Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  But Nehushta gazed sadly after the galloping guards, and her eye strove to distinguish the king’s crest before the others, till all was mingled in the distance, in an indiscriminate reflection of moving light, and then lost to view altogether in the rising dust. Whether she loved him truly, or loved him not, he had been true and kind to her, and had rested his dark head upon her shoulder that very morning before he went, and had told her that, of all living women, he loved her best. But she had felt a quick sting of pain in her heart, because she knew that she would give her life to lie for one short hour on Zoroaster’s breast and sob out all her sorrow and die.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  FOUR DAYS AFTER the king’s departure, Nehushta was wandering in the gardens as the sun was going down, according to her daily custom. There was a place she loved well — a spot where the path widened to a circle, round which the roses grew, thick and fragrant with the breath of the coming summer, and soft green shrubs and climbing things that twisted their tender arms about the myrtle trees. The hedge was so high that it cut off all view of the gardens beyond, and only the black north-western hills could just be seen above the mass of shrubbery; beyond the mountains and all over the sky, the glow of the setting sun spread like a rosy veil; and the light tinged the crests of the dark hills and turned the myrtle leaves to a strange colour, and gilded the highest roses to a deep red gold.

  The birds were all singing their evening song in loud, happy chorus, as only Eastern birds can sing; the air was warm and still, and the tiny gnats chased each other with lightning quickness in hazy swarms overhead, in the reflected glow.

  Nehushta loved the little open space, for it was there that, a year ago, she had sent for Zoroaster to come to her that she might tell him she knew the truth at last. She stood still and listened to the singing of the birds, gazing upwards at the glowing sky, where the red was fast turning to purple; she breathed in the warm air and sighed softly; wishing, as she wished every night, that the sunset might fade to darkness, and there might be no morning for her any more.

  She had lived almost entirely alone since Darius had gone to Shushan; she avoided Atossa, and she made no effort to see Zoroaster, who was entirely absorbed by the management of the affairs of the state. In the king’s absence there were no banquets, as there used to be when he was in the palace, and the two queens were free to lead whatever life seemed best to them, independently of each other and of the courtiers. Atossa had chosen to shut herself up in the seclusion of her own apartments, and Nehushta rarely left her own part of the palace until the evening. But when the sun was low, she loved to linger among the roses in the garden, till the bright shield of the moon was high in the east, or till the faint stars burned in their full splendour, and the nightingales began to call and trill their melancholy song from end to end of the sweet valley.

  So she stood on this evening, looking up into the sky, and her slaves waited her pleasure at a little distance. But while she gazed, she heard quick steps along the walk, and the slave-women sprang aside to let some one pass. Nehushta turned and found herself face to face with Atossa, who stood before her, wrapped in a dark mantle, a white veil of Indian gauze wound about her head, and half-concealing her face. It was a year since they had met in private, and Nehushta drew herself suddenly to her height, and the old look of scorn came over her dark features. She would have asked haughtily what brought Atossa there, but the fair queen was first in her speech. There was hardly even the affectation of friendliness in her tones, as she stood there alone and unattended, facing her enemy.

  “I came to ask if you wished to go with me,” said Atossa.

  “Where? Why should I go with you?”

  “I am weary of the palace. I think I will go to Shushan to be nearer the king. To-night I will rest at the fortress.”

  Nehushta stared coldly at the fair woman, muffled in her cloak and veil.

  “What is it to me whether you go to the ends of the earth, or whether you remain here?” she asked.

  “I wished to know whether you desired to accompany me, else I should not have asked you the question. I feared that you might be lonely here in Stakhar — will you not come?”

  “Again I say, why do you ask me? What have I to do with you?” returned Nehushta, drawing her mantle about her as though to leave Atossa.

  “If the king were here, he would bid you go,” said Atossa, looking intently upon her enemy.

  “It is for me to judge what the king would wish me to do — not for you. Leave me in peace. Go your way if you will — it is nothing to me.”

  “You will not come?” Atossa’s voice softened and she smiled serenely. Nehushta turned fiercely upon her.

  “No! If you are going — go! I want you not!”

  “You are glad I am going, are you not?” asked Atossa, gently.

  “I am glad — with a gladness only you can know. I would you were already gone!”

  “You rejoice that I leave you alone with your lover. It is very natural — —”

  “My lover!” cried Nehushta, her wrath rising and blazing in her eyes.

  “Ay, your lover! the thin, white-haired priest, that once was Zoroaster — your old lover — your poor old lover!”

  Nehushta steadied herself for a moment. She felt as though she must tear this woman in pieces. But she controlled her anger by a great effort, though she was nearly choking as she drew herself up and answered.

  “I would that the powers of evil, of whom you are, might strangle the thrice-accursed lie in your false throat!” she said, in low fierce tones, and turned away.

  Still Atossa stood there, smiling as ever. Nehushta looked back as she reached the opposite end of the little plot.

  “Are you not yet gone? Shall I bid my slaves take you by the throat and force you from me?” But, as she spoke, she looked beyond Atossa, and saw that a body of dark men and women stood in the path. Atossa had not come unprotected.

