Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Darius was impetuous and fierce. His intuitive decisions were generally right, and he acted upon them instantly, without hesitation; but he had no cunning and little strategy. He was always for doing and never for waiting; and to the extreme rapidity of his movements he owed the success he had. In the first three years of his reign he fought nineteen battles and vanquished nine self-styled kings; but he never, on any occasion, detected a conspiracy, nor destroyed a revolution before it had broken out openly. He was often, therefore, at the mercy of Atossa and frequently found himself baffled by her power of concealing a subtle lie under the letter of truth, and by her supreme indifference and coldness of manner under the most trying circumstances. In his simple judgment it was absolutely impossible for any one to lie directly without betraying some hesitation, and each time he endeavoured to place Atossa in some difficult position, when she must, he thought, inevitably betray herself, he was met by her inexplicable calm; which he was forced to attribute to the fact that she was in the right — no matter how the evidence might be against her.

  The king decided that he had made a mistake in the present instance and that Phraortes was innocent of any idea of revolution. He could not conceive how such a man should be capable of executing a daring stroke of policy. He determined to let him go.

  “You ought to be well satisfied with the result of these accounts,” he said, staring hard at Atossa. “You see you know more of your affairs, and sooner, than you could have known if you had sent your letter. Let this fellow go, and tell him to send his accounts regularly in future, or he will have the pains of riding hither in haste to deliver them. Thou mayest go now and take thy rest,” he added, rising and pushing the willing Phraortes before him out of the room.

  “Thou hast done well. I am satisfied with thee, Phraortes,” said Atossa coldly.

  Once more the beautiful queen was left alone, and once more she looked at herself in the silver mirror, somewhat more critically than before. It seemed to her as she gazed and turned first one side of her face to the light and then the other, that she was a shade paler than usual. The change would have been imperceptible to any one else, but she noticed it with a little frown of disapproval. But presently she smoothed her brow and smiled happily to herself. She had sustained a terrible danger successfully.

  She had hoped to have been able to warn Phraortes how to act; but, partly because the meeting had taken place so soon after his arrival, and partly because she had employed a portion of that brief interval with Zoroaster and in the scene she had suddenly invented and acted, she had been obliged to meet her chief agent without a moment’s preparation, and she knew enough of his cowardly character to fear lest he should betray her and throw himself upon the king’s mercy as a reward for the information he could give. But the crucial moment had passed successfully and there was nothing more to fear. Atossa threw herself upon the couch where the king had sat, and abandoned herself to the delicious contemplation of the pain she must have given in showing herself to Nehushta in Zoroaster’s arms. She was sure that as the princess could not have seen Zoroaster’s face, she must have thought that it was he who was embracing the queen. She must have suffered horribly, if she really loved him!

  CHAPTER XII.

  WHEN DARIUS LEFT the queen, he gave over the miserable Phraortes to the guards, to be cared for, and bent his steps towards the gardens. It was yet early, but he wished to be alone, and he supposed that Nehushta would come there before noon, as was her wont. Meanwhile, he wished to be free of the court and of the queen. Slowly he entered the marble gate and walked up the long walk of roses, plucking a leaf now and then, and twisting it in his fingers, scenting the fresh blossoms with an almost boyish gladness, and breathing in all the sweet warmth of the summer morning. He had made a mistake, and he was glad to be away, where he could calmly reflect upon the reason of his being deceived.

  He wandered on until he came to the marble pavilion, and would have gone on to stray farther into the gardens, but that he caught sight of a woman’s mantle upon the floor as he passed by the open doorway. He went up the few steps and entered.

  Nehushta lay upon the marble pavement at her full length, her arms extended above her head. Her face was ghastly pale and her parted lips were white. She looked as one dead. Her white linen tiara had almost fallen from her heavy hair, and the long black locks streamed upon the stone in thick confusion. Her fingers were tightly clenched, and on her face was such an expression of agony, as Darius had never dreamed of, nor seen in those dead in battle.

