← catalogue

Elissa; Or, The Doom of Zimbabwe

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #2855 · 309,457 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Elissa; Or, The Doom of Zimbabwe
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Elissa; Or, The Doom of Zimbabwe

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: March 31, 2006 [eBook #2855]
                Most recently updated: May 28, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2855

Credits: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELISSA; OR, THE DOOM OF ZIMBABWE ***




Elissa

OR THE DOOM OF ZIMBABWE 

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 DEDICATION
 AUTHOR’S NOTE
 NOTE

 CHAPTER I. THE CARAVAN
 CHAPTER II. THE GROVE OF BAALTIS
 CHAPTER III. ITHOBAL THE KING
 CHAPTER IV. THE DREAM OF ISSACHAR
 CHAPTER V. THE PLACE OF SACRIFICE
 CHAPTER VI. THE HALL OF AUDIENCE
 CHAPTER VII. THE BLACK DWARF
 CHAPTER VIII. AZIEL PLIGHTS HIS TROTH
 CHAPTER IX. GREETING TO THE BAALTIS
 CHAPTER X. THE EMBASSY
 CHAPTER XI. METEM SELLS IMAGES
 CHAPTER XII. THE TRYST
 CHAPTER XIII. THE SACRILEGE OF AZIEL
 CHAPTER XIV. THE MARTYRDOM OF ISSACHAR
 CHAPTER XV. ELISSA TAKES SANCTUARY
 CHAPTER XVI. THE CAGE OF DEATH
 CHAPTER XVII. “THERE IS HOPE”




DEDICATION


To the Memory of the Child
Nada Burnham,

who “bound all to her” and, while her father cut his way through the
hordes of the Ingobo Regiment, perished of the hardships of war at
Buluwao on 19th May, 1896, I dedicate these tales—and more particularly
the last, that of a Faith which triumphed over savagery and death.

H. Rider Haggard.

Ditchingham.




AUTHOR’S NOTE


Of the three stories that comprise this volume[*], one, “The Wizard,” a
tale of victorious faith, first appeared some years ago as a Christmas
Annual. Another, “Elissa,” is an attempt, difficult enough owing to the
scantiness of the material left to us by time, to recreate the life of
the ancient Phœnician Zimbabwe, whose ruins still stand in Rhodesia,
and, with the addition of the necessary love story, to suggest
circumstances such as might have brought about or accompanied its fall
at the hands of the surrounding savage tribes. The third, “Black Heart
and White Heart,” is a story of the courtship, trials and final union
of a pair of Zulu lovers in the time of King Cetywayo.

[*] This text was prepared from a volume published in 1900 titled
“Black Heart and White Heart, and Other Stories.”— JB.




NOTE


The world is full of ruins, but few of them have an origin so utterly
lost in mystery as those of Zimbabwe in South Central Africa. Who built
them? What purpose did they serve? These are questions that must have
perplexed many generations, and many different races of men.

The researches of Mr. Wilmot prove to us indeed that in the Middle Ages
Zimbabwe or Zimboe was the seat of a barbarous empire, whose ruler was
named the Emperor of Monomotapa, also that for some years the Jesuits
ministered in a Christian church built beneath the shadow of its
ancient towers. But of the original purpose of those towers, and of the
race that reared them, the inhabitants of mediæval Monomotapa, it is
probable, knew less even than we know to-day. The labours and skilled
observation of the late Mr. Theodore Bent, whose death is so great a
loss to all interested in such matters, have shown almost beyond
question that Zimbabwe was once an inland Phœnician city, or at the
least a city whose inhabitants were of a race which practised Phœnician
customs and worshipped the Phœnician deities. Beyond this all is
conjecture. How it happened that a trading town, protected by vast
fortifications and adorned with temples dedicated to the worship of the
gods of the Sidonians—or rather trading towns, for Zimbabwe is only one
of a group of ruins—were built by civilised men in the heart of Africa
perhaps we shall never learn with certainty, though the discovery of
the burying-places of their inhabitants might throw some light upon the
problem.

But if actual proof is lacking, it is scarcely to be doubted—for the
numerous old workings in Rhodesia tell their own tale—that it was the
presence of payable gold reefs worked by slave labour which tempted the
Phœnician merchants and chapmen, contrary to their custom, to travel so
far from the sea and establish themselves inland. Perhaps the city
Zimboe was the Ophir spoken of in the first Book of Kings. At least, it
is almost certain that its principal industries were the smelting and
the sale of gold, also it seems probable that expeditions travelling by
sea and land would have occupied quite three years of time in reaching
it from Jerusalem and returning thither laden with the gold and
precious stones, the ivory and the almug trees (1 Kings x.). Journeying
in Africa must have been slow in those days; that it was also dangerous
is testified by the ruins of the ancient forts built to protect the
route between the gold towns and the sea.

However these things may be, there remains ample room for speculation
both as to the dim beginnings of the ancient city and its still dimmer
end, whereof we can guess only, when it became weakened by luxury and
the mixture of races, that hordes of invading savages stamped it out of
existence beneath their blood-stained feet, as, in after ages, they
stamped out the Empire of Monomotapa. In the following romantic sketch
the writer has ventured—no easy task—to suggest incidents such as might
have accompanied this first extinction of the Phœnician Zimbabwe. The
pursuit indeed is one in which he can only hope to fill the place of a
humble pioneer, since it is certain that in times to come the dead
fortress-temples of South Africa will occupy the pens of many
generations of the writers of romance who, as he hopes, may have more
ascertained facts to build upon than are available to-day.




ELISSA




CHAPTER I
THE CARAVAN


The sun, which shone upon a day that was gathered to the past some
three thousand years ago, was setting in full glory over the expanses
of south-eastern Africa—the Libya of the ancients. Its last burning
rays fell upon a cavalcade of weary men, who, together with long
strings of camels, asses and oxen, after much toil had struggled to the
crest of a line of stony hills, where they were halted to recover
breath. Before them lay a plain, clothed with sere yellow grass—for the
season was winter—and bounded by mountains of no great height, upon
whose slopes stood the city which they had travelled far to seek. It
was the ancient city of Zimboe, whereof the lonely ruins are known to
us moderns as Zimbabwe.

At the sight of its flat-roofed houses of sun-dried brick, set upon the
side of the opposing hill, and dominated by a huge circular building of
dark stone, the caravan raised a great shout of joy. It shouted in
several tongues, in the tongues of Phœnicia, of Egypt, of the Hebrews,
of Arabia, and of the coasts of Africa, for all these peoples were
represented amongst its numbers. Well might the wanderers cry out in
their delight, seeing that at length, after eight months of perilous
travelling from the coast, they beheld the walls of their city of rest,
of the golden Ophir of the Bible. Their company had started from the
eastern port, numbering fifteen hundred men, besides women and
children, and of those not more than half were left alive. Once a
savage tribe had ambushed them, killing many. Once the pestilential
fever of the low lands had taken them so that they died of it by
scores. Twice also had they suffered heavily through hunger and thirst,
to say nothing of their losses by the fangs of lions, crocodiles, and
other wild beasts which with the country swarmed. Now their toils were
over; and for six months, or perhaps a year, they might rest and trade
in the Great City, enjoying its wealth, its flesh-pots, and the unholy
orgies which, among people of the Phœnician race, were dignified by the
name of the worship of the gods of heaven.

Soon the clamour died away, and although no command was given, the
caravan started on at speed. All weariness faded from the faces of the
wayworn travellers, even the very camels and asses, shrunk, as most of
them were, to mere skeletons, seemed to understand that labour and
blows were done with, and forgetting their loads, shambled unurged down
the stony path. One man lingered, however. Clearly he was a person of
rank, for eight or ten attendants surrounded him.

“Go,” said he, “I wish to be alone, and will follow presently.” So they
bowed to the earth, and went.

The man was young, perhaps six or eight and twenty years of age. His
dark skin, burnt almost to blackness by the heat of the sun, together
with the fashion of his short, square-cut beard and of his garments,
proclaimed him of Jewish or Egyptian blood, while the gold collar about
his neck and the gold graven ring upon his hand showed that his rank
was high. Indeed this wanderer was none other than the prince Aziel,
nick-named the Ever-living, because of a curious mole upon his shoulder
bearing a resemblance to the _crux ansata_, the symbol of life eternal
among the Egyptians. By blood he was a grandson of Solomon, the mighty
king of Israel, and born of a royal mother, a princess of Egypt.

In stature Aziel was tall, but somewhat slimly made, having small
bones. His face was oval in shape, the features, especially the mouth,
being fine and sensitive; the eyes were large, dark, and full of
thought—the eyes of a man with a destiny. For the most part, indeed,
they were sombre and over-full of thought, but at times they could
light up with a strange fire.

Aziel the prince placed his hand against his forehead in such fashion
as to shade his face from the rays of the setting sun, and from beneath
its shadow gazed long and earnestly at the city of the hill.

“At length I behold thee, thanks be to God,” he murmured, for he was a
worshipper of Jehovah, and not of his mother’s deities, “and it is
time, since, to speak the truth, I am weary of this travelling. Now
what fortune shall I find within thy walls, O City of Gold and
devil-servers?”

“Who can tell?” said a quiet voice at his elbow. “Perhaps, Prince, you
will find a wife, or a throne, or—a grave.”

Aziel started, and turned to see a man standing at his side, clothed in
robes that had been rich, but were now torn and stained with travel,
and wearing on his head a black cap in shape not unlike the fez that is
common in the East to-day. The man was past middle age, having a
grizzled beard, sharp, hard features and quick eyes, which withal were
not unkindly. He was a Phœnician merchant, much trusted by Hiram, the
King of Tyre, who had made him captain of the merchandise of this
expedition.

“Ah! is it you, Metem?” said Aziel. “Why do you leave your charge to
return to me?”

“That I may guard a more precious charge—yourself, Prince,” replied the
merchant courteously. “Having brought the child of Israel so far in
safety, I desire to hand him safely to the governor of yonder city.
Your servants told me that by your command they had left you alone, so
I returned to bear you company, for after nightfall robbers and savages
wander without these walls.”

“I thank you for your care, Metem, though I think there is little
danger, and at the worst I can defend myself.”

“Do not thank me, Prince; I am a merchant, and now, as in the past, I
protect you, knowing that for it I shall be paid. The governor will
give me a rich reward when I lead you to him safely, and when in years
to come I return with you still safe to the court of Jerusalem, then
the great king will fill my ship’s hold with gifts.”

“That depends, Metem,” replied the prince. “If my grandfather still
reigns it may be so, but he is very old, and if my uncle wears his
crown, then I am not sure. Truly you Phœnicians love money. Would you,
then, sell me for gold also, Metem?”

“I said not so, Prince, though even friendship has its price——”

“Among your people, Metem?”

“Among all people, Prince. You reproach us with loving money; well, we
do, since money gives everything for which men strive—honour, and
place, and comfort, and the friendship of kings.”

“It cannot give you love, Metem.”

The Phœnician laughed contemptuously. “Love! with gold I will buy as
much of it as I need. Are there no slaves upon the market, and no free
women who desire ornaments and ease and the purple of Tyre? You are
young, Prince, to say that gold cannot buy us love.”

“And you, Metem, who are growing old, do not understand what I mean by
love, nor will I stay to explain it to you, for were my words as wise
as Solomon’s, still you would not understand. At the least your money
cannot bring you the blessing of Heaven, nor the welfare of your spirit
in the eternal life that is to come.”

“The welfare of my spirit, Prince? No, it cannot, since I do not
believe that I have a spirit. When I die, I die, and there is an end.
But the blessing of Heaven, ah! that can be bought, as I have proved
once and again, if not with gold, then otherwise. Did I not in bygone
years pass the first son of my manhood through the fire to Baal-Sidon?
Nay, shrink not from me; it cost me dear, but my fortune was at stake,
and better that the boy should die than that all of us should live on
in penury and bonds. Know you not, Prince, that the gods must have the
gifts of the best, gifts of blood and virtue, or they will curse us and
torment us?”

“I do not know it, Metem, for such gods are no gods, but devils,
children of Beelzebub, who has no power over the righteous. Truly I
would have none of your two gods, Phœnician; upon earth the god of
gold, and in heaven the devil of slaughter.”

“Speak no ill of him, Prince,” answered Metem solemnly, “for here you
are not in the courts of Jehovah, but in his land, and he may chance to
prove his power on you. For the rest, I had sooner follow after gold
than the folly of a drunken spirit which you name Love, seeing that it
works its votary less mischief. Say now, it was a woman and her love
that drove you hither to this wild land, was it not, Prince? Well, be
careful lest a woman and her love should keep you here.”

“The sun sets,” said Aziel coldly; “let us go forward.”

With a bow and a murmured salute, for his quick courtier instinct told
him that he had spoken too freely, Metem took the bridle of the
prince’s mule, holding the stirrup while he mounted. Then he turned to
seek his own, but the animal had wandered, and a full half hour went by
before it could be captured.

By now the sun had set, and as there is little or no twilight in
Southern Africa it became difficult for the two travellers to find
their way down the rough hill path. Still they stumbled on, till
presently the long dead grass brushing against their knees told them
that they had lost the road, although they knew that they were riding
in the right direction, for the watch-fires burning on the city walls
were a guide to them. Soon, however, they lost sight of these fires,
the boughs of a grove of thickly-leaved trees hiding them from view,
and in trying to push their way through the wood Metem’s mule stumbled
against a root and fell.

