by Mary Shelley
The Chief marked him with eyes, whose deep melancholy expression darkened as he gazed. He was known as bravest among the brave; yet gentle and kindly as a woman. He was very young, singularly handsome; his countenance was stamped with traces of intellectual refinement, while his person was tall, muscular, and strong, but so gracefully formed that every attitude reminded you of some Praxitilean shape of his own native land. Once he had been more beautiful; joy, as well as tenderness, and a soldier’s ardour had lighted up his dark eye; his lip had been the home of smiles, and the thoughts, which presided in his brow, had been as clear and soft, and gladsome as that godlike brow itself. Now this was changed. Grief had become a master passion: his cheeks were sunken; his eye seemed to brood eternally over melancholy regrets; his measured harmonious voice was attuned to the utterance of no light fancy or gay sallies; he spoke only the necessary words of direction to his followers, and then silence and gloom gathered over his face. His sorrow was respected; for it was known to be well-founded, and to spring from a recent disaster. If any of his troop desired to indulge in merriment, they withdrew from his vicinity. It was strange to them to hear the light laugh of the English youth ring through the grove, and to catch the tones of his merry voice, as he sang some of their own gayest songs. The Chief gazed with interest. There was a winning frankness in the boy; he was so very young, and all he did was in graceful accordance with his age. We are alike mere youths, thought the Chief, and how different. Yet soon he may become like me. He soars like an eagle; but the eagle may be wounded, and stoop to earth; because earth contains its secret and its regret.
Suddenly Valency, who was some hundred yards in advance, was encountered by a Greek, riding at full speed towards the advancing troop.
“Back! back! silence!” the man cried. He was a scout, who had been sent on before, and now brought tidings that a troop of three or four hundred of the Turkish army was entering the defile, and would soon advance on the handful of men which Valency accompanied. The scout rode directly up to the leader, and made his report, adding, “We have yet time. If we fall back but a quarter of a mile, there is a path I know, by which I can guide you across the mountain — on the other side we shall be safe.”
A smile of scorn for a moment wreathed the lip of the Chief, at the word safety, but his face soon reassumed its usual sad composure. The troop had halted; each man bent his eye on the leader. Valency, in particular, marked the look of scorn, and felt that he would never retreat before danger.
“Comrades!” the Chief thus addressed his men, “it shall never be said that Greeks fell back to make way for the destroyers; we will betake ourselves to our old warfare. Before we entered this olive wood, we passed a thick cover; where the dark jutting mountain-side threw a deep shadow across our path; and the torrent drowned all sound of voice or hoof. There we shall find ambush; there the enemy will meet death.”
He turned his horse’s head, and in a few minutes reached the spot he named; the men were mostly eager for the fray — while one or two eyed the mountain side — and then the path that led to the village, which they had quitted that morning. The Chief saw their look, and he glanced also at the English youth, who had thrown himself from his horse, and was busy loading and priming his arms. The Chief rode up to him —
“You are our guest and fellow-traveller,” he said, “but not our comrade in the fight. We are about to meet danger — it may be that not one of us shall escape. You have no injuries to avenge, no liberty to gain; you have friends — probably a mother — in your native land. You must not fall with us. I am going to send a message to warn the village we last passed through — do you accompany my messengers.”
Valency had listened attentively at first; but as the Chief continued, his attention reverted to his task of loading his pistols. The last words called a blush into his cheek.
“You treat me as a boy,” he cried; “I may be one in aspect, but you shall find me a man in heart this day. You also young, I have not deserved your scorn!”
The Chief caught the youth’s flashing eye. He held out his hand to him, saying—”Forgive me.”
“I will,” said Valency, “on one condition; give me a post of danger — of honour. You owe it to me in reparation of the insult you offered.”
“Be it so,” said the Chief, “your place shall be at my side.”
