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

“You, my good friend, will doubtless be glad to rest and recover from my countrymen’s ungentle treatment of your person.”

Thus saying, he made a slight commanding sign,—the clustering people drew back on either side,—and he, taking Theos by the arm, passed through their ranks, talking, laughing, and nodding graciously here and there as he went, with the half-kindly, half-indifferent ease of an affable monarch who occasionally bows to some of his poorest subjects. As he trod over the flowers that lay heaped about his path, several girls rushed impetuously forward, struggling with each other for possession of those particularly favored blossoms that had received the pressure of his foot, and kissing them, they tied them in little knots, and pinned them proudly on the bosoms of their white gowns.

One or two, more daring, stretched out their hands to touch the golden frame of the harp as it was carried past them by the youth in crimson,—a pretty fellow enough, who looked extremely haughty, and almost indignant at this effrontery on the part of the fair poet-worshippers, but he made no remonstrance, and merely held his head a little higher and walked with a more consequential air, as he followed his master at a respectful distance. Another long ecstatic shout of “Hail Sahluma!” arose on all sides, rippling away,—away,—down, as it seemed, to the very furthest edge of echoing resonance,—and then the remainder of the crowd quickly scattered right and left, leaving the spacious embankment almost deserted, save for the presence of several copper-colored, blue-shirted individuals who were commencing the work of taking down and rolling up the silken awnings, accompanying their labors by a sort of monotonous chant that, mingling with the slow, gliding plash of the river, sounded as weird and mournful as the sough of the wind through leafless trees.

Meanwhile Theos, in the company of his new friend, began to express his thanks for the timely rescue he had received,—but Sahluma waived all such acknowledgments aside.

“Nay, I have only served thee as a crowned Laureate should ever serve a lesser minstrel,”—he said, with that indescribably delicious air of self-flattery which was so whimsical, and yet so winning,—“And I tell thee in all good faith that, for a newly arrived visitor in Al-Kyris, thy first venture was a reckless one!

To omit to kneel in the presence of the High Priestess during her Benediction, was a violation of our customs and ceremonies dangerous to life and limb! A religiously excited mob is merciless,—and if I had not chanced upon the scene of action, . .”

“I should have been no longer the man I am!” smiled Theos, looking down on his companion’s light, lithe, elegant form as it moved gracefully by his side—“But that I failed in homage to the High Priestess was a most unintentional lack of wit on my part,—for if THAT was the High Priestess,—that dazzling wonder of beauty who lately passed in a glittering ship, on her triumphant way down the river, like a priceless pearl in a cup of gold…”

“Aye, aye!” and Sahluma’s dark brows contracted in a slight frown—“Not so many fine words, I pray thee! Thou couldst not well mistake her,—there is only one Lysia!”

“Lysia!” murmured Theos dreamily, and the musical name slid off his lips with a soft, sibilant sound,—“Lysia! And I forgot to kneel to that enchanting, that adorable being! Oh unwise, benighted fool!—where were my thoughts? Next time I see her I will atone! .—no matter what creed she represents,—I will kiss the dust at her feet, and so make reparation for my sin!”

Sahluma glanced at him with a somewhat dubious expression.

“What!—art thou already persuaded?” he queried lightly, “and wilt thou also be one of us? Well, thou wilt need to kiss the dust in very truth, if thou servest Lysia, . . no half-measures will suit where she, the Untouched and Immaculate, is concerned,”—and here there was a faint inflection of mingled mockery and sadness in his tone—“To love her is, for many men, an absolute necessity,—but the Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Serpent receives love, as statues may receive it,—moving all others to frenzy, she is herself unmoved!”

Theos listened, scarcely hearing. He was studying every line in Sahluma’s face and figure with fixed and wistful attention.

Almost unconsciously he pressed the arm he held, and Sahluma looked up at him with a half-smile.

“I fancy we shall like each other!” he said—“Thou art a western singing bird-of-passage, and I a nested nightingale amid the roses of the East,—our ways of making melody are different,—we shall not quarrel!”

“Quarrel!” echoed Theos amazedly—“Nay! … I might quarrel with my nearest and dearest, but never with thee, Sahluma! For I know thee for a very prince of poets! … and would as soon profane the sanctity of the Muse herself, as violate thy proffered friendship!”

“Why, so!” returned Sahluma, his brilliant eyes flashing with undisguised pleasure,—“An’ thou thinkest thus of me we shall be firm and fast companions! Thou hast spoken well and not without good instruction—I perceive my fame hath reached thee in thine own ocean-girdled lands, where music is as rare as sunshine. Right glad am I that chance has thrown us together, for now thou wilt be better able to judge of my unrivalled master-skill in sweet word-weaving! Thou must abide with me for all the days of thy sojourn here. … Art willing?”

“Willing? … Aye! more than willing!” exclaimed Theos enthusiastically—“But,—if I burden hospitality..”

“Burden!” and Sahluma laughed—“Talk not of burdens to me!—I, who have feasted kings, and made light of their entertaining!

Here,” he added as he led the way through a broad alley, lined with magnificent palms—“here is the entrance to my poor dwelling!” and a sparkling, mischievous smile brightened his features.—“There is room enough in it, methinks to hold thee, even if thou hadst brought a retinue of slaves!”