“Now there is but one thing to be done,” said the Phœnician, as he
dragged the animal from the ground, “and it is to stay here till the
moon rises, which should be within an hour. It would have been wiser,
Prince, if we had waited to discuss love and the gods till we were safe
within the walls of the city, for the end of it is that we have fallen
into the hands of king Darkness, and he is the father of many evil
things.”

“That is so, Metem,” answered the prince, “and I am to blame. Let us
bide here in patience, since we must.”

So, holding their mules by the bridles, they sat down upon the ground
and waited in silence, for each of them was lost in his own thoughts.




CHAPTER II
THE GROVE OF BAALTIS


At length, as the two men sat thus silently, for the place and its
gloom oppressed them, a sound broke upon the quiet of the night, that
beginning with a low wail such as might come from the lips of a
mourner, ended in a chant or song. The voice, which seemed close at
hand, was low, rich and passionate. At times it sank almost to a sob,
and at times, taking a higher note, it thrilled upon the air in tones
that would have been shrill were they not so sweet.

“Who is it that sings?” said Aziel to Metem.

“Be silent, I pray you,” whispered the other in his ear; “we have
wandered into one of the sacred groves of Baaltis, which it is death
for men to enter save at the appointed festivals, and a priestess of
the grove chants her prayer to the goddess.”

“We did not come of our own will, so doubtless we shall be forgiven,”
answered Aziel indifferently; “but that song moves me. Tell me the
words of it, which I can scarcely follow, for her accent is strange to
me.”

“Prince, they seem to be holy words to which I have little right to
hearken. The priestess sings an ancient hallowed chant of life and
death, and she prays that the goddess may touch her soul with the wing
of fire and make her great and give her vision of things that have been
and that shall be. More I dare not tell you now; indeed I can barely
hear, and the song is hard to understand. Crouch down, for the moon
rises, and pray that the mules may not stir. Presently she will go, and
we can fly the holy place.”

The Israelite obeyed and waited, searching the darkness with eager
eyes.

Now the edge of the great moon appeared upon the horizon, and by
degrees her white rays of light revealed a strange scene to the
watchers. About an open space of ground, some eighty paces in diameter,
grew seven huge and ancient baobab trees, so ancient indeed that they
must have been planted by the primæval hand of nature rather than by
that of man. Aziel and his companion were hidden with their mules
behind the trunk of one of these trees, and looking round it they
perceived that the open space beyond the shadow of the branches was not
empty. In the centre of this space stood an altar, and by it was placed
the rude figure of a divinity carved in wood and painted. On the head
of this figure rose a crescent symbolical of the moon, and round its
neck hung a chain of wooden stars. It had four wings but no hands, and
of these wings two were out-spread and two clasped a shapeless object
to its breast, intended, apparently, to represent a child. By these
symbols Aziel knew that before him was an effigy sacred to the goddess
of the Phœnicians, who in different countries passed by the various
names of Astarte, or Ashtoreth, or Baaltis, and who in their coarse
worship was at once the personification of the moon and the emblem of
fertility.

Standing before this rude fetish, between it and the altar, whereon lay
some flowers, and in such fashion that the moonlight struck full upon
her, was a white-robed woman. She was young and very beautiful both in
shape and feature, and though her black hair streaming almost to the
knees took from her height, she still seemed tall. Her rounded arms
were outstretched; her sweet and passionate face was upturned towards
the sky, and even at that distance the watchers could see her deep eyes
shining in the moonlight. The sacred song of the priestess was
finished. Now she was praying aloud, slowly, and in a clear voice, so
that Aziel could hear and understand her; praying from her very heart,
not to the idol before her, however, but to the moon above.

“O Queen of Heaven,” she said, “thou whose throne I see but whose face
I cannot see, hear the prayer of thy priestess, and protect me from the
fate I fear, and rid me of him I hate. Safe let me dwell and pure, and
as thou fillest the night with light, so fill the darkness of my soul
with the wisdom that I crave. O whisper into my ears and let me hear
the voice of heaven, teaching me that which I would know. Read me the
riddle of my life, and let me learn wherefore I am not as my sisters
are; why feasts and offerings delight me not; why I thirst for
knowledge and not for wealth, and why I crave such love as here I
cannot win. Satisfy my being with thy immortal lore and a love that
does not fail or die, and if thou wilt, then take my life in payment.
Speak to me from the heaven above, O Baaltis, or show me some sign upon
the earth beneath; fill up the vessel of my thirsty soul and satisfy
the hunger of my spirit. Oh! thou that art the goddess, thou that hast
the gift of power, give me, thy servant, of thy power, of thy godhead,
and of thy peace. Hear me, O Heaven-born, hear me, Elissa, the daughter
of Sakon, the dedicate of thee. Hear, hear, and answer now in the
secret holy hour, answer by voice, by wonder, or by symbol.”

The woman paused as though exhausted with the passion of her prayer,
hiding her face in her hands, and as she stood thus silent and
expectant, the sign came, or at least that chanced which for a while
she believed to have been an answer to her invocation. Her face was
hidden, so she could not see, and fascinated by her beauty as it
appeared to them in that unhallowed spot, and by the depth and dignity
of her wild prayer, the two watchers had eyes for her alone. Therefore
it happened that not until his arm was about to drag her away, did
either of them perceive a huge man, black as ebony in colour, clad in a
cloak of leopard skins and carrying in his right hand a broad-bladed
spear who, following the shadow of the trees, had crept upon the
priestess from the farther side of the glade.

With a guttural exclamation of triumph he gripped her in his left arm,
and, despite her struggles and her shrill cry for help, began half to
drag and half to carry her towards the deep shade of the baobab grove.
Instantly Aziel and Metem sprang up and rushed forward, drawing their
bronze swords as they ran. As it chanced, however, the Israelite caught
his foot in one of the numerous tree-roots, which stood above the
surface of the ground and fell heavily upon his face. In a few seconds,
twenty perhaps, he found his breath and feet again, to see that Metem
had come up with the black giant who, hearing his approach, suddenly
wheeled round to meet him, still holding the struggling priestess in
his grasp. Now the Phœnician was so close upon him that the savage
could find no time to shift the grip upon his spear, but drove at him
with the knobbed end of its handle, striking him full upon the forehead
and felling him as a butcher fells an ox. Then once more he turned to
fly with his captive, but before he had covered ten yards the sound of
Aziel’s approaching footsteps caused him to wheel round again.

At sight of the Israelite advancing upon him with drawn sword, the
great barbarian freed himself from the burden of the girl by throwing
her heavily to the ground, where she lay, for the breath was shaken out
of her. Then snatching the cloak from his throat he wound it over his
left arm to serve as a shield, and with a savage yell, rushed straight
at Aziel, purposing to transfix him with the broad-headed spear.

Well was it for the prince that he had been trained in sword-play from
his youth, also, notwithstanding his slight build, that he was strong
and active as a leopard. To await the onslaught would be to die, for
the spear must pierce him before ever he could reach the attacker’s
body with his short sword. Therefore, as the weapon flashed upward he
sprang aside, avoiding it, at the same time, with one swift sweep of
his sword, slashing its holder across the back as he passed him.

With a howl of pain and rage the savage sprang round and charged him a
second time. Again Aziel leapt to one side, but now he struck with all
his force at the spear shaft which his assailant lifted to guard his
head. So strong was the blow and so sharp the heavy sword, that it
shore through the wood, severing the handle from the spear, which fell
to the ground. Casting away the useless shaft, the warrior drew a long
knife from his girdle, and before Aziel could strike again faced him
for the third time. But he no longer rushed onward like a bull, for he
had learnt caution; he stood still, holding the skin cloak before him
shield fashion, and peering at his adversary from over its edge.

Now it was Aziel’s turn to take the offensive, and slowly he circled
round the huge barbarian, watching his opportunity. At length it came.
In answer to a feint of his the protecting cloak was dropped a little,
enabling him to prick its bearer in the neck, but only with the point
of his sword. The thrust delivered, he leapt back, and not too soon,
for forgetting his caution in his fury, the savage charged straight at
him with a roar like that of a lion. So swift and terrible was his
onset that Aziel, having no time to spring aside, did the only thing
possible. Gripping the ground with his feet, he bent his body forward,
and with outstretched arm and sword, braced up his muscles to receive
the charge. Another instant, and the leopard skin cloak fluttered
before him. With a quick movement of his left arm he swept it aside;
then there came a sudden pressure upon his sword ending in a jarring
shock, a flash of steel above his head, and down he went to the ground
beneath the weight of the black giant.

“Now there is an end,” he thought; “Heaven receive my spirit.” And his
senses left him.

When they returned again, Aziel perceived dimly that a white-draped
figure bent over him, dragging at something black which crushed his
breast, who, as she dragged, sobbed in her grief and fear. Then he
remembered, and with an effort sat up, rolling from him the corpse of
his foe, for his sword had pierced the barbarian through breast and
heart and back. At this sight the woman ceased her sobbing, and said in
the Phœnician tongue:—

“Sir, do you indeed live? Then the protecting gods be thanked, and to
Baaltis the Mother I vow a gift of this hair of mine in gratitude.”

“Nay, lady,” he answered faintly, for he was much shaken, “that would
be a pity; also, if any, it is my hair which should be vowed.”

“You bleed from the head,” she broke in; “say, stranger, are you deeply
wounded.”

“I will tell you nothing of my head,” he replied, with a smile, “unless
you promise that you will not offer up your hair.”

“So be it, stranger, since I must; I will give the goddess this gold
chain instead; it is of more worth.”

“You would do better, lady,” said the shrill voice of Metem, who by now
had found his wits again, “to give the gold chain to me whose scalp has
been broken in rescuing you from that black thief.”

“Sir,” she answered, “I am grateful to you from my heart, but it is
this young lord who killed the man and saved me from slavery worse than
death, and he shall be rewarded by my father.”

“Listen to her,” grumbled Metem. “Did I not rush in first in my folly
and receive what I deserved for my pains? But am I to have neither
thanks nor pay, who am but an old merchant; they are for the young
prince who came after. Well, so it ever was; the thanks I can spare,
and the reward I shall claim from the treasury of the goddess.

“Now, Prince, let me see your hurt. Ah! a cut on the ear, no more, and
thank your natal star that it is so, for another inch and the great
vein of the neck would have been severed. Prince, if you are able, draw
out your sword from the carcase of that brute, for I have tried and
cannot loosen the blade. Then perhaps this lady will guide us to the
city before his fellows come to seek him, seeing that for one night I
have had a stomach full of fighting.”

“Sirs, I will indeed. It is close at hand, and my father will thank you
there; but if it is your pleasure, tell me by what names I shall make
known to him you whose rank seems to be so high?”

“Lady, I am Metem the Phœnician, captain of the merchandise of the
caravan of Hiram, King of Tyre, and this lord who slew the thief is
none other than the prince Aziel, the twice royal, for he is grandson
to the glorious King of Israel, and through his mother of the blood of
the Pharaohs of Egypt.”

“And yet he risked his life to save me,” the girl murmured astonished;
then dropping to her knees before Aziel, she touched the ground with
her forehead in obeisance, giving him thanks, and praising him after
the fashion of the East.

“Rise, lady,” he broke in, “because I chance to be a prince I have not
ceased to be a man, and no man could have seen you in such a plight
without striking a blow on your behalf.”

“No,” added Metem, “none; that is, as you happen to be noble and young
and lovely. Had you been old and ugly and humble, then the black man
might have carried you from here to Tyre ere I risked my neck to stop
him, or for the matter of that, although he will deny it, the prince
either.”

“Men do not often show their hearts so clearly,” she answered with
sarcasm. “But now, lords, I will guide you to the city before more harm
befalls us, for this dead man may have companions.”

“Our mules are here, lady; will you not ride mine?” asked Aziel.

“I thank you, Prince, but my feet will carry me.”

“And so will mine,” said Aziel, ceasing from a prolonged and fruitless
effort to loosen his sword from the breast-bone of the savage, “on such
paths they are safer than any beasts. Friend, will you lead my mule
with yours?”

“Ay, Prince,” grumbled Metem, “for so the world goes with the old; you
take the fair lady for company and I a she-ass. Well, of the two give
me the ass which is more safe and does not chatter.”

Then they started, Aziel leaving his short sword in the keeping of the
dead man.

“How are you named, lady?” he said presently, adding “or rather I need
not ask; you are Elissa, the daughter of Sakon, Governor of Zimboe, are
you not?”

“I am so called, though how you know it I cannot guess.”

“I heard you name yourself, lady, in the prayer you made before the
altar.”

“You heard my prayer, Prince?” she said starting. “Do you not know that
it is death to that man who hearkens to the prayer of a priestess of
Baaltis, uttered in her holy grove? Still, none know it save the
goddess, who sees all, therefore I beseech you for your own sake and
the sake of your companion, say nothing of it in the city, lest it
should come to the ears of the priests of El.”

“Certainly it would have been death to you had I _not_ chanced to hear
it, having lost my way in the darkness,” answered the prince laughing.
“Well, since I did hear it I will add that it was a beautiful prayer,
revealing a heart high and pure, though I grieve that it should have
been offered to one whom I hold to be a demon.”

“I am honoured,” she answered coldly; “but, Prince, you forget that
though you, being a Hebrew, worship Him they call Jehovah, or so I have
been told, I, being of the blood of the Sidonians, worship the lady
Baaltis, the Queen of Heaven the holy one of whom I am a priestess.”

“So it is, alas!” he said, with a sigh, adding:—

“Well, let us not dispute of these matters, though, if you wish, the
prophet Issachar, the Levite who accompanies me, can explain the truth
of them to you.”

