by Thomas Moore
We took our accustomed walk over the rocks and on the desert. The moon was so bright, — like the daylight, indeed, of other climes — that we could see plainly the tracks of the wild antelopes in the sand; and it was not without a slight tremble of feeling in his voice, as if some melancholy analogy occurred to him as he spoke, that the good Hermit said, “I have observed in my walks, that where-ever the track of that gentle animal is seen, there is, almost always, the foot-print of a beast of prey near it.” He regained, however, his usual cheerfulness before we parted, and fixed the following evening for an excursion, on the other side of the ravine, to a point, looking, he said, “towards that northern region of the desert, where the hosts of the Lord encamped in their departure out of bondage.”
Though, in the presence of Alethe, my fears, even for herself, were forgotten in that perpetual element of happiness, which encircled her like the air that she breathed, no sooner was I alone than vague terrors and bodings crowded upon me. In vain did I try to reason myself out of my fears by dwelling on the most cheering circumstances, — the reverence with which Melanius was regarded, even by the Pagans, and the inviolate security with which he had lived through the most perilous periods, not only safe himself, but affording sanctuary in his grottos to others. When, somewhat calmed by these considerations, I sunk off to sleep, dark, horrible dreams took possession of my mind. Scenes of death and of torment passed confusedly before me, and, when I awoke, it was with the fearful impression that all these horrors were real.
CHAP. XIX.
At length, the day dawned, — that dreadful day. Impatient to be relieved from my suspense, I threw myself into my boat, — the same in which we had performed our happy voyage, — and, as fast as oars could speed me, hurried away to the city. I found the suburbs silent and solitary, but, as I approached the Forum, loud yells, like those of barbarians in combat, struck on my ear, and, when I entered it, — great God, what a spectacle presented itself! The imperial edict against the Christians had arrived during the night, and already the wild fury of bigotry was let loose.
Under a canopy, in the middle of the Forum, was the tribunal of the Governor. Two statues, one of Apollo, the other of Osiris, stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to his judgment-seat. Before these idols were shrines, to which the devoted Christians were dragged from all quarters by the soldiers and mob, and there compelled to recant, by throwing incense into the flame, or, on their refusal, hurried away to torture and death. It was an appalling scene; — the consternation, the cries of some of the victims, — the pale, silent resolution of others; — the fierce shouts of laughter that broke from the multitude, when the frankincense, dropped on the altar, proclaimed some denier of Christ; and the fiend-like triumph with which the courageous Confessors, who avowed their faith, were led away to the flames; — never could I have conceived such an assemblage of horrors!
Though I gazed but for a few minutes, in those minutes I felt enough for years. Already did the form of Alethe flit before me through that tumult; — I heard them shout her name; — her shriek fell on my ear; and the very thought so palsied me with terror, that I stood fixed and statue-like on the spot.
Recollecting, however, the fearful preciousness of every moment, and that — perhaps, at this very instant — some emissaries of blood might be on their way to the grottos, I rushed wildly out of the Forum, and made my way to the quay.
The streets were now crowded; but I ran headlong through the multitude, and was already under the portico leading down to the river, — already saw the boat that was to bear me to Alethe, — when a Centurion stood sternly in my path, and I was surrounded and arrested by soldiers! It was in vain that I implored, that I struggled with them as for life, assuring them that I was a stranger, — that I was an Athenian, — that I was — not a Christian. The precipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence against me, and unrelentingly, and by force, they bore me away to the quarters of their Chief.
It was enough to drive me to madness! Two hours, two frightful hours, was I kept waiting the arrival of the Tribune of their Legion, — my brain burning with a thousand fears and imaginations, which every passing minute made more likely to be realised. Every thing, too, that I could collect from the conversations around me but added to the agonising apprehensions with which I was racked. Troops, it was said, had been sent in all directions through the neighbourhood, to bring in the rebellious Christians, and make them bow before the Gods of the Empire. With horror, too, I heard of Orcus, — Orcus, the High Priest of Memphis, — as one of the principal instigators of this sanguinary edict, and as here present in Antinoë, animating and directing its execution.
