The sun was already dispersing the orient mists, when the chief of the three black slaves once more stood in the presence of the grand vizier, who had passed the night in the anteroom, alone, and a prey to the most lively mental tortures. So noiselessly and reptile-like did the hideous Ethiopian steal into the apartment, that he was within a yard of the grand vizier ere the latter was aware that the door had even opened. Ibrahim started as if from a snake about to spring upon him—for the ominous bowstring swung negligently from the slave’s hand, and the imperial signet still glistened on his finger.
“Mighty pasha!” spoke the Ethiopian in a low and cold tone; “thus saith the Sultana Valida: ‘Cease to treat thy wife with neglect. Hasten to her—throw thyself at her feet—implore her pardon for the past—and give her hope of affection for the future. Shouldst thou neglect this warning, then every night will the rival whom thou preferrest to her be torn from thine arms, and be devoted as food for the fishes. She whom thou didst so prefer this night that is passed sleeps in the dark green bed of the Bosporus. Take warning, pasha; for the bowstring may be used at last. Moreover, see that thou revealest not to the Princess Aischa the incident of the night, nor the nature of the threats which send thee back repentant to her arms.’”
And, with these words, the slave glided hastily from the room, leaving the grand vizier a prey to feelings of ineffable horror. His punishment on earth had begun—and he knew it. What had his ambition gained? Though rich, invested with high rank, and surrounded by every luxury, he was more wretched than the meanest slave who was accustomed to kiss the dust at his feet.
But, subduing the fearful agitation which oppressed him—composing his feelings and his countenance as well as he was able, the proud and haughty Ibrahim hastened to implore admittance to his wife’s chamber, and when the boon was accorded, and he found himself in her presence, he besought her pardon in a voice and with a manner expressive of the most humiliating penitence. Thus, at the moment when thousands—perhaps millions, were envying the bright fortunes and glorious destiny of Ibrahim the Happy, as he was denominated—the dark and terrible despotism of the Sultana Valida made him tremble for his life, and compelled him to sue at Aischa’s feet for pardon. And if, at the same instant of his crushed spirit and wounded pride, there were a balm found to soothe the racking fibers of his heart, the anodyne consisted in the tender love which Aischa manifested toward him, and the touching sincerity with which she assured him of her complete forgiveness.
*****
Return we again to that Mediterranean island on which Fernand Wagner and the beauteous Nisida espoused each other by solemn vows plighted in the face of Heaven, and where they have now resided for six long months. At first how happy—how supremely happy was Nisida, having tutored herself so far to forget the jarring interests of that world which lay beyond the sea, as to abandon her soul without reservation to the delights of the new existence on which she had entered. Enabled once more to use that charming voice which God had given her, but which had remained hushed for so many years,—able also to listen to the words that fell from the lips of her lover, without being forced to subdue and crush the emotions which they excited,—and secure in the possession of him to whom she was so madly devoted, and who manifested such endearing tenderness toward herself, Nisida indeed felt as if she were another being, or endowed with the lease of a new life.
At first, too, how much had Wagner and Nisida to say to each other,—how many fond assurances to give—how many protestations of unalterable affection to make! For hours would they sit together upon the seashore, or on the bank of the limpid stream in the valley, and converse almost unceasingly, wearying not of each other’s discourse, and sustaining the interests and the enjoyment of that interchange of thoughts by flying from topic to topic just as their unshackled imagination suggested. But Fernand never questioned Nisida concerning the motive which had induced her to feign dumbness and deafness for so many years; she had given him to understand that family reasons of the deepest importance, and involving dreadful mysteries from the contemplation of which she recoiled with horror, had prompted so tremendous a self-martyrdom:—and he loved her too well to outrage her feelings by urging her to touch more than she might choose on that topic.