Elissa made no reply, and for a while they walked on in silence.

“Who was that black robber whom I slew?” Aziel asked presently.

“I am not sure, Prince,” she answered, hesitating, “but savages such as
he haunt the outskirts of the city seeking to steal white women to be
their wives. Doubtless he watched my steps, following me into the holy
place.”

“Why, then, did you venture there alone, lady?”

“Because, to be heard, such prayers as mine must be offered in solitude
in the consecrated grove, and at the hour of the rising of the moon.
Moreover, cannot Baaltis protect her priestess, Priest, and did she not
protect her?”

“I thought, lady, that I had something to do with the matter,” he
answered.

“Ay, Prince, it was your hand that struck the blow which killed the
thief, but Baaltis, and no other, led you to the place to rescue me.”

“I understand, lady. To save you, Baaltis, laying aside her own power,
led a mortal man to the grove, which it is death that mortal man should
violate.”

“Who can fathom the way of the gods?” she replied with passion, then
added, as though reasoning with a new-born doubt, “Did not the goddess
hear my prayer and answer it?”

“In truth, lady, I cannot say. Let me think. If I understood you
rightly, you prayed for heavenly wisdom, but whether or not you have
gained it within this last hour, I do not know. And then you prayed for
love, an immortal love. O, maiden, has it come to you since yonder moon
appeared upon the sky? And you prayed——”

“Peace!” she broke in, “peace and mock me not, or, prince that you are,
I will publish your crime of spying upon the prayer of a priestess of
Baaltis. I tell you that I prayed for a symbol and a sign, and the
prayer was answered.

“Did not the black giant spring upon me to bear me away to be his
slave—his, or another’s? And is he not a symbol of the evil and the
ignorance which are on the earth and that seek to drag down the beauty
and the wisdom of the earth to their own level? Then the Phœnician ran
to rescue me and was defeated, since the spirit of Mammon cannot
overcome the black powers of ill. Next you came and fought hard and
long, till in the end you slew the mighty foe, you a Prince born of the
royal blood of the world——” and she ceased.

“You have a pretty gift of parable, lady, as it should be with one who
interprets the oracles of a goddess. But you have not told me of what
I, your servant, am the symbol.”

She stopped in her walk and looked him full in the face.

“I never heard,” she said, “that either the Jews or the Egyptians,
being instructed, were blind to the reading of an allegory. But,
Prince, if you cannot read this one it is not for me, who am but a
woman, to set it out to you.”

Just then their glances met, and in the clear moonlight Aziel saw a
wave of doubt sweep over his companion’s dark and beautiful eyes, and a
faint flush appear upon her brow. He saw, and something stirred at his
heart that till this hour he had never felt, something which even now
he knew it would trouble him greatly to escape.

“Tell me, lady,” he asked, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, “in
this fable of yours am I even for an hour deemed worthy to play the
part of that immortal love embodied which you sought so earnestly a
while ago?”

“Immortal love, Prince,” she answered, in a new voice, a voice low and
deep, “is not for one hour, but for all hours that are and are to be.
You, and you alone, can know if you would dare to play such a part as
this—even in a fable.”

“Perchance, lady, there lives a woman for whom it might be dared.”

“Prince, no such woman lives, since immortal love must deal, not with
the flesh, but with the spirit. If a spirit worthy to be thus loved and
worshipped now wanders in earthly shape upon the world, seeking its
counterpart and its completion, I cannot tell. Yet were it so, and
should they chance to meet, it might be happy for such brave spirits,
for then the answer to the great riddle would be theirs.”

Wondering what this riddle might be, Aziel bent towards her to reply,
when suddenly round a bend in the path but a few paces from them came a
body of soldiers and attendants, headed by a man clad in a white robe
and walking with a staff. This man was grey-headed and keen-eyed, thin
in face and ascetic in appearance, with a brow of power and a bearing
of dignity. At the sight of the pair he halted, looking at them in
question, and with disapproval.

“Our search is ended,” he said in Hebrew, “for here is he whom we seek,
and alone with him a heathen woman, robed like a priestess of the
Groves.”

“Whom do you seek, Issachar?” asked Aziel hurriedly, for the sudden
appearance of the Levite disturbed him.

“Yourself, Prince. Surely you can guess that your absence has been
noted. We feared lest harm should have come to you, or that you had
lost your path, but it seems that you have found a guide,” and he
stared at his companion sternly.

“That guide, Issachar,” answered Aziel, “being none other than the lady
Elissa, daughter of Sakon, governor of this city, and our host, whom it
has been my good fortune to rescue from a woman-stealer yonder in the
grove of the goddess Baaltis.”

“And whom it was my bad fortune to try to rescue in the said grove, as
my broken head bears witness,” added Metem, who by now had come up,
dragging the two mules after him.

“In the grove of the goddess Baaltis!” broke in the Levite with a
kindling eye, and striking the ground with his staff to emphasise his
words. “You, a Prince of Israel, alone in the high place of abomination
with the priestess of a fiend? Fie upon you, fie upon you! Would you
also walk in the sin of your forefathers, Aziel, and so soon?”

“Peace!” said Aziel in a voice of command; “I was not in the grove
alone or by my own will, and this is no time or place for insults and
wrangling.”

“Between me and those who seek after false gods, or the women who
worship them, there is no peace,” replied the old priest fiercely.

Then, followed by all the company, he turned and strode towards the
gates of the city.




CHAPTER III
ITHOBAL THE KING


Two hours had gone by, and the prince Aziel, together with his retinue,
the officers of the caravan, and many other guests, were seated at a
great feast made in their honour, by Sakon, the governor of the city.
This feast was held in the large pillared hall of Sakon’s house, built
beneath the northern wall of the temple fortress, and not more than a
few paces from its narrow entrance, through which in case of alarm the
inhabitants of the palace could fly for safety. All down this chamber
were placed tables, accommodating more than two hundred feasters, but
the principal guests were seated by themselves upon a raised daïs at
the head of the hall. Among them sat Sakon himself, a middle-aged man
stout in build, and thoughtful of face, his daughter Elissa, some other
noble ladies, and a score or more of the notables of the city and its
surrounding territories.

One of these strangers immediately attracted the attention of Aziel,
who was seated in the place of honour at the right of Sakon, between
him and the lady Elissa. This man was of large stature, and about forty
years of age; the magnificence of his apparel and the great gold chain
set with rough diamonds which hung about his neck showing him to be a
person of importance. His tawny complexion marked him of mixed race.
This conclusion his features did not belie, for the brow, nose, and
cheek-bones were Semitic in outline, while the full, prominent eyes,
and thick, sensuous lips could with equal certainty be attributed to
the Negroid stock. In fact, he was the son of a native African queen,
or chieftainess, and a noble Phœnician, and his rank no less than that
of absolute king and hereditary chief of a vast and undefined territory
which lay around the trading cities of the white men, whereof Zimboe
was the head and largest. Aziel noticed that this king, who was named
Ithobal, seemed angry and ill at ease, whether because he was not
satisfied with the place which had been allotted to him at the table,
or for other reasons, he could not at the time determine.

When the meats had been removed, and the goblets were filled with wine,
men began to talk, till presently Sakon called for silence, and rising,
addressed Aziel:—

“Prince,” he said, “in the name of this great and free city—for free it
is, though we acknowledge the king of Tyre as our suzerain—I give you
welcome within our gates. Here, far in the heart of Libya, we have
heard of the glorious and wise king, your grandfather, and of the
mighty Pharaoh of Egypt, whose blood runs also within your veins.
Prince, we are honoured in your coming, and for the asking, whatever
this land of gold can boast is yours. Long may you live; may the favour
of those gods you worship attend you, and in the pursuit of wisdom, of
wealth, of war, and of love, may the good grain of all be garnered in
your bosom, and the wind of prosperity winnow out the chaff of them to
fall beneath your feet. Prince, I have greeted you as it behoves me to
greet the blood of Solomon and Pharaoh; now I add a word. Now I greet
you as a father greets the man who has saved his only and beloved
daughter from death, or shameful bondage. Know you, friends, what this
stranger did since to-night’s moonrise? My daughter was at worship
alone yonder without the walls, and a great savage set on her,
purposing to bear her away captive. Ay, and he would have done it had
not the prince Aziel here given him battle, and, after a fierce fight,
slain him.”

“No great deed to kill a single savage,” broke in the king Ithobal, who
had been listening with impatience to Sakon’s praises of this high-born
stranger.

“No great deed you say, King,” answered Sakon. “Guards, bring in the
body of the man and set it before us.”

There was a pause, till presently six men staggered up the hall bearing
between them the corpse of the barbarian, which, still covered with the
leopard skin mantle, they threw down on the edge of the daïs.

“See!” said one of the bearers, withdrawing the cloak from the huge
body. Then pointing to the sword which still transfixed it, he added,
“and learn what strength heaven gives to the arms of princes.”

Such of the guests as were near enough rose to look at the grizzly
sight, then turned to offer their congratulations to the conqueror, but
there was one of them—the king Ithobal—who offered none; indeed, as his
eyes fell upon the face of the corpse, they grew alight with rage.

“What ails you, King? Are you jealous of such a blow?” asked Sakon,
watching him curiously.

“Speak no more of that thrust, I pray you,” said Aziel, “for it was due
to the weight of the man rushing on the sword, which after he was dead
I could not find the power to loosen from his breast-bone.”

“Then I will do you that service, Prince,” sneered Ithobal, and,
setting his foot upon the breast of the corpse, with a sudden effort of
his great frame, he plucked out the sword and cast it down upon the
table.

“Now, one might think,” said Aziel, flushing with anger, “that you,
King, who do a courtesy to a man of smaller strength, mean a challenge.
Doubtless, however, I am mistaken, who do not understand the manners of
this country.”

“Think what you will, Prince,” answered the chieftain, “but learn that
he who lies dead before us by your hand—as you say—was no slave to be
killed at pleasure, but a man of rank, none other, indeed, than the son
of my mother’s sister.”

“Is it so?” replied Aziel, “then surely, King, you are well rid of a
cousin, however highly born, who made it his business to ravish maidens
from their homes.”

By way of answer to these words Ithobal sprang from his seat again,
laying hand upon his sword. But before he could speak or draw it, the
governor Sakon addressed him in a cold and meaning voice:—

“Of your courtesy, King,” he said, “remember that the prince here is my
guest, as you are, and give us peace. If that dead man was your cousin,
at least he well deserved to die, not at the hand of one of royal
blood, but by that of the executioner, for he was the worst of
thieves—a thief of women. Now tell me, King, I pray you, how came your
cousin here, so far from home, since he was not numbered in your
retinue?”

“I do not know, Sakon,” answered Ithobal, “and if I knew I would not
say. You tell me that my dead kinsman was a thief of women, which, in
Phœnician eyes, must be a crime indeed. So be it; but thief or no
thief, I say that there is a blood feud between me and the man who slew
him, and were he great Solomon himself, instead of one of fifty
princelets of his line, he should pay bitterly for the deed. To-morrow,
Sakon, I will meet you before I leave for my own land, for I have words
to speak to you. Till then, farewell!”—and rising, he strode down the
hall, followed by his officers and guard.


The sudden departure of king Ithobal in anger was the signal for the
breaking up of the feast.

“Why is that half-bred chief so wrath with me?” asked Aziel in a low
voice of Elissa as they followed Sakon to another chamber.

“Because—if you would know the truth—he set his dead cousin to kidnap
me, and you thwarted him,” she answered, looking straight before her.

Aziel made no reply, for at that moment Sakon turned to speak with him,
and his face was anxious.

“I crave your pardon, Prince,” he said, drawing him aside, “that you
should have met with such insults at my board. Had it been any other
man who spoke thus to you, by now he had rued his words, but this
Ithobal is the terror of our city, for if he chooses he can bring a
hundred thousand savages upon us, shutting us within our walls to
starve, and cutting us off from the working of the mines whence we win
gold. Therefore, in this way or that, he must be humoured, as indeed we
have humoured him and his father for years, though now,” he added, his
brow darkening, “he demands a price that I am loth to pay,” and he
glanced towards his daughter, who stood watching them at a little
distance, looking most beautiful in her white robes and ornaments of
gold.

“Can you not make war upon him, and break his power?” asked Aziel, with
a strange anxiety, guessing that this price demanded by Ithobal was
none other than Elissa, the woman whom he had rescued, and whose wisdom
and beauty had stirred his heart.

“It might be done, Prince, but the risk would be great, and we are here
to work the mines and grow rich in trade—not to make war. The policy of
Zimboe has always been a policy of peace.”

“I have a better and cheaper plan,” said a calm voice at his elbow—that
of Metem. “It is this: Slip a bow-string over the brute’s head as he
lies snoring, and pull it tight. An eagle in a cage is easy to deal
with, but once on the wing the matter is different.”

“There is wisdom in your counsel,” said Sakon, in a hesitating voice.

“Wisdom!” broke in Aziel; “ay, the wisdom of the assassin. What, noble
Sakon, would you murder a sleeping guest?”

“No, Prince, I would not,” he answered hastily; “also, such a deed
would bring the Tribes upon us.”

“Then, Sakon, you are more foolish than you used to be,” said Metem
laughing. “A man who will not despatch a foe, whenever he can catch
him, by means fair or foul, is not the man to govern a rich city set in
the heart of a barbarous land, and so I shall tell Hiram, our king, if
ever I live to see Tyre again. As for you, most high Prince, forgive
the humblest of your servants if he tells you that the tenderness of
your heart and the nobility of your sentiments will, I think, bring you
to an early and evil end;” and, glancing towards Elissa as though to
put a point upon his words, Metem smiled sarcastically and withdrew.

