now wholly in my power. I feared no witnesses but
those of earth, and the solitude of the desert was at hand. But though I
acknowledged not a heaven, I worshipped her who was, to me, its type and
substitute. If, at any moment, a single thought of wrong or deceit,
towards a creature so sacred, arose in my mind, one look from her innocent
eyes averted the sacrilege. Even passion itself felt a holy fear in her
presence,—like the flame trembling in the breeze of the sanctuary,—and
Love, pure Love, stood in place of Religion.
As long as I knew not her story, I might indulge, at least, in dreams of
the future. But, now—what hope, what prospect remained? My sole chance of
happiness lay in the feeble hope of beguiling away her thoughts from the
plan which she meditated; of weaning her, by persuasion, from that austere
faith, which I had before hated and now feared, and of—attaching her,
perhaps, alone and unlinked as she was in the world, to my own fortunes
for ever!
In the agitation of these thoughts, I had started from my resting‐place,
and continued to pace up and down, under a burning sun, till, exhausted
both by thought and feeling, I sunk down, amid its blaze, into a sleep,
which, to my fevered brain, seemed a sleep of fire.
On awaking, I found the veil of Alethe laid carefully over my brow, while
she, herself, sat near me, under the shadow of the sail, looking anxiously
at that leaf, which her mother had given her, and apparently employed in
comparing its outlines with the course of the river and the forms of the
rocky hills by which we passed. She looked pale and troubled, and rose
eagerly to meet me, as if she had long and impatiently waited for my
waking.
Her heart, it was plain, had been disturbed from its security, and was
beginning to take alarm at its own feelings. But, though vaguely conscious
of the peril to which she was exposed, her reliance, as is usually the
case, increased with her danger, and on me, far more than on herself, did
she depend for saving her from it. To reach, as soon as possible, her
asylum in the desert, was now the urgent object of her entreaties and
wishes; and the self‐reproach she expressed at having permitted her
thoughts to be diverted, for a single moment, from this sacred purpose,
not only revealed the truth, that she had forgotten it, but betrayed even
a glimmering consciousness of the cause.
Her sleep, she said, had been broken by ill‐omened dreams. Every moment
the shade of her mother had stood before her, rebuking her, with mournful
looks, for her delay, and pointing, as she had done in death, to the
eastern hills. Bursting into tears at this accusing recollection, she
hastily placed the leaf, which she had been examining, in my hands, and
implored that I would ascertain, without a moment’s delay, what portion of
our voyage was still unperformed, and in what space of time we might hope
to accomplish it.
I had, still less than herself, taken note of either place or distance;
and, had we been left to glide on in this dream of happiness, should never
have thought of pausing to ask where it would end. But such confidence, I
felt, was too sacred to be deceived. Reluctant as I was, naturally, to
enter on an inquiry, which might so soon dissipate even my last hope, her
wish was sufficient to supersede even the selfishness of love, and on the
instant I proceeded to obey her will.
There is, on the eastern bank of the Nile, to the north of Antinöe, a high
and steep rock, impending over the flood, which for ages, from a prodigy
connected with it, has borne the name of the Mountain of the Birds.
Yearly, it is said, at a certain season and hour, large flocks of birds
assemble in the ravine, of which this rocky mountain forms one of the
sides, and are there observed to go through the mysterious ceremony of
inserting each its beak into a particular cleft of the rock, till the
cleft closes upon one of their number, when the rest, taking wing, leave
the selected victim to die.
Through the ravine where this charm—for such the multitude consider it—is
worked, there ran, in ancient times, a canal from the Nile, to some great
and forgotten city that now lies buried in the desert. To a short distance
from the river this canal still exists, but, soon after having passed
through the defile, its scanty waters disappear altogether, and are lost
under the sands.
It was in the neighbourhood of this place, as I could collect from the
delineations on the leaf,—where a flight of birds represented the name of
the mountain,—that the dwelling of the Solitary, to whom Alethe was
bequeathed, lay. Imperfect as was my knowledge of the geography of Egypt,
it at once struck me, that we had long since left this mountain behind;
and, on inquiring of our boatmen, I found my conjecture confirmed. We had,
indeed, passed it, as appeared, on the preceding night; and, as the wind
had, ever since, blown strongly from the north, and the sun was already
declining towards the horizon, we must now be, at least, an ordinary day’s
sail to the southward of the spot.