In this state of torture I remained till the arrival of the Tribune. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had not perceived his entrance; — till, hearing a voice, in a tone of friendly surprise, exclaim, “Alciphron!” I looked up, and in this legionary Chief recognised a young Roman of rank, who had held a military command, the year before, at Athens, and was one of the most distinguished visitors of the Garden. It was no time, however, for courtesies; — he was proceeding with cordiality to greet me, but, having heard him order my instant release, I could wait for no more. Acknowledging his kindness but by a grasp of the hand, I flew off, like one frantic, through the streets, and, in a few minutes, was on the river.
My sole hope had been to reach the grottos before any of the detached parties should arrive, and, by a timely flight across the desert, rescue, at least, Alethe from their fury. The ill-fated delay that had occurred rendered this hope almost desperate; but the tranquillity I found every where as I proceeded down the river, and the fond confidence I still cherished in the sacredness of the Hermit’s retreat, kept my heart from giving way altogether under its terrors.
Between the current and my oars, the boat flew, like wind, along the waters; and I was already near the rocks of the ravine, when I saw, turning out of the canal into the river, a barge crowded with people, and glittering with arms! How did I ever survive the shock of that sight? The oars dropped, as if struck out of my hands, into the water, and I sat, helplessly gazing, as that terrific vision approached. In a few minutes, the current brought us together; — and I saw, on the deck of the barge, Alethe and the Hermit surrounded by soldiers!
We were already passing each other when, with a desperate effort, I sprang from my boat and lighted upon the edge of their vessel. I knew not what I did, for despair was my only prompter. Snatching at the sword of one of the soldiers, as I stood tottering on the edge, I had succeeded in wresting it out of his hands, when, at the same moment, I received a thrust of a lance from one of his comrades, and fell backward into the river. I can just remember rising again and making a grasp at the side of the vessel; — but the shock, the faintness from my wound, deprived me of all consciousness, and a shriek from Alethe, as I sunk, is all I can recollect of what followed.
Would I had then died! — Yet, no, Almighty Being, — I should have died in darkness, and I have lived to know Thee!
On returning to my senses, I found myself reclined on a couch, in a splendid apartment, the whole appearance of which being Grecian, I, for a moment, forgot all that had passed, and imagined myself in my own home at Athens. But too soon the whole dreadful certainty flashed upon me; and, starting wildly — disabled as I was — from my couch, I called loudly, and with the shriek of a maniac, on Alethe.
I was in the house, I found, of my friend and disciple, the young Tribune, who had made the Governor acquainted with my name and condition, and had received me under his roof, when brought, bleeding and insensible, to Antinoë. From him I now learned at once, — for I could not wait for details, — the sum of all that had happened in that dreadful interval. Melanius was no more, — Alethe, still alive, but in prison!
“Take me to her” — I had but time to say— “take me to her instantly, and let me die by her side,” — when, nature again failing under such shocks, I relapsed into insensibility. In this state I continued for near an hour, and,
on recovering, found the Tribune by my side. The horrors, he said, of the Forum were, for that day, over, — but what the morrow might bring, he shuddered to contemplate. His nature, it was plain, revolted from the inhuman duties in which he was engaged. Touched by the agonies he saw me suffer, he, in some degree, relieved them, by promising that I should, at night-fall, be conveyed to the prison, and, if possible, through his influence, gain access to Alethe. She might yet, he added, be saved, could I succeed in persuading her to comply with the terms of the edict, and make sacrifice to the Gods.— “Otherwise,” said he, “there is no hope; — the vindictive Orcus, who has resisted even this short respite of mercy, will, to-morrow, inexorably demand his prey.”