Careful not to approach the vicinity of large trees, for fear of these dreadful tenants of the isle who might be said to divide its sovereignty with them, the lovers—may we not venture to call them husband and wife?—would ramble hand-in-hand, along the stream’s enchanting banks, in the calm hours of moonlight, which lent softer charms to the scene than when the gorgeous sun was bathed all in gold. Or else they would wander on the sands to the musical murmur of the rippling sea,—their arms clasping each other’s neck—their eyes exchanging glances of fondness—hers of ardent passion, his of more melting tenderness. But there was too much sensuality in the disposition of Nisida to render her love for Wagner sufficient and powerful enough to insure permanent contentment with her present lot.
The first time that the fatal eve drew near when he must exchange the shape of man for that of a horrid wolf, he had said to her, “Beloved Nisida, I remember that there are finer and different fruits on the other side of the island, beyond the range of mountains; and I should rejoice to obtain for thee a variety. Console thyself for a few hours during mine absence; and on my return we shall experience renewed and increased happiness, as if we were meeting again after a long separation.” Vainly did Nisida assure him that she reckoned not for a more extensive variety of fruits than those which the nearest grove yielded, and that she would rather have his society than all the luxuries which his absence and return might bring; he overruled her remonstrances—and she at length permitted him to depart. Then he crossed the mountains by means of the path which he had described when he escaped from the torrent at the point where the tree stretched across the stream, as described in the preceding chapter; and on the other side of the range of hills he fulfilled the dreadful destiny of the Wehr-Wolf! On his return to Nisida—after an absence of nearly twenty-four hours, for the time occupied in crossing and recrossing the mountains was considerable—he found her gloomy and pensive. His long absence had vexed her: she in the secrecy of her own heart had felt a craving for a change of scene—and she naturally suspected that it was to gratify a similar want that Fernand had undertaken the transmontane journey. She received his fruits coldly; and it was some time ere he could succeed in winning her back to perfect good humor.
The next interval of a month glided away, the little incident which had for a moment ruffled the harmony of their lives was forgotten—at least by Nisida;—and so devoted was Fernand in his attention, so tenderly sincere in his attachment toward her—and so joyful, too, was she in the possession of one whose masculine beauty was almost superhumanly great, that those incipient cravings for change of scene—those nascent longings for a return to the great and busy world, returned but seldom and were even then easily subdued in her breast.
When the second fatal date after their union on the island approached, Wagner was compelled to urge some new but necessarily trivial excuse for again crossing the mountains; and Nisida’s remonstrances were more authoritative and earnest than on the previous occasion. Nevertheless he succeeded in obtaining her consent: but during his absence of four or five-and-twenty hours, the lady had ample leisure to ponder on home—the busy world across the sea—and her well-beloved brother Francisco. Fernand when he came back, found her gloomy and reserved; then, as he essayed to wean her from her dark thoughts, she responded petulantly and even reproachingly.
The ensuing month glided away as happily as the two former ones; and though Fernand’s attentions and manifestations of fondness increased, if possible, still Nisida would frequently sigh and look wistfully at the sea as if she would have joyed to behold a sail in the horizon. The third time the fatal close of the month drew nigh, Wagner knew not how to act; but some petulance on the part of Nisida furnished him with an excuse which his generous heart only had
recourse to with the deepest, the keenest anguish. Throwing back the harsh word at her whom he loved so devotedly, he exclaimed, “Nisida, I leave thee for a few hours until thy good humor shall have returned;” and without waiting for a reply he darted toward the mountains. For some time the lady remained seated gloomily upon the sand; but as hour after hour passed away, and the sun went down, and the moon gathered power to light the enchanting scene of landscape and of sea, she grew uneasy and restless. Throughout that night she wandered up and down on the sands, now weeping at the thought that she herself had been unkind—then angry at the conviction that Fernand was treating her more harshly than she deserved.