  The king started back in horror as he caught sight of the prostrate figure. He thought she was dead — murdered, perhaps — until, as he gazed, he saw a faint movement of breathing. Then he sprang forward, and kneeled, and raised her head upon his knee, and chafed her temples and her hands. He could reach the little fountain as he knelt, and he gathered some water in his palm and sprinkled it upon her face.

  At last she opened her eyes — then closed them wearily again — then opened them once more in quick astonishment, and recognised the king. She would have made an effort to rise, but he checked her, and she let her head sink back upon his knee. Still he chafed her temples with his broad, brown hand, and gazed with anxious tenderness into her eyes, that looked at him for a moment, and then wandered and then looked again.

  “What is this?” she asked, vacantly, at last.

  “I know not,” answered the king. “I found you here — lying upon the floor. Are you hurt?” he asked tenderly.

  “Hurt? No — yes, I am hurt — hurt even to death,” she added suddenly. “Oh, Darius, I would I could tell you! Are you really my friend?”

  She raised herself without his help and sat up. The hot blood rushed back to her cheeks and her eyes regained their light.

  “Can you doubt that I am your friend, your best friend?” asked the king.

  Nehushta rose to her feet and paced the little hall in great emotion. Her hands played nervously with the golden tassels of her mantle, her head-dress had fallen quite back upon her shoulders, and the masses of her hair were let loose. From time to time she glanced at the king, who eyed her anxiously as he stood beside the fountain.

  Presently she stopped before him, and very gravely fixed her eyes on him.

  “I will tell you something,” she said, beginning in low tones. “I will tell you this — I cannot tell you all. I have been horribly deceived, betrayed, made a sport of. I cannot tell you how — you will believe me, will you not? This man I loved — I love him not — has cast me off as an old garment, as a thing of no price — as a shoe that is worn out and that is not fit for his feet to tread upon. I love him not — I hate him — oh, I love him not at all!”

  Darius’s face grew dark and his teeth ground hard together, but he stood still, awaiting what she should say. But Nehushta ceased, and suddenly she began again to walk up and down, putting her hand to her temples, as though in pain. Once more she paused, and, in her great emotion laid her two hands upon the shoulder of the king, who trembled at her touch, as though a strong man had struck him.

  “You said you loved me, once,” said Nehushta, in short, nervous tones, almost under her breath. “Do you love me still?”

  “Is it so long since I told you I loved you?” asked Darius, with a shade of bitterness. “Ah! do not tempt me — do not stir my sickness. Love you? Yea — as the earth loves the sun — as man never loved woman. Love you? Ay! I love you, and I am the most miserable of men.” He shook from head to foot with strong emotion, and the stern lines of his face darkened as he went on speaking. “Yet, though I love you so, I cannot harm him, — for my great oath’s sake I cannot — yet for you, almost I could. Ah Nehushta, Nehushta!” he cried passionately, “tempt me not! Ask me not this, for you can almost make a liar of the Great King if you will!”

  “I tempt you not,” answered the princess. “I will not that you harm a hair of his head. He is not worthy that you should lift the least of your fingers to slay him. But this I tell you—” she hesitat
ed. The king in his violent excitement, as though foreseeing what she would say, seized her hands and held them tightly while he gazed into her eyes.

  “Darius,” she said, almost hurriedly, “if you love me, and if you desire it, I will be your wife.”

  A wild light broke from the king’s eyes. He dropped her hands and stepped backwards from her, staring hard. Then, with, a quick motion, he turned and threw himself upon the marble seat that ran around the hall, and buried his face and sobbed aloud.

  Nehushta seemed to regain some of her calmness, when once she had said the fatal words. She went and knelt beside him and smoothed his brow and wild, rough hair. The great tears stained his dark cheek. He raised himself and looked at her and put one arm about her neck.

