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

Unloose him—and quickly too!—Our pleasure is that, ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man.”

 

In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters wrenched asunder,—and in a very short space Khosrul stood at comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King’s generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to move,—his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still bound,—and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from a deep dream,—shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,—then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.

 

“Away … Away!” he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to every part of the vast hall—“Wilt force me to drink blood?” He paused,—and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. “Blood … Blood! It stains the earth and sky! … its red, red waves swallow up the land! … The heavens grow pale and tremble,—the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood … blood! The blood of the innocent! … ‘tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders … founders … never to rise again!”

 

These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.

 

“Thou art mad, Khosrul”—then said the monarch in calmly measured accents—“And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now retarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness—and this we cannot suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,—and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman’s cunning,—thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the realm,—thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die. Thou art accused…”

 

“Of honesty!” interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy satire in his tone. “I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! ‘Tis a most death-worthy deed!”

 

He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man.

Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing—and a brief pause ensued. Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the scene,—there was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sahluma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter.

 

“Now by the Sacred Veil,”—he said gayly, addressing himself to the King—“Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,—a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I live, ‘twas not ill-devised for a madman’s brain! … and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic’s chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!” And turning to Khosrul he added—“Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir graybeard? Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,—and the King shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and lasting sweetness!”

 

Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate’s half-mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

 

“Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!” he said mournfully—“Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea! … thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the measure of thine inspiration,—yet thou hast missed its true teaching,—and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God! Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! … Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!”

 

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed steadfastly to—the King! There was a momentary hush…a stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.

 

“By all the virtues of Nagaya!” he cried—“This is most excellent fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite in the realm? … Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience,—though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,—‘tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sahluma, through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals of future history—for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the renown of the greatest King.

Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sahluma!—aye, even cry aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!”

 

Sahluma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic assurance of his sovereign’s friendship,—but nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had evidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul’s words, and the restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. “What is this Khosrul?” he thought half resentfully—“and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired Sahluma so dark and unmerited an end? … “Hark! … what was that low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed? … He listened,—then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had suddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair, outstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror personified.

 

“Victory… Victory!” he cried, catching at the King’s last word … “There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! …

Thy conquests are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! … Destruction clamors at thy palace-gates! … and the enemy that cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be trodden down as wheat,—thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail as children bewildered with fear:—thy great engines of battle shall be to thee as naught,—and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury! Zephoranim!

Zephoranim! …” and his voice shrilled with terrific emphasis through the vaulted chamber … “The days of recompense are come upon thee,—swift and terrible as the desert-wind! … The doom of Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! … its beauty, its greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the waning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings shall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! … Fire! …” and here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, his dark garments brushing against Theos as he passed,—and springing on the first step, stood boldly within hand-reach of the King, who, taken aback by the suddenness of his action, stared at him with a sort of amazed and angry fascination.. “To arms, Zephoranim! … To arms! … take up thy sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire! Fire! …

How shall the King quench it? … how shall the mighty monarch defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air with red devouring tongues of flame! … the thick smoke reeks of blood! … Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of ashes! Who will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call upon the desert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on the wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters of the earth,—all nations shall shudder and be astonished at the direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress of kingdoms! Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered herself to be led astray by her rulers! … she hath drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath followed after idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts of her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore because Al-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth repentance, so shall destruction descend furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the mid-watches of the night,—she shall be swept away from the surface of the earth, … wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens, and the generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings, princes, and warriors!—Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!” and now his wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous plaintiveness—

“Weep!—for never again on earth shall be found a fairer dwelling-place for the lovers of joy! … never again shall be builded a grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris! Al-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! …

thou art become a forgotten heap of ruin! … the sands of the desert shall cover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire concerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none shall shed tears for the grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the names of thy mighty heroes