Paula passed a fearful night in the small, frightfully hot prison-cell in
which she and Betta were shut up. She could not sleep, and when once she
succeeded in closing her eyes she was roused by the yells and clanking
chains of the captives in the common prison and the heavy step of another
sufferer who paced the room overhead, even more restless than herself.
Poor fellow-victim! Was it a tortured conscience that drove him hither
and thither, or was he as innocent as she was, and was it longing, love,
and anxiety that bereft him of sleep?
He was no vulgar criminal. There was no room for those in this part of
the building; and at midnight, when the noise in the large hall was
suddenly silenced, soft sounds of the lute came down to her from his
cell, and only a master could strike the strings with such skill.
She cared nothing for the stranger; but she was grateful for his gift of
music, for it diverted her thoughts from herself, and she listened with
growing interest. Glad of an excuse for rising from her hard, hot bed,
she sprang up and placed herself close to the one window, an opening
barred with iron. But then the music ceased and a conversation began
between the warder and her fellow-prisoner.
What voice was that? Did she deceive herself, or hear rightly?
Her heart stood still while she listened; and now every doubt was
silenced: It was Orion, and none other, whom she heard speaking in the
room above. Then the warder spoke his name; they were talking of her
deceased uncle; and now, as if in obedience to some sign, they lowered
their voices. She heard whispering but could not distinguish what was
said. At length parting words were uttered in louder tones, the door of
the cell was locked and the prisoner approached his window.
At this she pressed her face close to the heated iron bars, looked
upwards, listened a moment and, as nothing was stirring, she said, first
softly, and then rather louder: "Orion, Orion!"
And, from above, her name was spoken in reply. She greeted him and asked
how and when he had come hither; but he interrupted her at the first
words with a decisive: "Silence!" adding in a moment, "Look out!"
She listened in expectancy; the minutes crept on at a snail's pace to a
full half hour before he at last said: "Now!" And, in a few moments, she
held in her hand a written scroll that he let down to her by a lutestring
weighted with a scrap of wood.
She had neither light nor fire, and the night was moonless. So she
called up "Dark!" and immediately added, as he had done: "Look out."
She then tied to the string the two best roses of those Pulcheria had
brought her, and at her glad "Now!" they floated up.
He expressed his thanks in a few low chords overflowing with yearning and
passion; then all was still, for the warder had forbidden him to sing or
play at night and he dared not risk losing the man's favor.
Paula laid down again with Orion's letter in her hand, and when she felt
slumber stealing upon her, she pushed it under her pillow and ere long
was sleeping on it. When they both woke, soon after sunrise, they had
been dreaming of each other and gladly hailed the return of day.
How furious Orion had felt when the prison door closed upon him! He
longed to wrench the iron bars from the window and kick down or force the
door; and there is no more humiliating and enraging feeling for a man
than that of finding himself shut up like a wild beast, cut off from the
world to which he belongs and which he needs, both to give him all that
makes life worth having, and to receive such good as he can do and give.
Yesterday their dungeon had seemed a foretaste of hell, they had each
been on the verge of despair; to-day what different feelings animated
them! Orion had been the victim of blow on blow from Fate--Paula had
looked forward to his return with an anxious and aching heart; to-day how
calm were their souls, though both stood in peril of death.
The legend tells us that St. Cecilia, who was led away to the rack from
her marriage feast, even in the midst of the torments of martyrdom,
listened in ecstasy to heavenly music and sweet echoes of the organ; and
how many have had the same experience! In the extremity of anguish and
danger they find greater joys than in the midst of splendor, ease and the
intoxicating pleasures of life; for what we call happiness is the
constant guest of those who have within reach that for which their souls
most ardently long, irrespective of place and outward circumstances.
So these two in their prison were what they had not been for a long time:
full of heartfelt bliss; Paula with his letter, which he had begun at the
Kadi's house, and in which he poured out his whole soul to her; Orion in
the possession of her roses, on which he feasted his eyes and heart, and
which lay before him while he wrote the following lines, which the
kindhearted warder willingly transmitted to her:
Lo! As night in its gloom and horror fell on my prison,
Methought the sun sank black, dark forever in death.
I drew thy roses up, and behold! from their crimson petals
Beamed a glory of light, a glow as of sunshine and day!
Love! Love is the star that rose with those fragrant flowers;
Rose, as Phoebus' car comes up from the tossing waves.
Is not the ardent flame of a heart that burns with passion
Like the sparkling glow-worm hid in the heart of the rose?
While it yet was day, and we breathed in freedom and gladness,
While the sun still shone, that light seemed small and dim;
But now, when night has fallen, sinister, dark, portentous,
Its kindly ray beams forth to raise our drooping souls.
As seeds in the womb of earth break from the brooding darkness,
Or as the soul soars free, heaven-seeking from the grave,
So the hopeless soil of a dungeon blossoms to rapture,
Blooms with roses of Love, more sweet than the wildling rose!
And when had Paula ever felt happier than at the moment when this
offering from her lover, this humble prison-flower, first reached her.
Old Betta could not hear the verses too often, and cried with joy, not at
the poem, but at the wonderful change it had produced in her darling.
