Ardath by Marie Corelli (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

seemed to increase the irritation of the mob, that pressing closer and closer, began to jostle and hustle him in a threatening manner that boded ill for his safety,—he was again taken prisoner, and struggling in the grasp of his captors, he was preparing to fight for his life as best he could, against the general fury, when the sound of musical strings, swept carelessly upwards in the ascending scale, struck sweetly through the clamor. A youth, arrayed in crimson, and carrying a small golden harp, marched sedately between the serried ranks that parted right and left at his approach,—thus clearing the way for another personage who followed him,—a graceful, Adonis-like personage in glistening white attire, who wore a myrtle-wreath on his dark, abundant locks, and whom the populace—forgetting for a moment the cause of their recent disturbance—greeted with a ringing and ecstatic shout of “HAIL! SAH-LUMA!”

 

Again and again this cry was uplifted, till far away on the extreme outskirts of the throng the joyous echo of it was repeated faintly yet distinctly … “HAIL! HAIL, SAH-LUMA!”

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

SAH-LUMA.

 

The newcomer thus enthusiastically welcomed bowed right and left, with a condescending air, in response to the general acclamation, and advancing to the spot where Theos stood, an enforced prisoner in the close grip of three or four able-bodied citizens, he said: “What turbulence is here? By my faith! … when I heard the noise of quarrelsome contention jarring the sweetness of this nectarous noon, methought I was no longer in Al-Kyris, but rather in some western city of barbarians where music is but an unvalued name!”

 

And he smiled—a dazzling, child-like smile, half petulant, half-pleased—a smile of supreme self-consciousness as of one who knew his own resistless power to charm away all discord.

 

Several voices answered him in clamorous unison: “A traitor, Sahluma!” “A profane rebel!” … “An unbeliever!” … “A most insolent knave!”—“He refused homage to the High Priestess!”

… “A renegade from the faith!”

 

“Now, by the Sacred Veil!” cried Sahluma impatiently—“Think ye I can distinguish your jargon, when like ignorant boors ye talk all at once, tearing my ears to shreds with such unmelodious tongue-clatter! Whom have ye seized thus roughly? … Let him stand forth!”

 

At this command, the men who held Theos relaxed their grasp, and he, breathless and burning with indignation at the treatment he had received, shook himself quickly free of all restraint, and sprang forward, confronting his rescuer. There was a brief pause, during which the two surveyed each other with looks of mutual amazement. What mysterious indication of affinity did they read in one another’s faces? … Why did they stand motionless, spellbound and dumb for a while, eying half-admiringly, half-enviously, each other’s personal appearance and bearing? …

 

Undoubtedly a curious, far-off resemblance existed between them,—

yet it was a resemblance that had nothing whatever to do with the actual figure, mien, or countenance. It was that peculiar and often undefinable similarity of expression, which when noticed between two brothers who are otherwise totally unlike, instantly proclaims their relationship.

 

Theos realized his own superior height and superior muscular development,—but what were these physical advantages compared to the classic perfection of Sahluma’s beauty?—beauty combining the delicate with the vigorous, such as is shadowed forth in the artist-conceptions of the god Apollo. His features, faultlessly regular, were redeemed from all effeminacy by the ennobling impress of high thought and inward inspiration,—his eyes were dark, with a brilliant under-reflection of steel-gray in them, that at times flashed out like the soft glitter of summer-lightning in the dense purple of an August heaven,—his olive-tinted complexion was flushed warmly with the glow of health,—and he had broad, bold, intellectual brows over which the rich hair clustered in luxuriant waves,—hair that was almost black, with here and there a curious fleck of reddish gold brightening its curling masses, as though a stray sunbeam or two had been caught and entangled therein. He was arrayed in a costume of the finest silk,—his armlets, belt, and daggersheath were all of jewels,—

and the general brilliancy of his attire was furthermore increased by a finely worked flexible collar of gold, set with diamonds. The first exchange of wondering glances over, he viewed Theos with a critical, half supercilious air.

 

“What art thou?” he demanded … “What is thy calling?”

 

“Theos hesitated,—then spoke out boldly and unthinkingly—

 

“I am a Poet!” he said.

 

A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the listening crowd. Sahluma’s lip curled haughtily—

 

“A Poet!” and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt —“Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!”

 

Theos looked at him steadily,—a subtle sympathy attracted him toward this charming boaster,—involuntarily he smiled, and bent his head courteously.

 

“I do not seek to figure as your rival …” he began.

 

“Rival!” echoed Sahluma—“I have no rivals!”

 

A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng declared the popular approval of this assertion, and the boy bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen to the conversation, swept the strings of his instrument with a triumphant force and fervor that showed how thoroughly his feelings were in harmony with the expression of his master’s sentiments. Sahluma conquered, with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed coldly:

 

“From whence do you come, fair sir? We should know your name,—

POETS are not so common!” This with an accent of irony.