A few minutes more and his dispositions were made; — two of the most down-hearted of the troop were despatched to alarm the village, the rest were placed behind the rocks; beneath the bushes, wherever broken ground, or tuft of underwood, or fragment from the cliff, afforded shelter and concealment, a man was placed; while the Chief himself took his stand on an elevated platform, and, sheltered by a tree, gazed upon the road. Soon the tramp of horses, the busy sound of feet and voices were heard, overpowering the rushing of the stream; and turban and musket could be distinguished as the enemy’s troop threaded the defile.
The shout of battle — the firing — the clash of weapons were over. Above the crest of the hill, whose side had afforded ambush to the Greeks, the crescent moon hung, just about to dip behind; the stars in her train burnt bright as lamps floating in the firmament; while the fire-flies flashed among the myrtle underwood and up the mountain side; and sometimes the steel of the arms strewn around, dropt from the hands of the dead, caught and reflected the flashes of the celestial or earthly stars. The ground was strewn with the slain. Such of the enemy as had cut their way through, were already far — the sound of their horses’ hoofs had died away. The Greeks who had fled across the mountain had reached a spot of safety — none lay there but the silent dead — cold as the moon-beam that rested on their pale faces for a moment, and then passed off, leaving them in shadow and death. All were still and motionless — some lay on the hill side, among the underwood — some on the open road — horses and men had fallen, pell mell — none moved — none breathed.
Yet there was a sigh — it was lost in the murmur of the stream; a groan succeeded, and then a voice feeble and broken—”My mother, my poor mother!” — the pale lips that spoke these words could form no other, a gush of tears followed. The cry seemed to awake another form from among the dead. One of the prostrate bodies raised itself slowly and painfully on its arm, the eyes were filmy, the countenance white from approaching death, the voice was hollow, yet firm, that said—”Who speaks? — who lives? — who weeps?”
The question struck shame to the wounded man; he checked his overflow of passionate sobbings. The other spoke again—”It was not the voice of a Greek — yet I thought I had saved that gallant boy — the ball meant for him is now in my side. — Speak again, young Englishman — on whom do you call?”
“On her who will weep my death too bitterly — on my mother,” replied Valency, and tears would follow the loved name.
“Art thou wounded to death?” asked the Chief.
“Thus unaided I must die,” he replied, “the blood gushes in torrents from a deep sabre cut — yet, could I reach those waters, I might live — I must try.” And Valency rose; he staggered a few steps, and fell heavily at the feet of the Chief. He had fainted. The Greek looked on the ghastly pallor of his face; he half rose — his own wound did not bleed, but it was mortal, and a deadly sickness had gathered round his heart, and chilled his brow, which he strove to master, that he might save the English boy. The struggle brought cold drops on his brow, as he rose on his knees and stooped to raise the head of Valency; he shuddered to feel the warm moisture his hand encountered. It is his blood; his life blood he thought; and again he placed his head on the earth, and continued a moment still, summoning what vitality remained to him to animate his limbs. Then with a determined effort he rose, and staggered to the banks of the stream. He held a steel cap in his hand — and now he stooped down to fill it; but with the effort the ground slid from under him, and he fell. There was a ringing in his ears — a cold dew on his brow — his breath came thick — the cap had fallen from his hand — he was dying. The bough of a tree, shot
off in the morning’s mêlée, lay near; — the mind, even of a dying man, can form swift unerring combinations of thought; — it was his last chance — the bough was plunged in the waters, and he scattered the grateful reviving drops over his face — vigor returned with the act, and he could stoop and fill the cap, and drink a deep draught, which for a moment restored the vital powers. And now he carried water to Valency; he dipt the unfolded turban of a Turk in the stream, and bound the youth’s wound, which was a deep sabre cut in the shoulder, that had bled copiously. Valency revived — life gathered warm in his heart — his cheeks, though still pale, lost the ashy hue of death — his limbs again seemed willing to obey his will — he sat up, but he was too weak, and his head drooped. As a mother tending her sick first-born, the Greek chief hovered over him; he brought a cloak to pillow his head; as he picked up this, he found that some careful soldier had brought a small bag at his saddle bow, in which was a loaf and a bunch or two of grapes; he gave them to the youth, who ate. Valency now recognized his saviour; at first he wondered to see him there, tending on him, apparently unhurt; but soon the Chief sank to the ground, and Valency could mark the rigidity of feature, and ghastliness of aspect, that portended death. In his turn he would have assisted his friend; but the Chief stopt him—”You die if you move,” he said, “your wound will bleed afresh, and you will die, while you cannot aid me. My weakness does not arise from mere loss of blood. The messenger of death has reached a vital part — yet a little while and the soul will obey the summons. It is slow, slow is the deliverance; yet the long creeping hour will come at last, and I shall be free.”