  “I see you are the same foolish woman you ever were,” answered the older queen. Just then, a strange sound echoed far off among the hills above, strange and far as the scream of a distant vulture sailing its mate to the carrion feast — an unearthly cry that rang high in the air from side to side of the valley, and struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo, and died away in short, faint pulsations of sound upon the startled air.

  Nehushta started slightly. It might have been the cry of a wolf, or of some wild beast prowling upon the heights, but she had never heard such a sound before. But Atossa showed no surprise, and her smile returned to her lips more sweetly than ever — those lips that had kissed three kings, and that had never spoken truly a kind or a merciful word to living man, or child, or woman.

  “Farewell, Nehushta,” she said, “if you will not come, I will leave you to yourself — and to your lover. I daresay he can protect you from harm. Heard you that sound? It is the cry of your fate. Farewell, foolish girl, and may every undreamed-of quality of evil attend you to your dying day — —”

  “Go!” cried Nehushta, turning and pointing to the path with a gesture of terrible anger. Atossa moved back a little.

  “It is no wonder I linger awhile — I thought you were past suffering. If I had time, I might yet find some way of tormenting you — you are very foolish — —”

  Nehushta walked rapidly forward upon her, as though to do her some violence with her own hands. But Atossa, as she gave way before the angry Hebrew woman, drew from beneath her mantle the Indian knife she had once taken from her. Nehushta stopped short, as she saw the bright blade thrust out against her bosom. But Atossa held it up one moment, and then threw it down upon the grass at her feet.

  “Take it!” she cried, and in her voice, that had been so sweet and gentle a moment before, there suddenly rang out a strange defiance and a bitter wrath. “Take what is yours — I loathe it, for it smells of you — and you, and all that is yours, I loathe and hate and scorn!”

  She turned with a quick movement and disappeared amongst her slaves, who closed in
their ranks behind her, and followed her rapidly down the path. Nehushta remained standing upon the grass, peering after her retreating enemy through the gloom; for the glow had faded from the western sky while they had been speaking, and it was now dusk.

  Suddenly, as she stood, almost transfixed with the horror of her fearful anger, that strange cry rang again through the lofty crags and crests of the mountains, and echoed and died away.

  Nehushta’s slave-women, who had hung back in fear and trembling during the altercation between the two queens, came forward and gathered about her.

  “What is it?” asked the queen in a low voice, for her own heart beat with the anticipation of a sudden danger. “It is the cry of your fate,” Atossa had said — verily it sounded like the scream of a coming death.

  “It is the Druksh of the mountains!” said one.

  “It is the howling of wolves,” said another, a Median woman from the Zagros mountains.

  “The war-cry of the children of Anak is like that,” said a little Syrian maid, and her teeth chattered with fear.

  As they listened, crouching and pressing about their royal mistress in their terror, they heard below in the road, the sound of horses and men moving quickly past the foot of the gardens. It was Atossa and her train, hurrying along the highway in the direction of the fortress.

  Nehushta suddenly pushed the slaves aside, and fled down the path towards the palace, and the dark women hurried after. One of them stooped and picked up the Indian knife and hid it in her bosom as she ran.

  The whole truth had flashed across Nehushta’s mind in an instant. Some armed force was collecting upon the hills to descend in a body upon the palace, to accomplish her destruction. Atossa had fled to a place of safety, after enjoying the pleasure of tormenting her doomed enemy to the last moment, well knowing that no power would induce Nehushta to accompany her. But one thought filled Nehushta’s mind in her instantaneous comprehension of the truth; she must find Zoroaster, and warn him of the danger. They would have time to fly together, yet. Atossa must have known how to time her flight, since the plot was hers, and she had not yet been many minutes upon the road.

  Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico. Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, leisurely lighting the great torches that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from the hills; or, hearing only a faint echo, had paid no attention to the sound.

  Nehushta paused, breathless with running. As she realised the quiet that reigned in the palace, where the slaves went about their duties as though nothing had occurred, or were likely to occur, it seemed to her as though she must have been dreaming. It was impossible that if there were any real danger, it should not have become known at least to some one of the hundreds of slaves who thronged the outer halls and corridors. Moreover there were numerous scribes and officers connected with the government; some few nobles whom Darius had left behind when he went to Shushan; there were their wives and families residing in various parts, of the palace and in the buildings below it, and there was a strong detachment of Persian guards. If there were danger, some one must have known it.

  She did not know that at that moment the inhabitants of the lower palace were already alarmed, while some were flying, leaving everything behind, in their haste to reach the fortress higher up the valley. Everything seemed quiet where she was, and she determined to go alone in search of Zoroaster, without raising any alarm. Just as she entered the doorway of the great hall, she heard the cry again echoing behind her through the valley. It was as much as she could do to control the terror that again took hold of her at the dreaded sound, as she passed the files of bowing slaves, and went in between the two tall spearmen who guarded the inner entrance, and grounded their spears with military precision as she went by.

  She had one slave whom she trusted more than the rest. It was the little Syrian maid, who was half a Hebrew.