Paula was now the radiant being that she had been at home on the Lebanon;
and when she appeared before the assembled judges in the hall of justice
they gazed at her in amazement, for never had a woman on her trial for
life or death stood in their presence with eyes so full of happiness.
And yet she was in evil straits. The just and clement Kadi, himself
the loving father of daughters, felt a pang at his heart as be noted
the delusive confidence which so evidently filled the soul of this noble
maiden.
Yes, she was in evil straits: a crushing piece of evidence was in their
hands, and the constitution of the court--which was in strict conformity
with the law must in itself be unfavorable to her. Her case was to be
tried by an equal number of Egyptians and of Arabs. The Moslems were
included because by her co-operation, Arabs had been slain; while Paula,
as a Christian and a resident in Memphis, came under the jurisdiction of
the Egyptians.
The Kadi presided, and experience had taught him that the Jacobite
members of the bench of judges kept the sentence of death in their
sleeves when the accused was of the Melchite confession. What had
especially prejudiced them against this beautiful creature he knew not;
but he easily discovered that they were hostile to the accused, and if
they should utter the verdict "guilty", and only two Arabs should echo
it, the girl's fate was sealed.
And what was the declaration which that whiterobed old man among the
witnesses desired to make--the venerable and learned Horapollo? The
glances he cast at Paula augured her no good.
It was so oppressively, so insufferably hot in the hall! Each one felt
the crushing influence, and in spite of the importance of the occasion,
the proceedings every now and then came to a stand-still and then were
hurried on again with unseemly haste.
The prisoner herself seemed happily to be quite fresh and not affected by
the sultriness of the day. It had cost her small effort to adhere to her
statement that she had had no share in the escape of the sisters, when
catechised by the ruffianly negro; but she found it hard to defy Othman's
benevolent questioning. However, there was no choice, and she succeeded
in proving that she had never quitted Memphis nor the house of Rufinus at
the time when the Arab warriors met their death between Athribis and
Doomiat. The Kadi endeavored to turn this to account for her advantage
and Obada, who had found much to whisper over with his grey-headed
neighbor on the bench reserved for witnesses, let him talk; but no sooner
had he ended than the Vekeel rose and laid before the judges the note he
had found in Orion's room.
It was undoubtedly in the young man's handwriting and addressed to Paula,
and the final words: "But do not misunderstand me. Your noble, and only
too well-founded desire to lend succor to your fellow-believers would
have sufficed...." could not fail to make a deep impression. When the
Kadi questioned Paula, however, she replied with perfect truth that this
document was absolutely unknown to her; at the same time she did not deny
that the sisters of St. Cecilia, who were of her own confession, had
always had her warmest wishes, and that she had hoped they might succeed
in asserting their rights in opposition to the patriarch.
The deceased Mukaukas, and the Jacobite members of the town-council even,
had shared these feelings and the Arabs had never interfered with the
pious sicknurses.
The calm conciseness with which she made these statements had a favorable
effect, on her Moslem judges especially, and the Kadi began to have some
hopes for her; he desired that Orion should be called as being best able
to account for the meaning of the letter he had written but never sent.
On this the young man appeared, and though he and Paula did their utmost
to preserve a suitable demeanor, every one could see the violent
agitation they felt at meeting each other in such a situation. Horapollo
never took his eyes off Orion, whom he now saw for the first time, and
his features put on a darkening and menacing expression.
The young man acknowledged that he had written the letter in question,
but he and Paula alike referred it to the danger with which the
sisterhood had long been threatened from the patriarch's hostility. The
assistance which, in that document, he had refused he would have afforded
readily and zealously at a later and fit season, and he could have
counted on the aid of the Arab governor Amru, who, as he would himself
confirm, shared the views of the Mukaukas George as to the nuns' rights.
At this the old sage murmured loud enough to be heard: "Clever, very
clever!" and the Vekeel laughed aloud, exclaiming:
"I call that a cunning way of lengthening your days! Be on your guard,
my lords. These two are partners in the game and are intimately allied.
I have proof of that in my own hands. That youngster takes as good care
of the damsel's fortune as though it were his own already, and what is
more. . . ."
Here Paula broke in. She did not know what the malicious man was going
to say, but it was something insulting beyond a doubt. And there stood
Orion, just as she had pictured him in moments of tender remembrance; she
felt his eye resting on her in ecstasy. To go up to him, to tell him all
she was feeling in this critical struggle for life or death, seemed
impossible; but as the Vekeel began to disclose to their judges matters
which concerned only herself and her lover, every impulse prompted her to
interpose and, in this fateful hour, to do her friend such service as she
once, like a coward, had shrank from. So with eager emotion, her eyes
flashing, she interrupted the negro "Stop!" she cried, "you are wasting
words and trouble. What you are trying to prove by subtlety I am proud
and glad to declare. Hear it, all of you. The son of the Mukaukas is my
betrothed!"