At this moment a messenger, whose long white hair, wild eyes and red
robe announced him to be a priest of El, by which name the people of
Zimboe worshipped Baal, entered the room, and whispered something into
the ear of Sakon which seemed to disturb him much.

“Pardon me, Prince, and you, my guests, if I leave you,” said the
governor, “but I have evil tidings that call me to the temple. The lady
Baaltis is seized with the black fever, and I must visit her. For an
hour, farewell.”

This news caused consternation among the company, and in the general
confusion that followed its announcement Aziel joined Elissa, who had
passed on to the balcony of the house, and was seated there alone,
looking out over the moonlit city and the plains beyond. At his
approach she rose in token of respect, then sat herself down again,
motioning him to do likewise.

“Give me of your wisdom, lady,” he said. “I thought that Baaltis was
the goddess whom I heard you worshipping yonder in the grove; how,
then, can she be stricken with a fever?”

“She is the goddess,” Elissa answered smiling; “but the _lady_ Baaltis
is a woman whom we revere as the incarnation of that goddess upon
earth, and being but a woman in her hour she must die.”

“Then, what becomes of the incarnation of the goddess?”

“Another is chosen by the college of the priests of El, and the company
of the priestesses of Baaltis. If that lady Baaltis who is dead chances
to leave a daughter, it is usual for the lot to fall upon her; if not,
upon such one of the noble maidens as may be chosen.”

“Does the lady Baaltis marry, then?”

“Yes, Prince, within a year of her consecration, she must choose
herself a husband, and he may be whom she will, provided only that he
is of white blood, and does public sacrifice to El and Baaltis. Then
after she has named him, this husband takes the title of Shadid, and
for so long as his wife shall live he is the high priest of the god El,
and clothed with the majesty of the god, as his wife is clothed with
the majesty of Baaltis. But should she die, another wins his place.”

“It is a strange faith,” said Aziel, “which teaches that the Lord of
Heaven can find a home in mortal breasts. But, lady, it is yours, so of
it I say no more. Now tell me, if you will, what did you mean when you
said that this barbarian king, Ithobal, set the savage whom I slew to
kidnap you? Do you know this, or do you suspect it only?”

“I suspected it from the first, Prince, and for good reasons; moreover,
I read it in the king’s face as he looked upon the corpse, and when he
perceived me among the feasters.”

“And why should he wish to carry you away this brutally, lady, when he
is at peace with the great city?”

“Perchance, Prince, after what passed to-night you can guess,” she
answered lowering her eyes.

“Yes, lady, I can guess, and though it is shameful that such an one
should dare to think of you, still, since he is a man, I cannot blame
him overmuch. But why should he press his suit in this rough and secret
fashion instead of openly as a king might do?”

“He may have pressed it openly and been repulsed,” she replied in a low
voice. “But if he could have carried me to some far fortress, how
should I flout him there, that is, if I still lived? There, with no
price to pay in gold or lands or power, he would have been my master,
and I should have been his slave till such time as he wearied of me.
That is the fate from which you have saved me, Prince, or rather from
death, for I am not one who could bear such shame at the hands of a man
I hate.”

“Lady,” he said bowing, “I think that perhaps for the first time in my
life I am glad to-night that I was born.”

“And I,” she answered, “who am but a Phœnician maiden, am glad that I
should have lived to hear one who is as royal in thought and soul as he
is in rank speak thus to me. Oh! Prince,” she added, clasping her
hands, “if your words are not those of empty courtesy alone, hear me,
for you are great, a Lord of the Earth whom none refuse, and it may be
in your power to give me aid. Prince, I am in a sore strait, for that
danger from which I prayed to be delivered this night presses me hard.
Prince, it is true that Ithobal has been refused my hand, both by
myself and by my father, and therefore it was that he strove to steal
me away. But the evil is not done with, for the great nobles of the
city and the chief priests of El came to my father at sunset and prayed
him that he would let Ithobal take me, seeing that otherwise in his
rage he will make war upon Zimboe. When a man placed as is my father
must choose between the safety of thousands and the honour and
happiness of one poor girl, what will his answer be, think you?”

“Now,” said Aziel, “save that no wrong can right a wrong, I almost
grieve that I cried shame upon the counsel of Metem. Sweet lady, be
sure of this, that I will give all I have, even to my life, to protect
you from the vile fate you dread—yes, all I have—except my soul.”

“Ah!” she cried with a sudden flash of her dark eyes, “all except your
soul. If we women could find the man who would risk both life and soul
for us, then, were he but a slave, we would worship him as never man
was worshipped since Baaltis mounted her heavenly throne.”

“Were I not a Hebrew you would tempt me, lady,” Aziel answered smiling,
“but being one I may not risk my soul even were such a prize within my
reach.”

“Nay, Prince,” she broke in, “I did but jest; forget my words, for they
were wrung from a heart torn with fears. Oh! did you know the terror of
this half-savage Ithobal which oppresses me, you would forgive me all—a
terror that to-night lies upon me with a tenfold weight.”

“Why so, lady?”

“Doubtless because it is nearer,” Elissa whispered, but her beautiful
pleading eyes and quivering lips seemed to belie her words and say,
“because _you_ are near, and a change has come upon me.”

For the second time that day Aziel’s glance met hers, and for the
second time a strange new pang that was more pain than joy, and yet
half-divine, snatched at his heart-strings, for a while numbing his
reason and taking from him the power of speech.

“What was it?” he wondered vaguely. He had seen many lovely faces, and
many noble women had shown him favour, but why had none of them stirred
him thus? Could it be that this stranger Gentile maiden was his
soul-mate—she whom he was destined to love above all upon the earth,
nay, whom he did already love, and so soon?

“Lady,” he said, taking a step towards her, “lady——” and he paused.

Elissa bowed her dark head till her gold-bedecked and scented hair
almost fell upon his feet, but she made no answer.

Then another voice broke upon the silence, a clear, strident voice that
said:—

“Prince, forgive me, if for the second time to-day I disturb you; but
the guests have gone; your chamber is made ready, and, not knowing the
customs of the women of this country, I sought you, little guessing
that, at such an hour, I should find you alone with one of them.”

Aziel looked up, although there was no need for him to do so, for he
knew that voice well, to see the tall form of the Levite Issachar
standing before them, a cold light of anger shining in his eyes.

Elissa saw also, and, with some murmured words of farewell, she turned
and went, leaving them together.




CHAPTER IV
THE DREAM OF ISSACHAR


For a moment there was silence, which Aziel broke, saying:—

“It seems to me, Issachar, that you are somewhat over zealous for my
welfare.”

“I think otherwise, Prince,” replied the Levite sternly. “Did not your
grandsire give you into my keeping, and shall I not be faithful to my
trust, and to a higher duty than any which he could lay upon me?”

“Your meaning, Issachar?”

“It is plain, Prince; but I will set it out. The great king said to me
yonder in the hall of his golden palace at Jerusalem, ‘To others, men
of war, I have given charge of the body of my grandson to keep him
safe. To you, Issachar the Levite, who have fostered him, I give charge
over his soul to keep it safe—a higher task, and more difficult. Guard
him, Issachar, from the temptation of strange doctrines and the
whisperings of strange gods, but guard him most of all from the wiles
of strange women who bow the knee to Baal, for such are the gate of
Gehenna upon earth, and those who enter by it shall find their place in
Tophet.’”

“Truly my grandsire speaks wisely on this matter as on all others,”
answered Aziel, “but still I do not understand.”

“Then I will be more clear, Prince. How comes it that I find you alone
with this beautiful sorceress, this worshipper of the she-devil,
Baaltis, with whom you should scorn even to speak, except such words as
courtesy demands?”

“Is it then forbidden to me,” asked Aziel angrily, “to talk with the
daughter of my host, a lady whom I chanced to save from death, of the
customs of her country and the mysteries of worship?”

“The mysteries of worship!” answered Issachar scornfully. “Ay! the
mysteries of the worship of that fair body of hers, that ivory chalice
filled with foulness—whereof, if a man drink, his faith shall be rotted
and his soul poisoned. The mysteries of that worship was it, Prince,
that caused you but now to lean towards this woman as though to embrace
her, with words of love burning in your heart if not between your lips?
Ah! these witches of Baaltis know their trade well; they are full of
evil gifts, and of the wisdom given to them by the fiend they serve.
With touch and sigh and look they can stir the blood of youth, having
much practice in the art, till it seethes within the veins and drowns
conscience in its flood.

“Nay, Prince, hear the truth,” continued Issachar. “Till moonrise you
had never seen this woman, and now your quick blood is aflame, and you
love her. Deny it if you can—deny it on your honour and I will believe
you, for you are no liar.”

Aziel thought for a moment and answered:—

“Issachar, you have no right to question me on this matter, yet since
you have adjured me by my honour, I will be open with you. I do not
know if I love this woman, who, as you say, is a stranger to me, but it
is true that my heart turns towards her like flowers to the sun. Till
to-day I had never seen her, yet when my eyes first fell upon her face
yonder in that accursed grove, it seemed to me that I had been born
only that I might find her. It seemed to me even that for ages I had
known her, that for ever she was mine and that I was hers. Read me the
riddle, Issachar? Is this but passion born of youth and the sudden
sight of a fair woman? That cannot be, for I have known others as fair,
and have passed through some such fires. Tell me, Issachar, you who are
old and wise and have seen much of the hearts of men, what is this wave
that overwhelms me?”

“What is it, Prince? It is witchery; it is the wile of Beelzebub
waiting to snatch your soul, and if you hearken to it you shall pass
through the fire—through the fire to Moloch, if not in the flesh, then
in the spirit, which is to all eternity. Oh! not in vain do I fear for
you, my son, and not without reason was I warned in a dream. Listen:
Last night, as I lay in my tent yonder upon the plain, I dreamed that
some danger overshadowed you, and in my sleep I prayed that your
destiny might be revealed to me. As I prayed thus, I heard a voice
saying, ‘Issachar, you seek to learn the future; know then that he who
is dear to you shall be tried in the furnace indeed. Yes, because of
his great love and pity, he shall forswear his faith, and with death
and sorrow he shall pay the price of his sin.’

“Then I was troubled and besought Heaven that you, my son, might be
saved from this unknown temptation, but the voice answered me:—

“‘Of their own will only can they who were one from the beginning be
held apart. Through good and ill let them work each other’s woe or
weal. The goal is sure, but they must choose the road.’

“Now as I wondered what these dark sayings might mean, the gloom opened
and I saw you, Aziel, standing in a grove of trees, while towards you
with outstretched hands drew a veiled woman who bore upon her brow the
golden bow of Baaltis. Then fire raged about you, and in the fire I
beheld many things which I have forgotten, and moving through it was
the Prince of Death, who slew and slew and spared not. So I awoke heavy
at heart, knowing that there had fallen on me who love you a shadow of
doom to come.”

In these latter days any educated man would set aside Issachar’s wild
vision as the vapourings of a mind distraught. But Aziel lived in the
time of Solomon, when men of his nation guided their steps by the light
of prophecy, and believed that it was the Divine pleasure, by means of
dreams and wonders and through the mouths of chosen seers, to declare
the will of Jehovah upon earth. To this faith, indeed, we still hold
fast, at least so far as that period and people are concerned, seeing
that we acknowledge Isaiah, David, and their company, to have been
inspired from above. Of that company Issachar the Levite was one, for
to him, from his youth up, voices had spoken in the watches of the
night, and often he had poured his warnings and denunciations into the
ears of kings and peoples, telling them with no uncertain voice of the
consequences of sin and idolatry, and of punishment to come. This
Aziel, who had been his ward and pupil, knew well, and therefore he did
not mock at the priest’s dream or set it aside as naught, but bowed his
head and listened.

“I am honoured indeed,” he said with humility, “that the destiny of my
poor soul and body should be a thing of weight to those on high.”

“Of your poor soul, Aziel?” broke in Issachar. “That soul of yours, of
which you speak so lightly, is of as great value in the eyes of Heaven
as that of any cherubim within its gates. The angels who fell were the
first and chiefest of the angels, and though now we are clad with
mortal shape in punishment of our sins, again redeemed and glorified we
can become among the mightiest of their hosts. Oh! my son, I beseech
you, turn from this woman while there yet is time, lest to you her lips
should be a cup of woe and your soul shall pay the price of them,
sharing the hell of the worshippers of Ashtoreth.”

“It may be so,” said Aziel; “but, Issachar, what said the voice? That
this, the woman of your dream and I were one from the beginning?
Issachar, you believe that the lady Elissa is she of whom the voice
spoke in your sleep and you bid me turn from her because she will bring
me sin and punishment. In truth, if I can, I will obey you, since
rather than forswear my faith, as your dream foretold, I would die a
hundred deaths. Nor do I believe that for any bribe of woman’s love I
shall forswear it in act or thought. Yet if such things come about it
is fate that drives me on, not my will—and what man can flee his fate?
But even though this lady be she whom I am doomed to love, you say that
because she is heathen I must reject her. Shame upon the thought, for
if she is heathen it is through ignorance, and it may be mine to change
her heart. Because I stand in danger shall I suffer her who, as you
tell me, was one with me from the beginning, to be lost in that hell of
Baal of which you speak? Nay, your dream is false. I will not renounce
my faith, but rather will win her to share it, and together we shall
triumph, and that I swear to you, Issachar.”

