Some thirty years after the departure of the Persian embassy to
Aurelian, two travellers met at the bottom of a dell in trans-Gangetic
India, having descended the hill-brow by opposite paths. It was early
morning; the sun had not yet surmounted the timbered and tangled sides
of the little valley, so that the bottom still lay steeped in shadow,
and glittering with large pearls of limpid dew, while the oval space of
sky circumscribed by the summit glowed with the delicate splendour of
the purest sapphire. Songs of birds resounded through the brake, and
the water lilies which veiled the rivulet trickling through the depths
of the retreat were unexpanded still. One of the wayfarers was aged,
the other a man of the latest period of middle life. Their raiment was
scanty and soiled; their frames and countenances alike bespoke fatigue
and hardship; but while the elder one moved with moderate alacrity, the
other shuffled painfully along by the help of a staff, shrinking every
time that he placed either of his feet on the ground.
They exchanged looks and greetings as they encountered, and the more
active of the two, whose face was set in an easterly direction,
ventured a compassionate allusion to the other’s apparent distress.
‘I but suffer from the usual effects of crucifixion,’ returned the
other; and removing his sandals, displayed two wounds, completely
penetrating each foot.
The Cross had not yet announced victory to Constantine, and was as yet
no passport to respectable society. The first traveller drew back
hastily, and regarded his companion with surprise and suspicion.
“I see what is passing in thy mind,” resumed the latter, with a smile;
“but be under no apprehension. I have not undergone the censure of any
judicial tribunal. My crucifixion was merely a painful but necessary
incident in my laudable enterprise of obtaining the marvellous purple
dye, to which end I was despatched unto these regions by the Emperor
Aurelian.”
“The purple dye!” exclaimed the Persian, for it was he. “Thou hast
obtained it?”
“I have. It is the product of insects found only in a certain valley
eastward from hence, to obtain access to which it is before all things
needful to elude the vigilance of seven dragons.”
“Thou didst elude them? and afterwards?” inquired Marcobad, with
eagerness.
“Afterwards,” repeated Sorianus, “I made my way into the valley, where
I descried the remains of my immediate predecessor prefixed to a
cross.”
“Thy predecessor?”
“He who had last made the attempt before me. Upon any one’s penetrating
the Valley of Purple, as it is termed, with the design I have
indicated, the inhabitants, observant of the precepts of their
ancestors, append him to a cross by the feet only, confining his arms
by ropes at the shoulders, and setting vessels of cooling drink within
his grasp. If, overcome with thirst, he partakes of the beverage, they
leave him to expire at leisure; if he endures for three days, he is
permitted to depart with the object of his quest. My predecessor,
belonging, as I conjecture, to the Epicurean persuasion, and
consequently unable to resist the allurements of sense, had perished in
the manner aforesaid. I, a Stoic, refrained and attained.”
“Thou didst bear away the tincture? thou hast it now?” impetuously
interrogated the Persian.
“Behold it!” replied the Greek, exhibiting a small flask filled with
the most gorgeous purple liquid. “What seest thou here?” demanded he
triumphantly, holding it up to the light. “To me this vial displays the
University of Athens, and throngs of fair youths hearkening to the
discourse of one who resembles myself.”
“To my vision,” responded the Persian, peering at the vial, “it rather
reveals a palace, and a dress of honour. But suffer me to contemplate
it more closely, for my eyes have waxed dim by over application to
study.”
So saying, he snatched the flask from Sorianus, and immediately turned
to fly. The Greek sprang after his treasure, and failing to grasp
Marcobad’s wrist, seized his beard, plucking the hair out by handfuls.
The infuriated Persian smote him on the head with the crystal flagon.
It burst into shivers, and the priceless contents gushed forth in a
torrent over the uncovered head and uplifted visage of Sorianus,
bathing every hair and feature with the most vivid purple.
The aghast and thunderstricken philosophers remained gazing at each
other for a moment.
“It is indelible!” cried Sorianus in distraction, rushing down,
however, to the brink of the little stream, and plunging his head
beneath the waters. They carried away a cloud of purple, but left the
purple head stained as before.
The philosopher, as he upraised his glowing and dripping countenance
from the brook, resembled Silenus emerging from one of the rivers which
Bacchus metamorphosed into wine during his campaign in India. He
resorted to attrition and contrition, to maceration and laceration; he
tried friction with leaves, with grass, with sedge, with his garments;
he regarded himself in one crystal pool after another, a grotesque
anti-Narcissus. At last he flung himself on the earth, and gave free
course to his anguish.
The grace of repentance is rarely denied us when our misdeeds have
proved unprofitable. Marcobad awkwardly approached.
“Brother,” he whispered, “I will restore the tincture of which I have
deprived thee, and add thereto an antidote, if such may be found. Await
my return under this camphor tree.”
So saying, he hastened up the path by which Sorianus had descended, and
was speedily out of sight.