It was not till the sun was high in the heavens that Wagner reappeared; and though Nisida was in reality delighted to find all her wild alarms, in which the monstrous snakes of the isle entered largely, thus completely dissipated, yet she concealed the joy which she experienced in beholding his safe return, and received him with gloomy hauteur. Oh! how her conduct went to Wagner’s heart!—for he knew that, so long as the direful necessity which had compelled his absence remained unexplained, Nisida was justified in attributing that absence to unkind feelings and motives on his part. A thousand times that day was he on the point of throwing himself at her feet and revealing all the details of that frightful destiny; but he dared not—oh! no, he dared not—and a profound melancholy seized upon his soul. Nisida now relented, chiefly because she herself felt miserable by the contemplation of his unhappiness; and harmony was restored between them.
But during the fourth month of their union, the lady began to speak more frequently and frankly of the weariness and monotony of their present existence; and when Fernand essayed to console her, she responded by deep-drawn sighs. His love was based on those enduring elements which would have rendered him content to dwell forever with Nisida on that island, which had no sameness for him so long as she was there to be his companion; but her love subsisted rather sensually than mentally; and now that her fierce and long-pent up desires had experienced gratification, she longed to return to the land of her birth, to embrace her brother Francisco; yes, even though she should be again compelled to simulate the deaf and dumb. The close of the fourth month was at hand, and Wagner was at a loss how to act. New excuses for a fresh absence were impossible; and it was with a heart full of anguish that he was compelled to seize an opportunity in the afternoon of the last day of the month, to steal away from Nisida and hasten across the mountains. Oh! what would she think of his absence now?—an absence for which he had not prepared her, and which was not on this occasion justified by any petulance or willfulness on her part? The idea was maddening, but there was no alternative.
It was noon on the ensuing day when Fernand Wagner, pale and care-worn, again sought that spot on the strand where the rudely constructed cottage stood; but Nisida was not within the hut. He roved along the shore to a considerable distance, and still beheld her not. Terrible alarms now oppressed him. Could she have done some desperate deed to rid herself of an existence whereof she was weary? or had some fatal accident befallen her. From the shore he hastened to the valley; and there, seated by the side of the crystal stream, he beheld the object of his search. He ran—he flew toward her; but she seemed not to observe him; and when he caught a glimpse of her countenance, he shrank back in dismay—it was so pale, and yet so expressive of deep, concentrated rage!
But we cannot linger on this portion of our tale. Suffice it to say that Wagner exerted all his eloquence, all his powers of persuasion to induce Nisida to turn a kind glance upon him; and it was only when, goaded to desperation by her stern silence and her implacable mien, he exclaimed, “Since I am no longer worthy of even a look or a syllable, I will quit thee forever!” It was only when these words conveyed to Nisida a frightful menace of loneliness, that she relented and gradually suffered herself to be appeased. But vainly did she question him relative to the cause of his absence on this occasion; he offered a variety of excuses, and she believed none of them.
The month that followed was characterized by many quarrels and disputes; for Nisida’s soul acquired all the restlessness which had marked it ere she was thrown on the island, but which solitude at first and then the possession of Wagner, had for a time so greatly subdued. Nevertheless, there were still occasions when she would cling to Wagner with all the confiding fondness of one who remembered how he had saved her life from the hideous anaconda, and who looked up to him as her only joy and solace in that clime, the beauty of which became painful with its monotony—yes, she would cling to him as they roved along the sands together—she would gaze up into his countenance, and as she read assurances of the deepest affection in his fine dark eyes, she would exclaim rapturously, “Oh! how handsome—how god-like art thou, my Fernand! Pardon me—pardon me, that I should ever have nursed resentment against thee!”
It was when she was in such a mood as this that he murmured in her ears, “Nisida dearest, thou hast thy secret which I have never sought to penetrate. I also have my secret, beloved one, as I hinted to thee on that day which united us in this island; and into that mystery of mine thou mayest not look. But at certain intervals I must absent myself from thee for a few hours, as I hitherto have done; and on my return, O dearest Nisida! let me not behold that glorious countenance of thine clouded with anger and with gloom!”