At the same time her eye sought to meet Orion's. And thus, in the very
extremity of danger, they enjoyed a solemn moment of the purest, deepest
happiness. Paula's eyes were moist with grateful tenderness, when Orion
exclaimed:
"You have heard from her own lips what makes the greatest bliss of my
life. The noble daughter of Thomas is my promised bride!"
There was a murmur among the Jacobite judges. 'Till this moment several
of them, oppressed by the heat, had sat dreaming with their heads sunk on
their breasts, but now they were suddenly as wide-awake and alert as
though a jet of cold water had been turned on to them, and one cried out:
"And your father, young man? You have forgotten him in a hurry! What
would he have said to such a disgrace to his blood as your marriage to a
Melchite, the daughter of those who caused your two brothers to be
murdered? Oh! if the dead could. . . ."
"He blessed our union on his death-bed," Orion put in.
"Did he, indeed?" asked another Jacobite with sarcastic scorn. "Then
the patriarch was in the right when he refused to let the priests follow
his corpse. That I should live to be witness to such crimes!"
But such words fell on the ears of the enraptured pair like the chirping
of crickets. They felt, they cared for nothing but what this blissful
moment had brought them, and never suspected that Paula's glad avowal had
sealed her death-warrant.
The wrath of the Jacobite faction now hastened the end. The prosecutor,
an Arab, now represented how many Moslems had lost their lives in the
affair of the nuns, and once more read Orion's letter. His Christian
colleagues tried to prove that this document could only refer to the
flight, so ingeniously plotted, of the sisters; and now something quite
new and unlooked-for occurred, which gave a fresh turn to the
proceedings: the old man interrupted the Kadi to make a statement.
At this Paula's confidence rose again for the last speaker had somewhat
shaken it. She felt sure that the tried friend and adoptive father of
her faithful Philippus would take her part.
But what was this?
The old man seemed to measure her height in a glance which struck to her
heart with its fierce enmity, and then he said deliberately:
"On the morning of the nuns' flight the accused, Paula, went to the
convent and there tolled the bell. Contradict me if you can, proud
prefect's daughter; but I warn you beforehand, that in that case, I shall
be compelled to bring forward fresh charges."
At this the horror-stricken girl pictured to herself the widow and
daughter of Rufinus at her side on the condemned bench before the judges,
and felt that denial would drag her friends to destruction with her; with
quivering lips she confirmed the old man's statement.
"And why did you toll the bell?" asked the Kadi.
"To help them," replied Paula. "They are my fellow-believers, and I love
them."
"She was the originator of the treasonable and bloody scheme," cried the
Vekeel, "and did it for no other purpose than to cheat us, the rulers of
this country."
The Kadi however signed to him to be silent and bid the Jacobite counsel
for the accused speak next. He had seen her early in the day, and came
forward in the Egyptian manner with a written defence in his hand; but it
was a dull formal performance and produced no effect; though the Kadi did
his utmost to give prominence to every point that might help to justify
her, she was pronounced guilty.
Still, could her crime be held worthy of death? It was amply proved that
she had had a hand in the rescue of the nuns; but it was no less clear
that she had been far enough away from the sisters and their defenders
when the struggle with the Arabs took place. And she was a woman, and
how pardonable it seemed in a pious maiden that she should help the
fellow-believers whom she loved to evade persecution.
All this Othman pointed out in eloquent words, repeatedly and sternly
silencing the Vekeel when he sought to argue in favor of the sentence of
death; and the humane persuasiveness of the lenient judge won the hearts
of most of the Moslems.
Paula's appearance had a powerful effect, too, and not less the
circumstance that their noblest and bravest foe had been the father of
the accused.
When at length it was put to the vote the extraordinary result was that
all her fellow Christians--the Jacobites--without exception demanded her
death, while of the infidels on the judges' bench only one supported this
severe meed of punishment.
Sentence was pronounced, and as the Vekeel Obada passed close to Orion--
who was led back to his cell pale and hardly master of himself--he said,
mocking him in broken Greek: "It will be your turn to-morrow, Son of the
Mukaukas!"
Orion's lips framed the retort: "And yours, too, some day, Son of a
Slave!"--but Paula was standing opposite, and to avoid infuriating her
foe he was able to do what he never could have done else: to let the
Vekeel and Horapollo pass on without a word in reply.
As soon as the door was closed on this couple, Othman nodded approvingly
at Orion and said:
"Rightly and wisely done, my friend! The eagle should never forget that
he must not use his pinions in a cage as he does between the desert and
the sky."
He signed to the guards to lead him away, and stood apart while the young
man looked and waived an adieu to his betrothed.
Finally the Kadi went up to Paula, whose heroic composure as she heard
the sentence of death had filled him with admiration.
"The court has decided against you, noble maiden," he said. "But its
verdict can he overruled by the clemency of our Sovereign Lord the
Khaliff and the mercy of God the compassionate. Do you pray to Him--
I and a few friends will appeal to the Khaliff."
He disclaimed her gratitude, and when she, too, had been led away he
added, in the figurative language of his nation, to the friends who were
waiting for him:
"My heart aches! To have to pronounce such a verdict oppressed me like a
load; but to have an Obada for a fellow Moslem and be bound to obey him--
there is no heavier lot on earth!"