At this discovery, I own, my heart felt a joy which I could with
difficulty conceal. It seemed to me as if fortune was conspiring with
love, and, by thus delaying the moment of our separation, afforded me at
least a chance of happiness. Her look, too, and manner, when informed of
our mistake, rather encouraged than chilled this secret hope. In the first
moment of astonishment, her eyes opened upon me with a suddenness of
splendour, under which I felt my own wink, as if lightning had crossed
them. But she again, as suddenly, let their lids fall, and, after a quiver
of her lip, which showed the conflict of feeling within, crossed her arms
upon her bosom, and looked silently down upon the deck;—her whole
countenance sinking into an expression, sad, but resigned, as if she felt,
with me, that fate was on the side of wrong, and saw Love already stealing
between her soul and heaven.
I was not slow in availing myself of what I fancied to be the irresolution
of her mind. But, fearful of exciting alarm by any appeal to tenderer
feelings, I but addressed myself to her imagination, and to that love of
novelty, which is for ever fresh in the youthful breast. We were now
approaching that region of wonders, Thebes. “In a day or two,” said I, “we
shall see, towering above the waters, the colossal Avenue of Sphinxes, and
the bright Obelisks of the Sun. We shall visit the plain of Memnon, and
those mighty statues, that fling their shadows at sunrise over the Libyan
hills. We shall hear the image of the Son of the Morning answering to the
first touch of light. From thence, in a few hours, a breeze like this will
transport us to those sunny islands near the cataracts; there, to wander,
among the sacred palm‐groves of Philæ, or sit, at noon‐tide hour, in those
cool alcoves, which the waterfall of Syene shadows under its arch. Oh,
who, with such scenes of loveliness within reach, would turn coldly away
to the bleak desert, and leave this fair world, with all its enchantments,
shining behind them, unseen and unenjoyed? At least,”—I added, tenderly
taking her by the hand,—“at least, let a few more days be stolen from the
dreary fate to which thou hast devoted thyself, and then——”
She had heard but the last few words;—the rest had been lost upon her.
Startled by the tone of tenderness, into which, in spite of all my
resolves, my voice had softened, she looked for an instant in my face,
with passionate earnestness;—then, dropping upon her knees with her
clasped hands upraised, exclaimed—“Tempt me not, in the name of God I
implore thee, tempt me not to swerve from my sacred duty. Oh, take me
instantly to that desert mountain, and I will bless thee for ever.”
This appeal, I felt, _could not_ be resisted,—though my heart were to
break for it. Having silently expressed my assent to her prayer, by a
pressure of her hand as I raised her from the deck, I hastened, as we were
still in full career for the south, to give orders that our sail should be
instantly lowered, and not a moment lost in retracing our course.
In proceeding, however, to give these directions, it, for the first time,
occurred to me, that, as I had hired this yacht in the neighbourhood of
Memphis, where it was probable that the flight of the young fugitive would
be most vigilantly tracked, we should act imprudently in betraying to the
boatmen the place of her retreat;—and the present seemed the most
favourable opportunity of evading such a danger. Desiring, therefore, that
we should be landed at a small village on the shore, under pretence of
paying a visit to some shrine in the neighbourhood, I there dismissed our
barge, and was relieved from fear of further observation, by seeing it
again set sail, and resume its course fleetly up the current.
From the boats of all descriptions that lay idle beside the bank, I now
selected one, which, in every respect, suited my purpose,—being, in its
shape and accommodations, a miniature of our former vessel, but so small
and light as to be manageable by myself alone, and, with the advantage of
the current, requiring little more than a hand to steer it. This boat I
succeeded, without much difficulty, in purchasing, and, after a short
delay, we were again afloat down the current;—the sun just then sinking,
in conscious glory, over his own golden shrines in the Libyan waste.
The evening was more calm and lovely than any that yet had smiled upon our
voyage; and, as we left the bank, there came soothingly over our ears a
strain of sweet, rustic melody from the shore. It was the voice of a young
Nubian girl, whom we saw kneeling on the bank before an acacia, and
singing, while her companions stood round, the wild song of invocation,
which, in her country, they address to that enchanted tree:—
“Oh! Abyssinian tree,
We pray, we pray, to thee;
By the glow of thy golden fruit,
And the violet hue of thy flower,
And the greeting mute
Of thy bough’s salute
To the stranger who seeks thy bower.(6)