Then ere she could utter a word of reply, he sealed her lips with kisses—he pressed her fervently to his heart, and at that moment she thought he seemed so divinely handsome, and she felt so proud of possessing the love of a man invested with such superhuman beauty and such a splendid intellect, that she attempted not a remonstrance nor a complaint against what was but the preface to a fifth absence of four-and-twenty hours. And when Fernand Wagner reappeared again, his Nisida hastened to meet him as he descended from the mountains—those mountains which were crossed over by a surefooted and agile man with so much difficulty, and which he knew it would be impossible for him to traverse during that mad career in which he was monthly doomed to whirl along in his lupine shape—yes, she hurried to meet him—receiving him with open arms—smiled tenderly upon him—and led him to the sea-shore, where she had spread the noonday meal in the most inviting manner.
The unwearied and unchanging nature of his love had touched her heart; and, during the long hours of his fifth absence, she had reasoned on the folly of marring the sweet harmony which should prevail between the only two human tenants of that island. The afternoon passed more happily than many and many a previous day had done; Nisida thought that Fernand had never seemed so handsome, though somewhat pale, and he fancied that his companion had never appeared so magnificently beautiful as now, while she lay half reclining in his arms, the rays of the setting sun faintly illuminating her aquiline countenance, and giving a glossy richness to the luxuriant black hair which floated negligently over her naked shoulders.
When the last beams of the orb of day died flickeringly in the far horizon, the tender pair retired to their hut rejoicing in the serene and happy way in which the last few hours had glided over their heads—when a dark figure passed along the sand and stopped at a short distance from the door of the rudely constructed tenement.
And assuredly this was no mortal being—nor wore it now a mortal shape—but Satan—in all the horrors of his ugliness, though still invested with that sublimity of mien which marked the mighty fallen angel—Satan, clothed in terrors ineffable, it was.
For a few moments he stood contemplating the hut wherein the sleepers lay; dread lightnings flushed from his eyes, and the forked electric fluid seemed to play round his haughty brow, while his fearful countenance, the features of which no human pen may venture to describe, expressed malignant hate, anticipated triumph, and tremendous scorn.
Then, extending his right hand toward the hut, and speaking in that deep sonorous tone, which when heard by mortal ears, seemed to jar against the very soul, he chanted the following incantation:—
“Woman of wild and fierce desires!<
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Why languish thus the wonted fires
That arm’d thine heart and nerved thine hand
To do whate’er thy firmness planned?
Has maudlin love subdued thy soul,
Once so impatient of control?
Has amorous play enslaved the mind
Where erst no common chains confined?
Has tender dalliance power to kill
The wild, indomitable will?
No more must love thus paralyze
And crush thine iron energies;
No more must maudlin passion stay
Thy despot soul’s remorseless sway;
Henceforth thy lips shall cease to smile
Upon the beauties of this Isle;
Henceforth thy mental glance shall roam,
O’er the Mediterranean foam,
Toward thy far-off Tuscan home!
Alarms for young Francisco’s weal,
And doubts into thy breast steal;
While retrospection carries back
Thy memory o’er time’s beaten track
And stops at that dread hour when thou
With burning eyes and flashing brow,
Call’d Heaven to hear the solemn vow
Dictated with the latest breath
Of the fond mother on the untimely bed of death.”
Thus spoke the demon; and having chanted the incantation, full of menace and of deep design, he turned to depart.
Sleep was still upon the eyes of Fernand and Nisida as they lay in each other’s arms—the island and the sea, too, were sleeping in the soft light of the silver moon, and the countless stars which gemmed the vault of heaven,—when the dark figure passed along the sand, away from the rudely-constructed tenement.
CHAPTER LIV.
When the sun rose again from the orient wave, Fernand repaired to the grove, as was his wont, to gather fruits for the morning repast, while Nisida bathed her fair form in the waters of the Mediterranean.
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