“Truly the evil one has many wiles,” answered the Levite, “and I did
ill to tell you of my dream, seeing that it can be twisted to serve the
purpose of your madness. Have your will, Aziel, and reap the fruit of
it, but of this I warn you—that while I can find a way to thwart it,
never, Prince, shall you take that witch to your bosom to be the ruin
of your life and soul.”

“Then, Issachar, on this matter there may be war between us!”

“Ay! there is war,” said the Levite, and left him.


The sun was already high in the heavens when Aziel awoke from the deep
and dreamless sleep which followed on the excitements and exhaustion of
the previous day. After his servants had waited upon him and robed him,
bringing him milk and fruit to eat, he dismissed them, and sat himself
down by the casement of his chamber to think a while.

Below him lay the city of flat-roofed houses enclosed with a double
wall, without the ring of which were thousands of straw huts, shaped
like bee-hives, wherein dwelt natives of the country, slaves or
servants of the occupying Phœnician race. To Aziel’s right, and not
more than a hundred paces from the governor’s house in which he was,
rose the round and mighty battlements of the temple, where the
followers of El and Baaltis worshipped, and the gold refiners carried
on their business. At intervals on its flat-topped walls stood towers
of observation, alternating with pointed monoliths of granite and
soapstone columns supporting vultures, rudely carved emblems of
Baaltis. Between these towers armed soldiers walked continually,
watching the city below and the plain beyond, for though the mission of
the Phœnicians here was one of peaceful gain it was evident that they
considered it necessary to be always prepared for war. On the hillside
above the great temple towered another fortress of stone—a citadel
deemed to be impregnable even should the temple fall into the hands of
an enemy—while on the crest of the precipitous slope, stretching as far
to right and left as the eye could reach, were many smaller detached
strongholds.

The scene that Aziel saw from his window was a busy one, for beneath
him a market was being held in an open square in the city. Here,
sheltered from the sun by grass-thatched booths, the Phœnician
merchants who had been his companions in their long and perilous
journey from the coast were already in treaty with numerous customers,
hoping, not in vain, to recoup themselves amply for the toils and
dangers which they had survived. Beneath these booths were spread their
goods; silks from Cos, bronze weapons and copper rods, or ingots from
the rich mines of Cyprus, linens and muslins from Egypt; beads, idols,
carven bowls, knives, glass ware, pottery in all shapes, and charms
made of glazed faience or Egyptian stone; bales of the famous purple
cloth of Tyre; surgical instruments, jewellery, and objects of toilet;
scents, pots of rouge, and other unguents for the use of ladies in
little alabaster and earthenware vases; bags of refined salt, and a
thousand other articles of commerce produced or stored in the workshops
of Phœnicia. These the chapmen bartered for raw gold by weight, tusks
of ivory, ostrich feathers, and girls of approved beauty, slaves taken
in war, or in some instances maidens whom their unnatural parents or
relatives did not scruple to sell into bondage.

In another portion of the square, provisions and stock, alive and dead,
were being offered for sale, for the most part by natives of the
country. Here were piles of vegetables and fruits grown in the gardens,
sacks of various sorts of grain, bundles of green forage from the
irrigated lands without the walls, calabashes full of curdled milk,
thick native beer and trusses of reed for thatching. Here again were
oxen, mules and asses, or great bucks such as we now know as eland or
kudoo, carried in on rough litters of boughs to be disposed of by
parties of savage huntsmen who had shot them with arrows or trapped
them in pitfalls. Every Eastern tribe and nation seemed to be
represented in the motley crowd. Yonder stalked savages, naked except
for their girdles, and armed with huge spears, who gazed with
bewilderment on the wonders of this mart of the white man; there moved
grave, long-bearded Arab merchants or Phœnicians in their pointed caps,
or bare-headed white-robed Egyptians, or half-bred mercenaries clad in
mail. Their variety was without end, while from them came a very babel
of different tongues as they cried their wares, bargained and
quarrelled.

Aziel gazed at this novel sight with interest, till, as he was
beginning to weary of it, the crowd parted to right and left, leaving a
clear lane across the market-place to the narrow gate of the temple.
Along this lane advanced a procession of the priests of El clad in red
robes, with tall red caps upon their heads, beneath which their
straight hair hung down to their shoulders. In their hands were gilded
rods, and round their necks hung golden chains, to which were attached
emblems of the god they worshipped. They walked two-and-two to the
number of fifty, chanting a melancholy dirge, one hand of each priest
resting upon his fellow’s shoulder, and as they passed, with the
exception of certain Jews, all the spectators uncovered, while some of
the more pious of them even fell upon their knees.

After the priests came a second procession, that of the priestesses of
Baaltis. These women, who numbered at least a hundred, were clad in
white, and wore upon their heads a gauze-like veil that fell to the
knees, and was held in place by a golden fillet surmounted with the
symbol of a crescent moon. Instead of the golden rods, however, each of
them held in her left hand a growing stalk of maize, from the sheathed
cob of which hung the bright tassel of its bloom. On her right wrist,
moreover, a milk-white dove was fastened by a wire, both corn and dove
being tokens of that fertility which, under various guises, was the
real object of worship of these people. The sight of these white-veiled
women about whose crescent-decked brows the doves fluttered, wildly
striving to be free, was very strange and beautiful as they advanced
also singing a low and melancholy chant. Aziel searched their faces
with his eyes while they passed slowly towards him, and presently his
heart bounded, for there among them, clasping the dove she bore to her
breast, as though to still its frightened strugglings, was the Lady
Elissa. He noticed, too, that as she went beneath the palace walls, she
glanced at the window-place of his chamber, but without seeing him for
he was seated in the shadow.

Presently the long line of priestesses, followed by hundreds of
worshippers, had vanished through the tortuous and narrow entrance of
the temple, and Aziel leaned back to think.

There, among the principal votaries of a goddess, the wickedness of
whose worship was a scandal and a by-word even in the ancient world,
walked the woman to whom he felt so strangely drawn and with whom, if
there were any truth in the visions of Issachar and the mysterious
warnings of his own soul, his fate was intertwined. As he thought of it
a sudden revulsion filled his heart. She was wise and beautiful, and
she seemed innocent, but Issachar was right; this girl was the minister
of an abominable creed; nay, for aught he knew, she was herself defiled
with its abominations, and her wisdom but an evil gift from the evil
powers she served. Could he, a prince of the royal blood of the House
of Israel and of the ancient Pharaohs of Khem, desire to have anything
to do with such an one, he a child of the Chosen People, a worshipper
of the true and only God? Yesterday she had thrown a spell upon him, a
spell of black magic, or the spell of her imperial beauty, which, it
mattered not, but to-day he was the lord of his own mind, and would
shake himself free of it and her.


In the market-place below, the Levite Issachar also had watched the
passing of the priests and priestesses of El and Baaltis.

“Tell me, Metem,” he asked of the Phœnician who stood beside him, his
head respectfully uncovered, “what mummery is this?”

“It is no mummery, worthy Issachar, but a ceremony of public sacrifice,
which is to be offered in the temple yonder, for the recovery from her
sickness of the Lady Baaltis, the high-priestess.”

“Where then is the offering. I see none, unless it be those doves that
are tied to the wrists of the women?”

“Nay, Issachar,” answered Metem smiling darkly, “the gods ask nobler
blood than that of doves. The offering is within, and it is the
first-born child of a priestess of Baaltis.”

“O Lord of Heaven!” said Issachar lifting up his eyes, “how long will
you suffer that this murderous and accursed race should defile the face
of earth?”

“Softly, friend,” broke in Metem, “I have read your Scriptures, and is
it not set out in them that your great forefather was commanded to
offer up his first-born in such a sacrifice?”

“Blaspheme not,” answered the Jew. “He was commanded indeed, that his
heart might be proved, but his hand was stayed. He Whom I worship
delights not in the blood of children.”

Here Issachar broke off, suddenly recognising the lady Elissa among the
white-robed priestesses. Watching her, he noted her glance at the
window of Aziel’s chamber, and saw what she could not see, that the
prince was seated there. “This daughter of Satan spreads her nets,” he
muttered between his teeth. Then a thought struck him, and he added
aloud, “Say, Metem, is it permitted to strangers to witness the rites
in yonder temple?”

“Surely,” answered the Phœnician; “that is, if they guard their
tongues, and do nothing to offend.”

“Then I desire to see them, Metem, and so doubtless does the prince
Aziel. Therefore, if it is your will, do me the service to enter his
chamber in the palace where he is sitting, and bid him to a great
ceremony that goes forward in the temple. And, Metem, if he asks what
that ceremony is, I charge you, say only that a dove is to be
sacrificed.

“I will wait for you at the gate of the temple, but do not tell him
that I send you on this errand. Metem, you love gain; remember that if
you humour me in this and other matters which may arise, doing my
bidding faithfully, I have the treasury of Jerusalem to draw upon.”

“No ill paymaster,” replied Metem cheerfully. “Certainly I will obey
you in all things, holy Issachar, as the king commanded me yonder in
Judea.”

“Now,” he reflected to himself, as he went upon his message, “I see how
the bird flies. The prince Aziel is in love with the lady Elissa, or
far upon the road to it, as at his age it is right and proper that he
should be, after a twelve months’ journey by sea and land with never a
pretty face to sigh for. The holy Issachar, on the other hand, is
minded that his charge shall have naught to do with a priestess of
Baaltis, as, his age and calling considered, is also right and proper.
Then there is that black savage Ithobal, who wishes to win the girl,
and the girl herself, who after the fashion of her sex, will probably
play them all off one against the other. Well, so much the better for
me, since I shall be a richer man even than I am before this affair is
done with. I have two hands, and gold is gold whoever be the giver,”
and smiling craftily to himself Metem passed into the palace.




CHAPTER V
THE PLACE OF SACRIFICE


Suddenly Aziel, looking up from his reverie, saw the Phœnician bowing
before him, cap in hand.

“May the Prince live for ever,” he said, “yet if he suffer melancholy
to overcome him thus, his life, however long, will be but sad.”

“I was only thinking, Metem,” answered Aziel with a start.

“Of the lady Elissa, whom you rescued, Prince? Ah! I guessed as much.
She is beautiful, is she not—I have never seen the equal of those
dreamy eyes and that mysterious smile—and learned also, though myself,
in a woman I prefer the beauty without the learning. It is a pity now
that she should chance to be a priestess of our worship, for that will
not please the holy Issachar whom, I fear, Prince, you find a stern
guide for the feet of youth.”

“Your business, merchant?” broke in Aziel.

“I crave your pardon, Prince,” answered the Phœnician, spreading out
his hands in deprecation. “I struck a good bargain for my wares this
morning, and drank wine to seal it, therefore, let me be forgiven if I
have spoken too freely in your presence, Prince. This is my business:
Yonder in the temple they celebrate a service which it is lawful for
strangers to witness, and as the opportunity is rare, I thought that,
having heard something of our mysteries in the grove last night, you
might wish to see the office. If this be so, I am come to guide you.”

“Aziel’s first impulse was to refuse to go; indeed, the words of
dismissal were on his lips when another purpose entered his mind. For
this once he would look upon these abominations and learn what part
Elissa played in them, and thus be cured for ever of the longings that
had seized him.

“What is the ceremony?” he asked.

“A sacrifice for the recovery of the lady Baaltis who is sick, Prince.”

“And what is the sacrifice?” asked Aziel.

“A dove, as I am told,” was the indifferent answer.

“I will come with you, Metem.”

“So be it, Prince. Your retinue awaits you at the gate.”

At the main entrance to the palace Aziel found his guard and other
servants gathered there to escort him. With them was Issachar, whom he
greeted, asking him if he knew the errand upon which they were bent.

“I do, Prince; it is to witness the abomination of a sacrifice of these
heathens.”

“Will you then accompany me there, Issachar?”

“Where my lord goes I go,” answered the Levite gravely. “Moreover,
Prince, if you have your reasons for wishing to see this devil-worship,
I may have mine.”

Then they set out, Metem guiding them. At the north gate of the temple,
which was not more than a yard in width, the Phœnician spoke to the
guards on duty, who drew back to let them pass. In single file, for the
passages were too narrow to allow of any other means of progression,
they threaded the tortuous and mazy paths of the great building,
passing between huge walls built of granite blocks laid without mortar,
till at length they reached a large open space. Here the ceremony had
already begun. Almost in the centre of this space, which was paved with
blocks of granite, stood two conical towers, the larger of which
measured thirty feet in height and the smaller about half as much.
These towers, also built of blocks of stone, were, as Metem informed
them, sacred to and emblematical of the gods El and Baaltis. In front
of them was a platform surmounted by a stone altar, and between them,
built in a pit in the ground, burned a great furnace of wood. All the
centre of the enclosure was occupied by the marshalled ranks of the
priests and priestesses. Without this sacred ring stood the closely
packed masses of spectators, amongst whom Aziel and his following were
given place, though some of the more pious worshippers murmured audibly
at the admission of these Jews.

When they entered, the companies of priests and priestesses were
finishing a prayer, the sentences of which they chanted alternately
with strange effect. In part it was formal, and in part an improvised
supplication to the protecting gods to restore health to that woman or
high-priestess who was known as the lady Baaltis. The prayer ended, a
beautiful bold-faced girl advanced to an open space in front of the
altar, and with a sudden movement threw off her white robe, revealing
herself to the spectators in a many-coloured garment of gauze, through
which her fair flesh gleamed.