  “Nehushta,” he whispered, “is it true?”

  She bowed her head silently. Darius drew her towards him and laid her cheek upon his breast. His face bent down to hers, most tenderly, as though he would have kissed her. But suddenly he drew back, and turned his eyes away.

  “No,” he said, as though he had regained the mastery over himself. “It is too much to ask — that I might kiss you! It is too much — too much — that you give me. I am not worthy that you should be my wife. Nay!” he cried, as she would not let him rise from his seat. “Nay, let me go, it is not right — it is not worthy — I must not see you any more. Oh, you have tempted me till I am too weak—”

  “Darius, you are the noblest of men, the best and bravest.” Then with a sudden impulse it seemed to Nehushta that she really loved him. The majestic strength of Zoroaster seemed cold and meaningless beside the fervour of the brave young king, striving so hard to do right under the sorest temptation, striving to leave her free, even against her will. For the moment she loved him, as such women do, with a passionate impulse. She put her arms about him and drew him down to her.

  “Darius, it is truth — I never loved you, but I love you now, for, of all living men, you have the bravest heart.” She pressed a kiss hotly upon his forehead and her head sank upon his shoulder. For one moment the king trembled, and then, as though all resistance were gone from him, his arms went round her, locking with hers that held him, and he kissed her passionately.

  When Zoroaster awoke from his long sleep it was night. He had dreamed evil dreams, and he woke with a sense of some great disaster impending. He heard unwonted sounds in the hall outside his chamber, and he sprang to his feet and called one of the soldiers of his guard.

  “What is happening?” asked Zoroaster quickly.

  “The Great King, who lives for ever, has taken a new wife to-day,” answered the soldier, standing erect, but eyeing Zoroaster somewhat curiously. Zoroaster’s heart sank within him.

  “What? Who is she?” he asked, coming nearer to the man.

  “The new queen is Nehushta — the Hebrew princess,” answered the spearman. “There is a great banquet, and a feast for the guard, and much food and wine for the slaves—”

  “It is well,” answered Zoroaster. “Go thou, and feast with the rest.”

  The man saluted, and left the room. Zoroaster remained standing alone, his teeth chattering together and his strong limbs shaking beneath him. But he abandoned himself to no frenzy of grief, nor weeping; one seeing him would have said he was sick of a fever. His blue eyes stared hard at the lamp-light and his face was white, but he did not so much as utter an exclamation, nor give one groan. He went and sat down upon a chair and folded his hands together, as though waiting for some event. But nothing happened; no one came to disturb him in his solitude, though he could hear the tramping feet and the unceasing talk of the slaves and soldiers without. In the vast palace, where thousands dwelt, where all were feasting or talking of the coming banquet, Zoroaster was utterly alone.

  At last he rose, slowly, as though with an effort, and paced twice from one end of the room to the other. Upon a low shelf on one side, his garments were folded together, while his burnished cuirass and helmet and other arms which he had not worn upon his rapid journey to Ecbatana, hung upon nails in the wall above. He looked at all these things and turned the clothes over piece by piece, till he had found a great dark mantle and a black hood such as was worn in Media. These he put on, and beneath the cloak he girded a broad, sharp knife about him. Then wrapping himself closely round with the dark-coloured stuff and drawing the hood over his eyes, he lifted the curtain of his door and went out, without casting a look behind him.

  In the crowd of slaves he passed unnoticed; for the hall was but dimly lighted by a few torches, and every one’s attention was upon the doings of the day and the coming feast.