  “Go,” she said quickly, in her own tongue. “Go in one direction and I will go in another, and search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him to my chamber. I also will search, but if I find him not, I will wait for thee there.”

  The dark girl turned and ran through the halls, swift as a startled fawn, to fulfil her errand, and Nehushta went another way upon her search. She was ashamed to ask for Zoroaster. The words of her enemy were still ringing in her ears— “alone with your lover;” it might be the common talk of the court for all she knew. She went silently on her way. She knew where Zoroaster dwelt. The curtain of his simple chamber was thrown aside and a faint light burned in the room. It was empty; a scroll lay open upon the floor beside a purple cushion, as he had left it, and his long white mantle lay tossed upon the couch which served him for a bed.

  She gazed lovingly for one moment into the open chamber, and then went on through the broad corridor, dimly lighted everywhere with small oil lamps. She looked into the council chamber and it was deserted. The long rows of double seats were empty, and gleamed faintly in the light. High upon the dais at the end, a lamp burned above the carved chair of ivory and gold, whereon the king sat when the council was assembled. There was no one there. Farther on, the low entrance to the treasury was guarded by four spearmen, whose arms clanged upon the floor as the queen passed. But she saw that the massive bolts and the huge square locks upon them were in their places. There was no one within. In the colonnade beyond, a few nobles stood talking carelessly together, waiting for their evening meal to be served them in a brightly illuminated hall, of which the doors stood wide open to admit the cool air of the coming night. The magnificently-arrayed courtiers made a low obeisance and then stood in astonishment as the queen went by. She held up her head and nodded to them, trying to look as though nothing disturbed her.

  On and on she went through the whole wing, till she came to her own apartment. Not so much as one white-robed priest had she seen upon all her long search. Zoroaster was certainly not in the portion of the palace through, which she had come. Entering her own chambers, she looked round for the little Syrian maid, but she had not returned.

  Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she hastily despatched a second slave in search of the chief priest — a Median woman, who had been with her in Ecbatana.

  It seemed as though the minutes were lengthened to hours. Nehushta sat with her hands pressed to her temples, that throbbed as though the fever would burst her brain, and the black fan-girl plied the palm-leaf with all her might, thinking that her mistress suffered from the heat. The other women she dismissed; and she sat waiting beneath the soft light of the perfumed lamp, the very figure and incarnation of anxiety.

  Something within her told her that she was in great and imminent danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay in her mind the terror of that unearthly cry she had heard three times from the hills. As she thought of it, she shuddered, and the icy fear seemed to run through all her limbs, chilling the marrow in her bones, and freezing her blood suddenly in its mad course.

  “Left alone with your lover”— “it is the cry of your fate” — Atossa’s words kept ringing in her ears like a knell — the knell of a shameful death; and as she went over the bitter taunts of her enemy, her chilled pulses beat again more feverishly than before. She could not bear to sit still, but rose and paced the room in intense agitation. Would they never come back, those dallying slave-women?

  The fan-girl tried to follow her mistress, and her small red eyes watched cautiously every one of Nehushta’s movements. But the queen waved her off and the slave went and stood beside the chair where she had sat, her fan hanging idly in her hand. At that moment, the Median woman entered the chamber.

  “Where is he?” asked Nehushta, turning suddenly upon her.

  The woman made a low obeisance and answered in trembling tones:

  “They say that the high priest left the palace two hours ago, with the queen Atossa. They say — —”

  “Thou liest!” cried Nehushta vehemently, and her face turned
white, as she stamped her foot upon the black marble pavement. The woman sprang back with a cry of terror, and ran towards the door. She had never seen her mistress so angry. But Nehushta called her back.

  “Come hither — what else do they say?” she asked, controlling herself as best she could.

  “They say that the wild riders of the eastern desert are descending from the hills,” answered the slave hurriedly and almost under her breath. “Every one is flying — everything is in confusion — I hear them even now, hurrying to and fro in the courts, the soldiers — —”

  But, even as she spoke, an echo of distant voices and discordant cries came through the curtains of the door from without, the rapid, uneven tread of people running hither and thither in confusion, the loud voices of startled men and the screams of frightened women — all blending together in a wild roar that grew every moment louder.

  Just then, the little Syrian maid came running in, almost tearing the curtains from their brazen rods as she thrust the hangings aside. She came and fell breathless at Nehushta’s feet and clasped her knees.

  “Fly, fly, beloved mistress,” she cried, “the devils of the mountains are upon us — they cover the hills — they are closing every entrance — the people in the lower palace are all slain — —”

  “Where is Zoroaster?” In the moment of supreme danger, Nehushta grew calm, and her senses were restored to her again.

  “He is in the temple with the priests — by this time he is surely slain — he could know of nothing that is going on — fly, fly!” cried the poor Syrian girl in an agony of terror.

  Nehushta laid her hand kindly upon the head of the little maid, and turning in the pride of her courage, now that she knew the worst, she spoke calmly to the other slaves who thronged in from the outer hall, some breathless with fear, others screaming in an agony of acute dread.