The black hair of this woman was adorned with a coronet of scarlet
flowers and hung loose about her; her feet and arms were naked, and in
each hand she held a knife of bronze. Very slowly she began to dance,
her painted lips parted as though to speak, and her eyes, brightened
with pigments, turned up to heaven. By degrees her movements grew more
rapid, till at length, as she whirled round, her long locks streamed
out straight upon the air and the crown of flowers looked like a
scarlet ring. Suddenly the bronze knife in her right hand flashed, and
a spot of red appeared above her left breast; then the knife in the
left hand flashed, and another spot appeared over the right breast. At
each stroke the multitude cried, “_Ah!_” as with one voice, and then
were silent.

Now the maddened dancer, ceasing her whirlings, leapt high into the
air, clashing the knives above her head and crying, “Hear me, hear me,
Baaltis!”

Again she leapt, and this time the answer that came from her lips was
spoken in another voice, which said, “I am present. What seek you?”

A third time the priestess leapt, replying in her own voice, “Health
for thy servant who is sick.” Then came the answer in the second
voice—“I hear you, but I see no sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice would’st thou, O Queen? A dove?”

“Nay.”

“What then, Queen?”

“One only, the first-born child of a woman.”

As this command, which they supposed to be divine and from above,
issued out of the lips of the gashed and bleeding Pythoness, the
multitude that hitherto had listened in perfect silence, shouted aloud,
while the girl herself, utterly exhausted, fell to the earth swooning.

Now the high priest of El, who was named the Shadid, none other indeed
than the husband of her who lay sick, sprang upon the platform and
cried:—

“The goddess has spoken by the mouth of her oracle. She who is the
mother of all demands one life out of the many she has given, that the
Lady Baaltis, who is her priestess upon earth, may be recovered of her
sickness. Say, who will lay down a life for the honour of the goddess,
and that her regent in this land may be saved alive?”

Now—for all this scene had been carefully prepared—a woman stepped
forward, wearing the robe of a priestess, who bore in her arms a
drugged and sleeping child.

“I, father,” she cried in a shrill, hard voice, though her lips
trembled as she spoke. “Let the goddess take this child, the
first-fruit of my body, that our mother the Lady Baaltis may be cured
of her sickness, and that I, her daughter, may be blessed by the
goddess, and through me, all we who worship her.” And she held out the
little victim towards him.

The Shadid stretched out his arms to take it, but he never did take it,
for at that moment appeared upon the platform the tall and bearded
figure of Issachar clad in his white robes.

“Hold!” he cried in a loud, clear voice, “and touch not the innocent
child. Spawn of Satan, would you do murder to appease the devils whom
you worship? Well shall they repay you, people of Zimboe. Oh! mine eyes
are open and I see,” he went on, shaking his thin arms above his head
in a prophetic frenzy. “I see the sword of the true God, and it flames
above this city of idolaters and abominations. I see this place of
sacrifice, and I tell you that before the moon is young again it shall
run red with the blood of you, idol worshippers, and of you, women of
the groves. The heathen is at your gates, ye followers of demons, and
my God sends them as He sends the locusts of the north wind to devour
you like grass, to sweep you away like the dust of the desert. Cry then
upon El and Baaltis, and let El and Baaltis save you if they can. Doom
is upon you; Azrael, angel of death, writes his name upon your
foreheads, every one of you, giving your city to the owls, your bodies
to the jackals, and your souls to Satan——”

Thus far the priests and the spectators had listened to Issachar’s
denunciations in bewildered amazement not unmixed with fear. Now with a
roar of wrath they awoke, and suddenly he was dragged from the platform
by a score of hands and struck down with many blows. Indeed, he would
then and there have been torn to pieces had not a guard of soldiers,
knowing that he was Sakon’s guest and in the train of the prince Aziel,
snatched him from the maddened multitude, and borne him swiftly to a
place of safety without the enclosure.

While the tumult was at its height, a Phœnician, who had arrived in the
temple breathless with haste, might have been seen to pluck Metem by
the sleeve.

“What is it?” Metem asked of the man, who was his servant.

“This: the lady Baaltis is dead. I watched as you bade me, and, as she
had promised to do, in token of the end, her woman waved a napkin from
the casement of that tower where she lies.”

“Do any know of this?”

“None.”

“Then say no word of it,” and Metem hurried off in search of Aziel.

Presently he found him seeking for Issachar in company with his guards.

“Have no fear, Prince,” Metem said, in answer to his eager questions,
“he is safe enough, for the soldiers have borne the fool away. Pardon
me that I should speak thus of a holy man, but he has put all our lives
in danger.”

“I do not pardon you,” answered Aziel hotly, “and I honour Issachar for
his act and words. Let us begone from this accursed place whither you
entrapped me.”

Before Metem could reply a voice cried, “Close the doors of the
sanctuary, so that none can pass in or go out, and let the sacrifice be
offered.”

“Listen, Prince,” said Metem, “you must stay here till the ceremony is
done.”

“Then I tell you, Phœnician,” answered Aziel, “that rather than suffer
that luckless child to be butchered before my eyes I will cut my way to
it with my guards, and rescue it alive.”

“To leave yourself dead in place of it,” answered Metem sarcastically;
“but, see, a woman desires to speak with you,” and he pointed to a girl
in the robe of a priestess, whose face was hidden with a veil, and who,
in the tumult and confusion, had worked her way to Aziel.

“Prince,” whispered the veiled form, “I am Elissa. For your life’s sake
keep still and silent, or you will be stabbed, for your words have been
overheard, and the priests are mad at the insult that has been put upon
them.”

“Away with you, woman,” answered Aziel; “what have I to do with a girl
of the groves and a murderess of children?”

She winced at his bitter words, but said quietly:—

“Then on your own head be your blood, Prince, which I have risked much
to keep unshed. But before you die, learn that I knew nothing of this
foul sacrifice, and that gladly would I give my own life to save that
of yonder child.”

“Save it, and I will believe you,” answered the prince, turning from
her.

Elissa slipped away, for she saw that the priestesses, her companions,
were reforming their ranks, and that she must not tarry. When she had
gone a few yards, a hand caught her by the sleeve, and the voice of
Metem, who had overheard something of this talk, whispered in her ear:—

“Daughter of Sakon, what will you give me if I show you a way to save
the life of the child, and with it that of the prince, and at the same
time to make him think well of you again?”

“All my jewels and ornaments of gold, and they are many,” she answered
eagerly.

“Good; it is a bargain. Now listen: The lady Baaltis is dead; she died
a few minutes since, and none here know it save myself and one other,
my servant, nor can any learn it, for the gates are shut. Do you be,
therefore, suddenly inspired—of the gods—and say so, for then the
sacrifice must cease, seeing that she for whom it was to be offered is
dead. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she answered, “and though the blasphemy bring on me the
vengeance of Baaltis, yet it shall be dared. Fear not, your pay is
good,” and she pressed forward to her place, keeping the veil wrapped
about her head till she reached it unobserved, for in the general
confusion none had noticed her movements.

When the noise of shouting and angry voices had at length died away,
and the spectators were driven back outside the sacred circle, the
priest upon the platform cried:—

“Now that the Jew blasphemer has gone, let the sacrifice be offered, as
is decreed.”

“Yea, let the sacrifice be offered,” answered the multitude, and once
more the woman with the sleeping child stepped forward. But before the
priest could take it another figure approached him, that of Elissa,
with arms outstretched and eyes upturned.

“Hold, O priest!” she said, “for the goddess, breathing on my brow,
inspires me, and I have a message from the goddess.”

“Draw near, daughter, and speak it in the ears of men,” the priest
answered wondering, for he found it hard to believe in such
inspiration, and indeed would have denied her a hearing had he dared.

So Elissa climbed the platform, and standing upon it still with
outstretched hands and upturned face, she said in a clear voice:—

“The goddess refuses the sacrifice, since she has taken to herself her
for whom it was to have been offered—the Lady Baaltis is dead.”

At this tidings a groan went up from the people, partly of grief for
the loss of a spiritual dignitary who was popular, and partly of
disappointment because now the sacrifice could not be offered. For the
Phœnicians loved these horrible spectacles, which were not, however,
commonly celebrated by daylight and in the presence of the people.

“It is a lie,” cried a voice, “but now the Lady Baaltis was living.”

“Let the gates be opened, and send to see whether or no I lie,” said
Elissa, quietly.

Then for a while there was silence while a priest went upon the errand.
At length he was seen returning. Pushing his way through the crowd, he
mounted the platform, and said:—

“The daughter of Sakon speaks truth; alas! the lady Baaltis is dead.”

Elissa sighed in relief, for had her tidings proved false she could
scarcely have hoped to escape the fury of the crowd.

“Ay!” she cried, “she is dead, as I told you, and because of your sin,
who would have offered human sacrifice in public, against the custom of
our faith and city and without the command of the goddess.”


Then in sullen silence the priests and priestesses reformed their
ranks, and departed from the sanctuary, whence they were followed by
the spectators, the most of them in no good mood, for they had been
baulked of the promised spectacle.




CHAPTER VI
THE HALL OF AUDIENCE


When Elissa reached her chamber after the break up of the procession,
she threw herself upon her couch, and burst into a passion of tears.
Well might she weep, for she had been false to her oath as a priestess,
uttering as a message from the goddess that which she had learnt from
the lips of man. More, she could not rid herself of the remembrance of
the scorn and loathing with which the Prince Aziel had looked upon her,
or of the bitter insult of his words when he called her, “a girl of the
groves, and a murderess of children.”

It chanced that, so far as Elissa was concerned, these charges were
utterly untrue. None could throw a slur upon her, and as for these rare
human sacrifices, she loathed the very name of them, nor, unless forced
to it, would she have been present had she guessed that any such
offering was intended.

Like most of the ancient religions, that of the Phœnicians had two
sides to it—a spiritual and a material side. The spiritual side was a
worship of the far-off unknown divinity, symbolised by the sun, moon
and planets, and visible only in their majestic movements, and in the
forces of nature. To this Elissa clung, knowing no truer god, and from
those forces she strove to wring their secret, for her heart was deep.
Lonely invocations to the goddess beneath the light of the moon
appealed to her, for from them she seemed to draw strength and comfort,
but the outward ceremonies of her faith, or the more secret and darker
of them, of which in practice she knew little, were already an
abomination in her eyes. And now what if the Jew prophet spoke truly?
What if this creed of hers were a lie, root and branch, and there did
lie in the heavens above a Lord and Father who heard and answered the
prayers of men, and who did not seek of them the blood of the children
He had given?

A great doubt took hold of Elissa and shook her being, and with the
doubt came hope. How was it—if her faith were true—that when she took
the name of the goddess in vain, nothing had befallen her? She desired
to learn more of this matter, but who was to teach her? The Levite
turned from her with loathing as from a thing unclean, and there
remained, therefore, but the prince Aziel, who had put her from him
with those bitter words of scorn. Ah! why did they pain her so,
piercing her heart as with a spear? Was it because—because—he had grown
dear to her? Yes, that was the truth. She had learned it even as he
cursed her; all her quick southern blood was alight with a new fire,
the like of which she had never known before. And not her blood only,
it was her spirit—her spirit that yearned to his. Had it not leapt
within her at the first sight of him as to one most dear, one long-lost
and found again? She loved him, and he loathed her, and oh! her lot was
hard.

As Elissa lay brooding thus in her pain, the door opened and Sakon, her
father, hurried into the chamber.

“What is it that chanced yonder?” he asked, for he had not been present
in the sanctuary, “and, daughter, why do you weep?”

“I weep, father, because your guest, the prince Aziel, has called me ‘a
girl of the groves, and a murderess of children,’” she replied.

“Then, by my head, prince that he is, he shall answer for it to me,”
said Sakon, grasping at his sword-hilt.

“Nay, father, since to him I must have seemed to deserve the words.
Listen.” And she told him all that had passed, hiding nothing.

“Now it seems that trouble is heaped upon trouble,” said the Phœnician
when she had finished, “and they were mad who suffered the prince and
that fierce Issachar to be present at the sacrifice. Daughter, I tell
you this: though I am a worshipper of El and Baaltis, as my fathers
were before me, I know that Jehovah of the Jews is a great and powerful
Lord, and that His prophets do not prophesy falsely, for I have seen it
in my youth, yonder in the coasts of Sidon. What did Issachar say? That
before the moon was young again, this temple should run red with blood?
Well, so it may happen, for Ithobal threatens war against us, and for
your sake, my daughter.”

“How for my sake, father?” she asked heavily, as one who knew what the
answer would be.

“You know well, girl. Ever since you danced before him at the great
welcoming feast I made in his honour a month ago the man is besotted of
you; moreover, he is mad with jealousy of this new-comer, the prince
Aziel. He has demanded public audience of me this afternoon, and I have
it privately that then he will formally ask you in marriage before the
people, and if he is refused will declare war upon the city, with which
he has many an ancient quarrel. Yes, yes, king Ithobal is that sword of
God which the Jew said he saw hanging over us, and should it fall it
will be because of you, Elissa.”

“The Jew did not say that, father; he said it would be because of the
sins of the people and their idolatries.”

“What does it matter what he said?” broke in Sakon hastily. “How shall
I answer Ithobal?”

“Tell him,” she replied with a strange smile, “that he does wisely to
be jealous of the prince Aziel.”

“What! Of the stranger who this very day reviled you in words of such
shame, and so soon?” asked her father astonished.

Elissa did not speak in answer; she only looked straight before her,
and nodded her head.