He then related to me, at my own request, — though every word was torture, — all the harrowing details of the proceeding before the Tribunal. “I have seen courage,” said he, “in its noblest forms, in the field; but the calm intrepidity with which that aged Hermit endured torments — which it was hardly less torment to witness — surpassed all that I could have conceived of human fortitude!”
My poor Alethe, too, — in describing to me her conduct, the brave man wept like a child. Overwhelmed, he said, at first by her apprehensions for my safety, she had given way to a full burst of womanly weakness. But no sooner was she brought before the Tribunal, and the declaration of her faith was demanded of her, than a spirit almost supernatural seemed to animate her whole form. “She raised her eyes,” said he, “calmly, but with fervour, to heaven, while a blush was the only sign of mortal feeling on her features; — and the clear, sweet, and untrembling voice, with which she pronounced her dooming words, ‘I am a Christian!’ sent a thrill of admiration and pity throughout the multitude. Her youth, her loveliness, affected all hearts, and a cry of ‘Save the young maiden!’ was heard in all directions.”
The implacable Orcus, however, would not hear of mercy. Resenting, as it appeared, with all his deadliest rancour, not only her own escape from his toils, but the aid with which, so fatally to his views, she had assisted mine, he demanded loudly, and in the name of the insulted sanctuary of Isis, her instant death. It was but by the firm intervention of the Governor, who shared the general sympathy in her fate, that the delay of another day was accorded, to give a chance to the young maiden of yet recalling her confession, and thus affording some pretext for saving her.
Even in yielding reluctantly to this brief respite, the inhuman Priest would accompany it with some mark of his vengeance. Whether for the pleasure (observed the Tribune) of mingling mockery with his cruelty, or as a warning to her of the doom she must ultimately expect, he gave orders that there should be tied round her brow one of those chaplets of coral, with which it is the custom of young Christian maidens to array themselves on the day of their martyrdom;— “and, thus fearfully adorned,” said he, “she was led away, amid the gaze of the pitying multitude, to prison.”
With these details the short interval till night-fall, — every minute of which seemed an age, — was occupied. As soon as it grew dark, I was placed upon a litter, — my wound, though not dangerous, requiring such a conveyance, — and conducted, under the guidance of my friend, to the prison. Through his interest with the guard, we were without difficulty admitted, and I was borne into the chamber where the maiden lay immured. Even the veteran guardian of the place seemed touched with compassion for his prisoner, and supposing her to be asleep, had the litter placed gently near her.
She was half reclining, with her face hid in her hands, upon a couch, — at the foot of which stood an idol, over whose hideous features a lamp of naptha, hanging from the ceiling, shed a wild and ghastly glare. On a table before the image stood a censer, with a small vessel of incense beside it, — one grain of which, thrown voluntarily into the flame, would, even now, save that precious life. So strange, so fearful was the whole scene, that I almost doubted its reality. Alethe! my own, happy Alethe! can it, I thought, be thou that I look upon?
She now, slowly and with difficulty, raised her head from the couch; on observing which, the kind Tribune withdrew, and we were left alone. There was a paleness, as of death, over her features; and those eyes, which when last I saw them, were but too bright, too happy for this world, looked dim and sunken. In raising herself up, she put her hand, as if from pain, to her forehead, whose marble hue but appeared more death-like from those red bands that lay so awfully across it.
After wandering vaguely for a minute, her eyes rested upon me, — and, with a shriek, half terror, half joy, she sprung from the couch, and sunk upon her knees by my side. She had believed me dead; and, even now, scarcely trusted her senses. “My husband! my love!” she exclaimed; “oh, if thou comest to call me from this world, behold I am ready!” In saying thus, she pointed wildly to that ominous wreath, and then dropped her head down upon my knee, as if an arrow had pierced it.
“Alethe!” — I cried, terrified to the very soul by that mysterious pang, — and the sound of my voice seemed to reanimate her; — she looked up, with a faint smile, in my face. Her thoughts, which had evidently been wandering, became collected; and in her joy at my safety, her sorrow at my suffering, she forgot wholly the fate that impended over herself. Love, innocent love, alone occupied all her thoughts; and the tenderness with which she spoke, — oh, at any other moment, how I would have listened, have lingered upon, have blessed every word!