  Zoroaster soon gathered from the words he heard spoken, that the banquet had not yet begun, and he hastened to the columned porch through which the royal party must pass on the way to the great hall which formed the centre of the main building. Files of spearmen, in their bronze breastplates and scarlet and blue mantles, lined the way, which was strewn with yellow sand and myrtle leaves and roses. At every pillar stood a huge bronze candlestick, in which a torch of wax and fir-gum burned, and flared, and sent up a cloud of half pungent, half aromatic smoke. Throngs of slaves and soldiers pressed close behind the lines of spearmen, elbowing each other with loud jests and surly complaints, to get a better place, a sea of moving, shouting, gesticulating humanity. Zoroaster’s great height and broad shoulders enabled him easily to push to the front, and he stood there, disguised and unknown, peering between the heads of two of his own soldiers to obtain the first view of the procession as it came down the broad staircase at the end of the porch.

  Suddenly the blast of deep-toned trumpets was heard in the distance, and silence fell upon the great multitude. With a rhythmic sway of warlike tone the clangour rose and fell, and rose again as the trumpeters came out upon the great staircase and began to descend. After them came other musicians, whose softer instruments began to be heard in harmony with the resounding bass of the horns, and then, behind them, came singers, whose strong, high voices completed the full burst of music that went before the king.

  With measured tread the procession advanced. There were neither priests, nor sacrificers, nor any connected with any kind of temple; but after the singers came two hundred noble children clad in white, bearing long garlands of flowers that trailed upon the ground, so that many of the blossoms were torn off and strewed the sand.

  But Zoroaster looked neither on the singers, nor on the children. His eyes were fixed intently on the two figures that followed them — Darius, the king, and Nehushta, the bride. They walked side by side, and the procession left an open spaced ten paces before and ten paces behind the royal pair. Darius wore the tunic of purple and white stripes, the mantle of Tyrian purple on his shoulders and upon his head the royal crown of gold surrounded the linen tiara; his left hand, bare and brown and soldier-like, rested upon the golden hilt of his sword, and in his right, as he walked, he carried a long golden rod surmounted by a ball, twined with myrtle from end to end. He walked proudly forward, and as he passed, many a spearman thought with pride that the Great King looked as much a soldier as he himself.

  By his left side came Nehushta, clad entirely in cloth of gold, while a mantle of the royal purple hung down behind her. Her white linen tiara was bound round with myrtle and roses, and in her hands she bore a myrtle bough.

  Her face was pale in the torchlight, but she seemed composed in manner, and from time to time she glanced at the king with a look which was certainly not one of aversion.

  Zoroaster felt himself growing as cold as ice as they approached, and his teeth chattered in his head. His brain reeled with the smoke of the torches, the powerful, moving tones of the music and the strangeness of the whole sight. It seemed as though it could not be real. He fixed his eyes upon Nehushta, but his face was shaded all around by his dark hood. Nevertheless, so intently did he gaze upon her that, as she came near, she felt his look, as it were, and, searching in the crowd behind the soldiers, met his eyes. She must have known it was he, even under
the disguise that hid his features, for, though she walked calmly on, the angry blood rushed to her face and brow, overspreading her features with a sudden, dark flush.

  Just as she came up to where Zoroaster stood, he thrust his covered head far out between the soldiers. His eyes gleamed like coals of blue fire and his voice came low, with a cold, clear ring, like the blade of a good sword striking upon a piece of iron.

  “Faithless!”

  That was all he said, but all around heard the cutting tone, that neither the voices of the singers, nor the clangour of the trumpets could drown.

  Nehushta drew herself up and paused for one moment, and turned upon the dark-robed figure a look of such unutterable loathing and scorn as one would not have deemed could be concentrated in a human face. Then she passed on.

  The two spearmen turned quickly upon the man between them, who had uttered the insult against the new queen, and laid hold of him roughly by the shoulders. A moment more and his life would have been ended by their swords. But his strong, white hands stole out like lightning, and seized each soldier by the wrist, and twisted their arms so suddenly and with such furious strength, that they cried aloud with pain and fell headlong at his feet. The people parted for a space in awe and wonder, and Zoroaster turned, with his dark mantle close drawn around him, and strode out through the gaping crowd.

  “It is a devil of the mountains!” cried one.

  “It is Ahriman himself!” said another.