“Had ever man such a daughter?” Sakon went on in petulant dismay.
“Truly it is a wise saying which tells that women love those best who
beat them, be it with the tongue or with the fist. Not but what I would
gladly see you wedded to a prince of Israel and of Egypt rather than of
this half-bred barbarian, but the legions of Solomon and of Pharaoh are
far away, whereas Ithobal has a hundred thousand spears almost at our
gate.”

“There is no need to speak of such things, father,” she said, turning
aside, “since, even were I willing, the prince would have nought to do
with me, who am a priestess of Baaltis.”

“The matter of religion might be overcome,” suggested Sakon; “but, no,
for many reasons it is impossible. Well, this being so, daughter, I may
answer Ithobal that you will wed him.”

“I!” she said; “I wed that black-hearted savage? My father, you may
answer what you will, but of this be sure, that I will go to my grave
before I pass as wife to the board of Ithobal.”

“Oh! my daughter,” pleaded Sakon, “think before you say it. As his wife
at least you, who are not of royal blood, will be a queen, and the
mother of kings. But if you refuse, then either I must force you, which
is hateful to me, or there will be such a war as the city has not known
for generations, for Ithobal and his tribes have many grievances
against us. By the gift of yourself, for a while, at any rate, you can,
as it chances, make peace between us, but if that is withheld, then
blood will run in rivers, and perhaps this city, with all who live in
it, will be destroyed, or at the least its trade must be ruined and its
wealth stolen away.”

“If it is decreed that all these things are to be, they will be,”
answered Elissa calmly, “seeing that this war has threatened us for
many years, and that a woman must think of herself first, and of the
fate of cities afterwards. Of my own free will I shall never take
Ithobal for husband. Father, I have said.”

“Of the fate of cities, yes; but how of my fate, and that of those we
love? Are we all to be ruined, and perhaps slaughtered, to satisfy your
whim, girl?”

“I did not say so, father. I said that of my own free will I would not
wed Ithobal. If you choose to give me to him you have the right to do
it, but know then that you give me to my death. Perhaps it is best that
it should be thus.”

Sakon knew his daughter well, and it did not need that he should glance
at her face to learn that she meant her words. Also he loved her, his
only child, more dearly than anything on earth.

“In truth my strait is hard, and I know not which way to turn,” he
said, covering his face with his hand.

“Father,” she replied, laying her fingers lightly on his shoulder,
“what need is there to answer him at once? Take a month, or if he will
not give it, a week. Much may happen in that time.”

“The counsel is wise,” he said, catching at this straw. “Daughter, be
in the great hall of audience with your attendants three hours after
noon, for then we must receive Ithobal boldly in all pomp, and deal
with him as best we may. And now I go to ask peace for the Levite from
the priests of El, and to discover whom the sacred colleges desire to
nominate as the new Baaltis. Doubtless it will be Mesa, the daughter of
her who is dead, though many are against her. Oh! if there were no
priests and no women, this city would be easier to govern,” and with an
impatient gesture Sakon left the room.


It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the great hall of audience
in Zimboe was crowded with a brilliant assemblage. There sat Sakon, the
governor, and with him his council of the notables of the city; there
were prince Aziel and among his retinue, Issachar the prophet,
fierce-eyed as ever, though hardly recovered from the rough handling he
had experienced in the temple. There were representatives of the
college of the priests of El. There were many ladies, wives and
daughters of dignitaries and wealthy citizens, and with them a great
crowd of spectators of all classes gathered in the lower part of the
hall, for a rumour had spread about that the farewell audience given by
Sakon to King Ithobal was likely to be stormy.

When all were gathered, a herald announced that Ithobal, King of the
Tribes, waited to take his leave of Sakon, Governor of Zimboe, before
departing to his own land on the morrow.

“Let him be admitted,” said Sakon, who looked weary and ill at ease.
Then as the herald bowed and left, he turned and whispered something
into the ear of his daughter Elissa, who stood behind his chair, her
face immovable as that of an Egyptian Sphinx, but magnificently
apparelled in gleaming robes and jewelled ornaments—which Metem,
looking on them, reflected with satisfaction were now his property.

Presently, preceded by a burst of savage music, Ithobal entered. He was
gorgeously arrayed in a purple Tyrian robe decked with golden chains,
while on the brow, in token of his royalty, he wore a golden circlet in
which was set a single blood-red stone. Before him walked a
sword-bearer carrying a sword of ceremony, a magnificent ivory-handled
weapon encrusted with rough gems and inlaid with gold, while behind
him, clad in barbaric pomp, marched a number of counsellors and
attendants, huge and half-savage men who glared wonderingly at the
splendour of the place and its occupants. As the king came, Sakon rose
from his chair of state and, advancing down the hall, took him by the
hand and led him to a similar chair placed at a little distance.

Ithobal seated himself and looked around the hall. Presently his glance
fell upon Aziel, and he scowled.

“Is it common, Sakon,” he asked, “that the seat of a prince should be
set higher than that of a crowned king?” And he pointed to the chair of
Aziel, which was placed a little above his own upon the daïs.

The governor was about to answer when Aziel said coldly:—

“Where it was pointed out to me that I should sit, there I sat, though,
for aught I care, the king Ithobal may take my place. The grandson of
Pharaoh and of Solomon does not need to dispute for precedence with the
savage ruler of savage tribes.”

Ithobal sprang to his feet and cried, grasping his sword:—

“By my father’s soul, you shall answer for this, Princelet.”

“You should have sworn by your mother’s soul, King Ithobal,” replied
Aziel quietly, “for doubtless it is the black blood in your veins that
causes you to forget your courtesy. For the rest, I answer to no man
save to my king.”

“Yet there is one other who will make you answer,” replied Ithobal, in
a voice thick with rage, “and here he is,” and he drew his sword and
flashed it before the prince’s eyes. “Or if you fear to face him, then
the wands of my slaves shall cause you to cry me pardon.”

“If you desire to challenge me to combat, king Ithobal, for this
purpose only I am your servant, though the fashion of your challenging
is not that of any nation which I know.”

Before Ithobal could reply, Sakon cried out in a loud voice:—

“Enough, enough! Is this a place for brawling, king Ithobal, and would
you seek to fix a quarrel upon my guest, the prince Aziel, here in my
council chamber, and to bring upon me the wrath of Israel, of Tyre, and
of Egypt? Be sure that the prince shall cross no swords with you; no,
not if I have to set him under guard to keep him safe. To your
business, king Ithobal, or I break up this assembly and send you under
escort to our gates.”

Now his counsellors plucked Ithobal by the sleeve and whispered to him
some advice, which at last he seemed to take with an ill grace, for,
turning, he said, “So be it. This is my business, Sakon: For many years
I and the countless tribes whom I rule have suffered much at the hands
of you Phœnicians, who centuries ago settled here in my country as
traders. That you should trade we are content, but not that you should
establish yourselves as a sovereign power, pretending to be my equals
who are my servants. Therefore, in the name of my nation, I demand that
the tribute which you pay to me for the use of the mines of gold shall
henceforth be doubled; that the defences of this city be thrown down;
and that you cease to enslave the natives of the land to labour in your
service. I have spoken.”

Now as these arrogant demands reached their ears, the company assembled
in the hall murmured with anger and astonishment, then turned to wait
for Sakon’s answer.

“And if we refuse these small requests of yours, O King?” asked the
governor sarcastically, “what then? Will you make war upon us?”

“First tell me, Sakon, if you do refuse them?”

“In the name of the cities of Tyre and Sidon whom I serve, and of Hiram
my master, I refuse them one and all,” answered Sakon with dignity.

“Then, Sakon, I am minded to bring up a hundred thousand men against
you and to sweep you and your city from the face of earth,” said
Ithobal. “Yet I remember that I also have Phœnician blood in my veins
mixed with the nobler and more ancient blood at which yonder upstart
jeers, and therefore I would spare you. I remember also that for
generations there has been peace and amity between my forefathers and
the Council of this city, and therefore I would spare you. Behold,
then, I build a bridge whereby you may escape, asking but one little
thing of you in proof that you are indeed my friend, and it is that you
give me your daughter, the lady Elissa, whom I seek to make my queen.
Think well before you answer, remembering that upon this answer may
hang the lives of all who listen to you, ay, and of many thousand
others.”

For a while there was silence in the assemblage, and every eye was
fixed upon Elissa, who stood neither moving nor speaking, her face
still set like that of a Sphinx, and almost as unreadable. Aziel gazed
at her with the rest, and his eyes she felt alone of all the hundreds
that were bent upon her. Indeed, so strongly did they draw her, that
against her own will she turned her head and met them. Then remembering
what had passed between herself and the prince that very day, she
coloured faintly and looked down, neither the glance nor the blush
escaping the watchful Ithobal.

Presently Sakon spoke:—

“King Ithobal,” he said, “I am honoured indeed that you should seek my
daughter as your queen, but she is my only child, whom I love, and I
have sworn to her that I will not force her to marry against her will,
whoever be the suitor. Therefore, King, take your answer from her own
lips, for whatever it be it is my answer.”

“Lady,” said Ithobal, “you have heard your father’s words; be pleased
to say that you look with favour upon my suit, and that you will deign
to share my throne and power.”

Elissa took a step forward on the daïs and curtseyed low before the
king.

“O King!” she said, “I am your handmaid, and great indeed is the favour
that you would do your servant. Yet, King, I pray of you search out
some fairer woman of a more royal rank to share your crown and sceptre,
for I am all unworthy of them, and to those words on this matter which
I have spoken in past days I have none to add.” Then again she
curtseyed, adding, “King, I am your servant.”

Now a murmur of astonishment went up from the audience, for few of them
thought it possible that Elissa, who, however beautiful, was but the
daughter of a noble, could refuse to become the wife of a king. Ithobal
alone did not seem to be astonished, for he had expected this answer.

“Lady,” he said, repressing with an effort the passions which were
surging within him, “I think that I have something to offer to the
woman of my choice, and yet you put me aside as lightly as though I had
neither name, nor power, nor station. This, as it seems to me, can be
read in one way only, that your heart is given elsewhere.”

“Have it as you will, King,” answered Elissa, “my heart is given
elsewhere.”

“And yet, lady, not four suns gone you swore to me that you loved no
man. Since then it seems that you have learned to love, and swiftly,
and it is yonder Jew whom you have chosen.” And he pointed to the
prince Aziel.

Again Elissa coloured, this time to the eyes, but she showed no other
sign of confusion.

“May the king pardon me,” she said, “and may the prince Aziel, whose
name has thus been coupled with mine, pardon me. I said indeed that my
heart was given elsewhere, but I did not say it was given to any man.
May not the heart of a mortal maid-priestess be given to the
Ever-living?”

Now for a moment the king was silenced, while a murmur of applause at
her ready wit went round the audience. But before it died away a voice
at the far end of the hall called out:—

“Perchance the lady does not know that yonder in Egypt, and in
Jerusalem also, prince Aziel is named the Ever-living.”

Now it was Elissa’s turn to be overcome.

“Nay, I knew it not,” she said; “how should I know it? I spoke of that
Dweller in the heavens whom I worship——”

“And behold, the title fits a dweller on the earth whom you must also
worship, for such omens do not come by chance,” cried the same voice,
but from another quarter of the crowded hall.

“I ask pardon,” broke in Aziel, “and leave to speak. It is true that
owing to a certain birth-mark which I bear, among the Egyptians I have
been given the bye-name of the Ever-living, but it is one which this
lady can scarcely have heard, therefore jest no more upon a chance
accident of words. Moreover, if you be men, cease to heap insult upon a
woman. I who am almost a stranger here have not dared to ask the lady
Elissa for her favour.”

“Ay, but you will ask and she will grant,” answered the same voice, the
owner of which none could discover—for he seemed to speak from every
part of the chamber.

“Indeed,” went on Aziel, not heeding the interruption, “the last words
between us were words of anger, for we quarrelled on a matter of
religion.”

“What of that?” cried the voice; “love is the highest of religions, for
do not the Phœnicians worship it?”

“Seize yonder knave,” shouted Sakon, and search was made but without
avail. Afterwards, however, Aziel remembered that once, when they were
weather-bound on their journey from the coast, Metem had amused them by
making his voice sound from various quarters of the hut in which they
lay. Then Ithobal rose and said:—

“Enough of this folly; I am not here to juggle with words, or to listen
to such play. Whether the lady Elissa spoke of the gods she serves or
of a man is one to me. I care not of whom she spoke, but for her words
I do care. Now hearken, you city of traders: If this is to be thy
answer, then I break down that bridge which I have built, and it is war
between you and my Tribes, war to the end. But let her change her
words, and whether she loves me or loves me not, come to be my wife,
and, for my day, the bridge shall stand; for once that we are wed I can
surely teach her love, or if I cannot, at least it is she I seek with
or without her love. Reflect then, lady, and reply again, remembering
how much hangs upon your lips.”

“Do you think, king Ithobal,” Elissa answered, looking at him with
angry eyes, “that a woman such as I am can be won by threats? I have
spoken, king Ithobal.”

“I know not,” he replied; “but I do know that she can be won by force,
and then surely, lady, your pride shall pay the price, for you shall be
mine, but not my queen.”

Now one of the council rose and said:—

“It seems, Sakon, that there is more in this matter than whether or no
the king Ithobal pleases your daughter. Is the city then to be plunged
into a great war, of which none can see the end, because one woman
looks askance upon a man? Better that a thousand girls should be wedded
where they would not than that such a thing should happen. Sakon,
according to our ancient law you have the right to give your daughter
in marriage where and when you will. We demand, therefore, that for the
good of the commonwealth, you should exercise this right, and hand over
the lady Elissa to king Ithobal.”