He pointed before him as he spoke, and Theos stood for a moment stock-still and overcome with astonishment, at the size and splendor of the palace whose gates they were just approaching. It was a dome-shaped building of the purest white marble, surrounded on all sides by long, fluted colonnades, and fronted by spacious court paved with mosaics, where eight flower-bordered fountains dashed up to the hot, blue sky, incessant showers of refreshing spray.

Into this court and across it, Sahluma led his wondering guest, . .

ascending a wide flight of steps, they entered a vast open hall, where the light poured in through rose-colored and pale blue glass, that gave a strange yet lovely effect of mingled sunset and moonlight to the scene. Here—reclining about on cushions of silk and velvet—were several beautiful girls in various attitudes of indolence and ease,—one laughing, black-haired houri was amusing herself with a tame bird which flew to and from her uplifted finger,—another in a half-sitting posture, played cup-and-ball with much active and graceful dexterity,—some were working at gold and silver embroidery,—others, clustered in a semicircle round a large osier basket filled with myrtle, were busy weaving garlands of the fragrant leaves,—and one maiden, seemingly younger than the rest, and of lighter and more delicate complexion, leaned somewhat pensively against an ebony-framed harp, as though she were considering what sad or suggestive chords she should next awaken from its responsive strings. As Sahluma and Theos appeared, these nymphs all rose from their different occupations and amusements, and stood with bent heads and folded hands in statuesque silence and humility.

“These are my human rosebuds!” said Sahluma softly and gayly, as holding the dazzled Theos by the arm he escorted him past these radiant and exquisite forms—“They bloom, and fade, and die, like the flowers thrown by the populace,—proud and happy to feel that their perishable loveliness has, even, for a brief while, been made more lasting by contact with my deathless poet-fame! Ah, Niphrata!” and he paused at the side of the girl standing by the harp—“Hast thou sung many of my songs to-day? … or is thy voice too weak for such impassioned cadence? Thou art pale, . . I miss thy soft blush and dimpling smile,—what ails thee, my honey-throated oriole?”

“Nothing, my lord”—answered Niphrata in a low tone, raising a pair of lovely, dusky, violet eyes, fringed with long black lashes,—“Nothing,—save that my heart is always sad in thine absence!”

Sahluma smiled, well pleased.

“Let it be sad no longer then!” he said, caressing her cheek with his hand,—and Theos saw a wave of rich color mounting swiftly to her fair brows at his touch, as though she were a white poppy warming to crimson in the ardent heat of the sun—“I love to see thee merry,—mirth suits a young and beauteous face like thine!

Look you, Sweet!—I bring with me here a stranger from far-off lands,—one to whom Sahluma’s name is as a star in the desert!—I must needs have thy voice in all its full lusciousness of tune to warble for his pleasure those heart-entangling ditties of mine which thou hast learned to render with such matchless tenderness!

… Thanks, Gisenya,” … this as another maiden advanced, and, gently removing the myrtle-wreath he wore, placed one just freshly woven on his clustering curls, . . then, turning to Theos, he inquired—“Wilt thou also wear a minstrel-garland, my friend?

Niphrata or Gisenya will crown thee!”

“I am not worthy”—answered Theos, bending his head in low salutation to the two lovely girls, who stood eying him with a certain wistful wonder—“One spray from Sahluma’s discarded wreath will best suffice me!”

Sahluma broke into a laugh of absolute delight.

“I swear thou speakest well and like a true man!” he said joyously. “Unfamous as thou art, thou deservest honor for the frank confession of thy lack of merit! Believe me, there are some boastful rhymers in Al-Kyris who would benefit much by a share of thy becoming modesty! Give him his wish, Gisenya—” and Gisenya, obediently detaching a sprig of myrtle from the wreath Sahluma had worn all day, handed it to Theos with a graceful obeisance—

“For who knows but the leaves may contain a certain witchery we wot not of, that shall endow him with a touch of the divine inspiration!”

At that moment, a curious figure came shuffling across the splendid hall,—that of a little old man somewhat shabbily attired, upon whose wrinkled countenance there seemed to be a fixed, malign smile, like the smile of a mocking Greek mask. He had small, bright, beady black eyes placed very near the bridge of his large hooked nose,—his thin, wispy gray locks streamed scantily over his bent shoulders, and he carried a tall staff to support his awkward steps,—a staff with which he made a most disagreeable tapping noise on the marble pavement as he came along.

“Ah, Sir Gad-about!” he exclaimed in a harsh, squeaky voice as he perceived Sahluma—“Back again from your self-advertising in the city! Is there any poor soul left in Al-Kyris whose ears have not been deafened by the parrot-cry of the name of Sahluma?—If there is,—at him, at him, my dainty warbler of tiresome trills!—at him, and storm his senses with a rhodomontade of rhymes without reason!—at him, Immortal of the Immortals!—Bard of Bards!—stuff him with quatrains and sextains!—beat him with blank verse, blank of all meaning!—lash him with ballad and sonnet-scourges, till the tortured wretch, howling for mercy, shall swear that no poet save Sahluma, ever lived before, or will ever live again, on the face of the shuddering and astonished earth!”

And breathless with this extraordinary outburst, he struck his staff loudly on the floor, and straightway fell into such a violent fit of coughing that his whole lean body shook with the paroxysm.

Sahluma laughed heartily,—laughter in which he