But the time flew fast — the dreadful morrow was approaching. Already I saw her writhing in the hands of the torturer, — the flames, the racks, the wheels were before my eyes! Half frantic with the fear that her resolution was fixed, I flung myself from the litter, in an agony of weeping, and supplicated her, by the love she bore me, by the happiness that awaited us, by her own merciful God, who was too good to require such a sacrifice, — by all that the most passionate anxiety could dictate, I implored that she would avert from us the doom that was coming, and — but for once — comply with the vain ceremony demanded of her.
Shrinking from me, as I spoke, — but with a look more of sorrow than reproach,— “What, thou, too!” she said mournfully,— “thou, into whose spirit I had fondly hoped the same heavenly truth had descended as into my own! Oh, be not thou leagued with those who would tempt me to ‘make shipwreck of my faith!’ Thou, who couldst alone bind me to life, use not thy power; but let me die, as He I serve hath commanded, — die for the Truth. Remember the holy lessons we heard on those nights, those happy nights, when both the Present and Future smiled upon us, — when even the gift of eternal life came more welcome to my soul, from the blessed conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in it; — shall I forfeit now that divine privilege? shall I deny the true God, whom we then learned to love?
“No, my own betrothed,” she continued, — pointing to the two rings on her finger,— “behold these pledges, — they are both sacred. I should have been as true to thee as I am now to heaven, — nor in that life to which I am hastening shall our love be forgotten. Should the baptism of fire, through which I shall pass to-morrow, make me worthy to be heard before the Throne of Grace, I will intercede for thy soul — I will pray that it may yet share with mine that ‘inheritance, immortal and undefiled,’ which Mercy offers, and that thou, — my dear mother, — and I—”
She here dropped her voice; the momentary animation, with which devotion and affection had inspired her, vanished; — and a darkness overspread all her features, a livid darkness, — like the coming of death — that made me shudder through every limb. Seizing my hand convulsively, and looking at me with a fearful eagerness, as if anxious to hear some consoling assurance from my own lips,— “Believe me,” she continued, “not all the torments they are preparing for me, — not even this deep, burning pain in my brow, which they will hardly equal, — could be half so dreadful to me, as the thought that I leave thee—”
Here, her voice again failed; her head sunk upon my arm, and — merciful God, let me forget what I then felt, — I saw that she was dying! Whether I uttered any cry, I know not; — b
ut the Tribune came rushing into the chamber, and, looking on the maiden, said, with a face full of horror, “It is but too true!”
He then told me in a low voice, what he had just learned from the guardian of the prison, that the band round the young Christian’s brow was — oh horrible cruelty! — a compound of the most deadly poison, — the hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and make the fate of his poor victim secure. My first movement was to untie that fatal wreath, — but it would not come away — it would not come away!
Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face; but, unable to speak, took hastily from her bosom the small silver cross which she had brought with her from my cave. Having prest it to her own lips, she held it anxiously to mine, and seeing me kiss the holy symbol with fervour, looked happy, and smiled. The agony of death seemed to have passed away; — there came suddenly over her features a heavenly light, some share of which I felt descending into my own soul, and, in a few minutes more, she expired in my arms.
Here ends the Manuscript; but, on the outer cover there is, in the hand-writing of a much later period, the following Notice, extracted, as it appears, from some Egyptian martyrology: —
“Alciphron, — an Epicurean philosopher, converted to Christianity A. D. 257, by a young Egyptian maiden, who suffered martyrdom in that year. Immediately upon her death he betook himself to the desert, and lived a life, it is said, of much holiness and penitence. During the persecution under Dioclesian, his sufferings for the faith were most exemplary; and, being at length, at an advanced age, condemned to hard labour, for refusing to comply with an Imperial edict, he died at the brass mines of Palestine, A. D. 297. —