 

Taken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, and uncertain what to say. For he was afflicted with a strange and terrible malady such as he dimly remembered having heard of, but never expected to suffer from,—a malady in which his memory had become almost a blank as regarded the past events of his life—though every now and then shadowy images of by-gone things flitted across his brain, like the transient reflections of wind-swept clouds on still, translucent water. Presently in the midst of his painful indecision, an answer suggested itself like a whispered hint from some invisible prompter:

 

“Poets like Sahluma are no doubt as rare as nightingales in snow!” he said with a soft deference, and an increasing sense of tenderness for his haughty, handsome interlocutor—“As for me, I am a singer of sad songs that are not worth the hearing! My name is Theos,—I come from far beyond the seas, and am a stranger in Al-Kyris,—therefore if I have erred in aught, I must be blamed for ignorance, not malice!”

 

As he spoke Sahluma regarded him intently,—Theos met his gaze frankly and unflinchingly. Surely there was some singular power of attraction between the two! … for as their flashing eyes again dwelt earnestly on one another, they both smiled, and Sahluma, advancing, proffered his hand. Theos at once accepted it, a curious sensation of pleasure tingling through his frame, as he pressed those slender blown fingers in his own cordial clasp.

 

“A stranger in Al-Kyris?—and from beyond the seas? Then by my life and honor, I insure thy safety and bid thee welcome! A singer of sad songs? … Sad or merry, that thou are a singer at all makes thee the guest of the King’s Laureate!” A look of conscious vanity illumined his face as he thus announced with proud emphasis his own title and claim to distinction. “The brotherhood of poets,” he continued laughingly—“is a mystic and doubtful tie that hath oft been questioned,—but provided they do not, like ill-conditioned wolves, fight each other out of the arena, there should be joy in the relationship”. Here, turning full upon the crowd, he lifted his rich, melodious voice to higher and more ringing tones: “It is like you, O hasty and misjudging Kyrisians, that finding a harmless wanderer from far off lands, present at the pageant of the Midsummer Benediction, ye should pounce upon him, even as kites on a straying sea-bird, and maul him with your ruthless talons! Has he broken the law of worship! Ye have broken the law of hospitality! Has he failed to kneel to the passing Ship of the Sun? So have ye failed to handle him with due courtesy! What report shall he bear hence of your gentleness and culture to those dim and unjoyous shores beyond the gray green wall of ocean-billows, where the very name of Al-Kyris serves as a symbol for all that is great and wise and wondrous in the whole round circle of the world? Moreover ye know full well that foreigners and sojourners in the city are exempt from worship,—and the King’s command is that all such should be well and nobly entertained, to the end that when they depart they may carry with them a full store of pleasant memories. Hence, scatterbrains, to your homes!—

No festival can ye enjoy without a gust of contention!—ye are ill-made instruments all, whose jarring strings even I, crowned Minstrel of the King, can scarce keep one day in happy tune! Look you now! … this stranger is my guest!—. Is there a man in Al-Kyris who will treat as an enemy one whom Sahluma calls friend?”

 

A storm of applause followed this little extempore speech,—

applause accompanied by an odorous rain of flowers. There were many women in the crowd, and these had pressed eagerly forward to catch every word that dropped from the Poet-Laureate’s mellifluous lips,—now, moved by one common impulse, they hastily snatched off their posies and garlands, and flung them in lavish abundance at his feet. Some of the blossoms chancing to fall on Theos and cling to his garments, he quickly shook them off, and gathering them together, presented them to the personage for whom they were intended. He, however, gayly rejected them, moving his small sandalled foot playfully among the thick wealth of red and white roses that lay waiting to be crushed beneath his tread.

 

“Keep thy share!” he said, with an amused flash of his glorious eyes. “Such offerings are my daily lot! … I can spare thee one handful from the overflowing harvest of my song!”

 

It was impossible to be offended with such charming self-complacency,—the naive conceit of the man was as harmless as the delight of a fair girl who has made her first conquest, and Theos smiling, kept the flowers. By this time the surrounding throng had broken up into little knots and groups,—all ill-humor on the part of the populace had completely vanished,—and large numbers were now leaving the embankment and dispersing in different directions to their several homes. All those who had been within hearing distance of Sahluma’s voice appeared highly elated, as though they had enjoyed some special privilege and pleasure, … to be reproved by the Laureate was evidently considered better than being praised by any one else. Many persons pressed up to Theos, and shaking hands with him, offered their eager excuses and apologies for the misunderstanding that had lately taken place, explaining with much animation both of look and gesture, that the fact of his wearing the same style of dress as themselves had induced them to take it for granted that he must be one of their fellow-citizens, and therefore subject to the laws of the realm.

Theos was just beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed by the excessive politeness and cordiality, of his recent antagonists, when Sahluma, again interposing, cut all explanations short.

 

“Come, come! cease this useless prating!” he said imperatively yet good-naturedly—“In everything ye showed your dullard ignorance and lack of discernment. For, concerning the matter of attire, are not the fashions of Al-Kyris copied more or less badly in every quarter of the habitable globe?—even as our language and literature form the chief study and delight of all scholars and educated gentlemen? A truce to your discussions!—Let us get hence and home;” here he turned to Theos