“Do not speak thus,” cried Valency, “I am strong now — I will go for help.”
“There is no help for me,” replied the Chief, “save the death I desire. I command you, move not.”
Valency had risen, but the effort was vain: his knees bent under him, his head spun round; before he could save himself, he had sunk to the ground.
“Why torture yourself,” said the Chief, “a few hours and help will come: it will not injure you to pass this interval beneath this calm sky. The cowards who fled will alarm the country, by dawn succour will be here: you must wait for it. I too must wait; not for help, but for death. It is soothing, even to me, to die here beneath this sky, with the murmurs of yonder stream in my ear, the shadows of my native mountains thrown athwart. Could aught save me, it would be the balmy airs of this most blessed night; my soul feels the bliss, though my body is sick and fast stiffening in death. Such was not the hour when she died, whom soon I shall meet, my Euphrasia, my own sweet sister, in Heaven!”
It was strange, Valency said, that at such an hour, but half saved from death, and his preserver in the grim destroyer’s clutches, that he should feel curiosity to know the Greek Chief’s story. His youth, his surpassing beauty of person — his valour — the act, which Valency well remembered, of his springing forward so as to shield him with his own person — his last words and thoughts devoted to the soft recollection of a beloved sister, — awakened an interest beyond even the present hour, fraught as it was with the chances of life and death. He questioned the Chief; probably fever had succeeded to his previous state of weakness, imparted a deceitful strength, and even inclined him to talk; for thus dying, unaided and unsheltered, except by the starry sky, he willingly reverted to the years of his youth, and to the miserable event which a few months before had eclipsed the sun of his life, and rendered death welcome.
They — brother and sister, Constantine and Euphrasia — were the last of their race. They were orphans; their youth was passed under the guardianship of the brother by adoption of their father, whom they named father, and who loved them as his own soul. He was a glorious old man, nursed in classic lore, and more familiar with the deeds of men who had glorified his country several thousand years before, than with any more modern names. Yet all who had ever done and suffered for Greece, were embalmed in his memory and honored as martyrs in the best of causes. He had been educated in Paris, and travelled in Europe and America, and was aware of the progress made in the science of politics all over the civilized world. He felt that Greece would soon share the benefits to arise from the changes then operating, and he looked forward at no distant day to its liberation from bondage. He educated his young ward for that day. Had he believed that Greece would have continued hopelessly enslaved, he had brought him up as a scholar and a recluse: but assured of the impending struggle, he made him a warrior; he implanted a detestation of the oppressor; a yearning love for the sacred blessings of freedom, a noble desire to have his name enrolled among the deliverers of his country. The education he bestowed on Euphrasia was yet more singular. He knew that though liberty must be bought and maintained by the sword, yet that its dearest blessings must be derived from civilization and knowledge, and he believed women to be the proper fosterers of these. They cannot handle a sword nor endure bodily labor for their country, but they could refine the manners, exalt the souls — impart honor, and truth, and wisdom, to their relatives and their children. Euphrasia therefore he made a scholar. By nature she was an enthusiast, and a poet. The study of the classic literature of her country corrected her taste and exalted her love of the beautiful. While a child she improvised passionate songs of liberty; and as she grew in years and loveliness, and her heart opened to tenderness, and she became aware of all the honor and happiness that a woman must derive from being held the friend of man, not his slave, she thanked God that she was a Greek and a Christian; and holding fast by the advantages which these names conferred, she looked forward eagerly to the day when Mahometanism should no longer contaminate her native land, and when her countrywomen should be awakened from ignorance and sloth in which they were plunged, and learn that their proper vocation in the creation, was that of mothers of heros and teachers of sages.
Her brother was her idol — her hope — her joy. And he who had been taught that his career must be that of deeds not words, yet was fired by her poetry and eloquence to desire glory yet more eagerly, and to devote himself yet more entirely, and with purer ardour, to the hope of one day living and dying for his country. The first sorrow the orphans knew was the death of their father of adoption. He descended to the grave, full of years and honor. Constantine was then eighteen; his fair sister had just entered her fifteenth year. Often they spent the night beside the revered tomb of their lost friend, talking of the hopes and aspirations he had implanted. The young can form such sublime, such beautiful dreams. No disappointment, no evil, no bad passion shadows their glorious visions; to dare and do greatly for Greece was the ambition of Constantine. To cheer and watch over her brother, to regulate his wilder and more untaught soul, to paint in celestial colors the bourne he tended towards by action, were Euphrasia’s tasks.
“There is a heaven,” said the dying man, as he told his tale; “there is a paradise for those who die in the just cause. I know not what joys are there prepared for the blest; but they cannot transcend those that were mine, as I listened to my own sweet sister, and felt my heart swell with patriotism and fond warm affection.”
At length there was a stir through the land, and Constantine made a journey of some distance, to confer with the capitani of the mountains, and to prepare for the outbreak of the revolution. The moment came, sooner even than he expected. As an eagle chained when the iron links drop from him, and with clang of wing and bright undazzled eye he soars to heaven, so did Constantine feel when freedom to Greece became the war cry. He was still among the mountains, when first the echoes of his native valleys repeated that animating — that sacred word; instead of returning as he intended to his Athenian home, he was hurried off to Western Greece, and became involved in a series of warlike movements, the promised success of which filled him with transport.
Suddenly a pause came in the delirium of joy which possessed his soul. He received not the accustomed letters from his sister — missives which had been to him angelic messengers, teaching him patience with the unworthy — hope in
disappointment — security in final triumph. Those dear letters ceased; and he thought he saw in the countenances of his friends around a concealed knowledge of evil. He questioned them: their answers were evasive. At the same time, they endeavoured to fill his mind with the details of some anticipated exploit, in which his presence and cooperation was necessary. Day after day passed; he could not leave his post without injury to his cause, without even the taint of dishonor. He belonged to a band of Albanians, by whom he had been received as a brother, and he could not desert them in the hour of danger. But the suspense grew too terrible; and at length, finding that there was an interval of a few days which he might call his own, he left the camp, resting neither day nor night; dismounting from one horse only to bestride another, in forty-eight hours he was in Athens, before his vacant desecrated home. The tale of horror was soon told. Athens was still in the hands of the Turks; the sister of a rebel had become the prey of the oppressor. She had none to guard her. Her matchless beauty had been seen and marked by the son of the Pasha; she had for the last two months inhabited his harem.
“Despair is a cold dark feeling,” said the dying warrior; “if I may name that despair which had a hope — a certainty — an aim. Had Euphrasia died I had wept. Now my eyes were horn — my heart stone. I was silent. I neither expressed resentment nor revenge. I concealed myself by day; at night, I wandered round the tyrant’s dwelling. It was a pleasure-palace, one of the most luxurious that adorned the enemies of our beloved Athens. At this time it was carefully guarded; my character was known and Euphrasia’s worth, and the oppressor feared the result of his deed. Still, under shadow of darkness I drew near. I marked the position of the women’s apartments — I learned the number — the length of the watch — the orders they received, and then I returned to the camp. I revealed my project to a few select spirits. They were fired by my wrongs, and eager to deliver my Euphrasia.” —