This speech was received with loud and general shouts of approval, for
no Phœnician audience would have been willing to sacrifice its
interests for a thing so trivial as the happiness of a woman.

“Between the desire of a beloved daughter to whom I have pledged my
word and my duty to the great city over which I rule, my strait is hard
indeed,” answered Sakon. “Hearken, king Ithobal, I must have time. Give
me eight days from now in which to answer you, for if you will not, I
deny your suit.”

Ithobal seemed about to refuse the demand of Sakon. Then once more his
counsellors plucked him by the sleeve, pointing out to him that if he
did this, it was likely that none of them would leave the city alive.
At some sign from the governor, they whispered, the captains of the
guard were already hastening from the hall.

“So be it, Sakon,” he said. “To-night I camp without your walls, which
are no longer safe for one who has threatened war against them, and on
the eighth day from this see to it that your heralds being me the Lady
Elissa and peace—or I make good my threat. Till then, farewell.” And
placing himself in the midst of his company king Ithobal left the hall.




CHAPTER VII
THE BLACK DWARF


Some two hours had passed since the break-up of the assembly in the
great hall. Prince Aziel was seated in his chamber, when the keeper of
the door announced that a woman was without who desired to speak with
him. He gave orders that she should be admitted, and presently a veiled
figure entered the room and bowed before him.

“Be pleased to unveil, and to tell me your business,” he said.

With some reluctance his visitor withdrew the wrapping from her head,
revealing a face which Aziel recognised as one that he had seen among
the waiting women who attended on Elissa.

“My message is for your ear, Prince,” she said, glancing at the man who
had ushered her into the chamber.

“It is not my custom to receive strangers thus alone,” said the prince;
“but be it as you will,” and he motioned to the servant to retire
without the door. “I await your pleasure,” he added, when the man had
gone.

“It is here,” she answered, and drew from her bosom a little papyrus
roll.

“Who wrote this?” he asked.

“I know not, Prince; it was given to me to pass on to you.”

Then he opened the roll and read. It ran thus: “Though we parted with
bitter words, still in my sore distress I crave the comfort of your
counsel. Therefore, since I am forbidden to speak with you openly, meet
me, I beseech you, at moonrise in the palace garden under the shade of
the great fig tree with five roots, where I shall be accompanied only
by one I trust. Bring no man with you for my safety’s sake.—Elissa.”

Aziel thrust the scroll into his robe, and thought awhile. Then he gave
the waiting lady a piece of gold and said:—

“Tell her who sent you that I obey her words. Farewell.”

This message seemed to puzzle the woman, who opened her lips to speak.
Then, changing her mind, she turned and went.

Scarcely had she gone when the Phœnician, Metem, was ushered into the
room.

“O Prince,” he said maliciously, “pardon me if I caution you. Yet in
truth if veiled ladies flit thus through your apartments in the light
of day, it will reach the ears of the holy but violent Issachar, of
whose doings I come to speak. Then, Prince, I tremble for you.”

Aziel made a movement half-impatient and half-contemptuous. “The woman
is a serving-maid,” he said, “who brought me a message that I
understand but little. Tell me, Metem, for you know this place of old,
does there stand in the palace garden a great fig tree with five
roots?”

“Yes, Prince; at least such a tree used to grow there when last I
visited this country. It was one of the wonders of the town, because of
its size. What of it?”

“Little, except that I must be under it at moonrise. See and read,
since whatever you may say of yourself, you are, I think, no traitor.”

“Not if I am well paid to keep counsel, Prince,” Metem answered with a
smile. Then he read the scroll.

“I am glad that the noble lady brings an attendant with her,” he said
as he returned it, with a bow. “The gossips of Zimboe are censorious,
and might misinterpret this moonlight meeting, as indeed would Sakon
and Issachar. Well, doves will coo and maids will woo, and unless I can
make money out of it the affair is none of mine.”

“Have I not told you that there is no question of wooing?” asked the
prince angrily. “I go only to give her what counsel I can in the matter
of the suit of this savage, Ithobal. The lady Elissa and I have
quarrelled beyond repair over that accursed sacrifice——”

“Which her ready wit prevented,” put in Metem.

“But I promised last night that I would help her if I could,” the
prince went on, “and I always keep my word.”

“I understand, Prince. Well, since you turn from the lady, whose name
with yours is so much in men’s mouths just now, doubtless you will give
her wise counsel, namely, to wed Ithobal, and lift the shadow of war
from this city. Then, indeed, we shall all be grateful to you, for it
seems that no one else can move her stubbornness. And, by the way: If,
when she has listened to your wisdom, the daughter of Sakon should
chance to explain to you that the sight of this day’s attempted
sacrifice filled her with horror, and that she parted with every jewel
she owns to put an end to it—well, her words will be true. But, since
you have quarrelled, they will have no more interest for you, Prince,
than has my talk about them. So now to other matters.” And Metem began
to speak of the conduct of Issachar in the sanctuary, and of the
necessity of guarding him against assassination at the hands of the
priests of El as a consequence of his religious zeal. Presently he was
gone, leaving Aziel somewhat bewildered.

Could it be true, as she herself had told him, and as Metem now
asserted, that Elissa had not participated willingly in the dark rites
in the temple? If so he had misjudged her and been unjust; indeed, what
atonement could suffice for such words as he had used towards her?
Well, to some extent she must have understood and forgiven them,
otherwise she would scarcely have sought his aid, though he knew not
how he could help her in her distress.


When Elissa returned from the assembly, she laid herself down to rest,
worn out in mind and body. Soon sleep came to her, and with the sleep
dreams. At first these were vague and shadowy, then they grew more
clear. She dreamed that she saw a dim and moonlit garden, and in it a
vast tree with twisted roots that seemed familiar to her. Something
moving among the branches of this tree attracted her attention, but for
a long while she watched it without being able to discover what it was.
Now she saw. The moving thing was a hideous black dwarf with beady
eyes, who held in his hand a little ivory tipped bow, on the string of
which was set an arrow. Her consciousness concentrated itself upon this
arrow, and though she knew not how, she became aware that it was
poisoned. What was the dwarf doing in the tree with a bow and poisoned
arrow, she wondered? Suddenly a sound seemed to strike her ear, the
sound of a man’s footsteps walking over grass, and she perceived that
the figure of the dwarf, crouched upon the bough, became tense and
alert, and that his fingers tightened upon the bow-string until the
blood was driven from their yellow tips. Following the glance of his
wicked black eyes, she saw advancing through the shadow a tall man clad
in a dark robe. Now he emerged into a patch of moonlight and stood
looking around him as though he were searching for some one. Then the
dwarf raised himself to his knees upon the bough, and, aiming at the
bare throat of the man, drew the bow-string to his ear. At this moment
the victim turned his head and the moonlight shone full upon his face.
It was that of the prince Aziel.


Elissa awoke from her vision with a little cry, then rose trembling,
and strove to comfort herself in the thought that although it was so
very vivid she had dreamed but a dream. Still shaken and unnerved, she
passed into another chamber, and made pretence to eat of the meal that
was made ready for her, for it was now the hour of sunset. While she
was thus employed, it was announced that the Phœnician, Metem, desired
to speak with her, and she commanded that he should be admitted.

“Lady,” he said bowing, so soon as her attendants had withdrawn to the
farther end of the chamber, “you can guess my errand. This morning I
gave you certain tidings which proved both true and useful, and for
those tidings you promised a reward.”

“It is so,” she said, and going to a chest she drew from it an ivory
casket full of ornaments of gold and among them necklaces and other
objects set with uncut precious stones. “Take them,” she said, “they
are yours; that is, save this gold chain alone, for it is vowed to
Baaltis.”

“But lady,” he asked, “how can you appear before Ithobal the king thus
robbed of all your ornaments?”

“I shall not appear before Ithobal the king,” she answered sharply.

“You say so! Then what will the prince Aziel think of you when he sees
you thus unadorned?”

“My beauty is my adornment,” she replied, “not these gems and gold.
Moreover, it is nought to me what he thinks, for he hates me, and has
reviled me.”

Metem lifted his eyebrows incredulously and went on: “Still, I will not
deprive you of this woman’s gear. Look now, I value it, and at no high
figure,” and drawing out his writer’s palette and a slip of papyrus, he
wrote upon it an acknowledgment of debt, which he asked her to sign.

“This document, lady,” he said, “I will present to your father—or your
husband—at a convenient season, nor do I fear that either of them will
refuse to honour it. And now I take my leave, for you—have an
appointment to keep—and,” he added with emphasis, “the time of moonrise
is at hand.”

“Your meaning, I pray you?” she asked. “I have no appointment at
moonrise, or at any other hour.”

Metem bowed politely, but in a fashion which showed that he put no
faith in her words.

“Again I ask your meaning, merchant,” she said, “for your dark hintings
are scarcely to be borne.”

The Phœnician looked at her; there was a ring of truth in her voice.

“Lady,” he said, “will you indeed deny, after I have seen it written by
yourself, that within some few minutes you meet the prince Aziel
beneath a great tree in the palace gardens, there—so said the scroll—to
ask his aid in this matter of the suit of Ithobal?”

“Written by myself?” she said wonderingly. “Meet the prince Aziel
beneath a tree in the palace gardens? Never have I thought of it.”

“Yet, lady, the scroll I saw purported to be written by you, and your
own woman bore it to the prince. As I think, she sits yonder at the end
of the chamber, for I know her shape.”

“Come hither,” called Elissa, addressing the woman. “Now tell me, what
scroll was this that you carried to-day to the prince Aziel, saying
that I sent you?”

“Lady,” answered the girl confusedly, “I never told the prince Aziel
that you sent him the scroll.”

“The truth, woman, the truth,” said her mistress. “Lie not, or it will
be the worse for you.”

“Lady, this is the truth. As I was walking through the market-place an
old black woman met me, and offered me a piece of gold if I would
deliver a letter into the hand of the prince Aziel. The gold tempted
me, for I had need of it, and I consented; but of who wrote the letter
I know nothing, nor have I ever seen the woman before.”

“You have done wrong, girl,” said Elissa, “but I believe your tale. Now
go.”

When she had gone, Elissa stood for a while thinking; and, as she
thought, Metem saw a look of fear gather on her face.

“Say,” she asked him, “is there anything strange about the tree of
which the scroll tells?”

“Its size is strange,” he answered, “and it has five roots that stand
above the ground.”

As he spoke Elissa uttered a little cry.

“Ah!” she said, “it is the tree of my dream. Now—now I understand.
Swift, oh! come with me swiftly, for see, the moon rises,” and she
sprang to the door followed by the amazed Metem.

Another minute, and they were speeding down the narrow street so fast
that those who loitered there turned their heads and laughed, for they
thought that a jealous husband pursued his wife. As Elissa fumbled at
the hasp of the door of the garden, Metem overtook her.

“What means this hunt?” he gasped.

“That they have decoyed the prince here to murder him,” she answered,
and sped through the gateway.

“Therefore we must be murdered also. A woman’s logic,” the Phœnician
reflected to himself as he panted after her.

Swiftly as Elissa had run down the street, here she redoubled her
speed, flitting through the glades like some white spirit, and so
rapidly that her companion found it difficult to keep her in view. At
length they came to a large open space of ground where played the level
beams of the rising moon, striking upon the dense green foliage of an
immense tree that grew there. Round this tree Elissa ran, glancing
about her wildly, so that for a few seconds Metem lost sight of her,
for its mass was between them. When he saw her again she was speeding
towards the figure of a man who stood in the open, about ten paces from
the outer boughs of the tree. To this she pointed as she came, crying
out aloud, “Beware! Beware!”

Another moment and she had almost reached the man, and still pointing
began to gasp some broken words. Then, suddenly in the bright
moonlight, Metem saw a shining point of light flash towards the pair
from the darkness of the tree. It would seem that Elissa saw it also;
at least, she leapt from the ground, her arm lifted above her head as
though to catch the object. Then as her feet once more touched the
earth her knees gave way, and she fell down with a moan of pain. Metem
running on towards her, as he went perceived a shape, which looked like
that of a black dwarf, slip from the shadow of the tree into some
bushes beyond where it was lost. Now he was there, to find Elissa
half-seated, half-lying on the ground, the prince Aziel bending over
her, and fixed through the palm of her right hand, which she held up
piteously, a little ivory-pointed arrow.

“Draw it out from the wound,” he panted.

“It will not help me,” she answered; “the arrow is poisoned.”

With an exclamation, Metem knelt beside her, and, not heeding her
groans of pain, drew the dart through the pierced palm. Then he tore a
strip of linen from his robe, and knotting it round Elissa’s wrist, he
took a broken stick that lay near and twisted the linen till it almost
cut into her flesh.

“Now, Prince,” he said, “suck the wound, for I have no breath for it.
Fear not, lady, I know an antidote for this arrow poison, and presently
I will be back with the salve. Till then, if you would live, do not
suffer that bandage to be loosed, however much it pains you,” and he
departed swiftly.

Aziel put his lips to the hurt to draw out the poison.

“Nay,” she said faintly, trying to pull away her hand, “it is not
fitting, the venom may kill you.”

“It seems that it was meant for me,” he answered, “so at the worst I do
take but my own.”

Presently, directing Elissa to hold her hand above her head, he put his
arms about her and carried her a hundred paces or more into the open
glade.

“Why do you move me?” she asked, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Because whoever it was that shot the arrow may return to try his
fortune a second time, and here in the open his darts cannot reach us.”
Then he set her down upon the grass and stood looking at her.

“Listen, prince Aziel,” Elissa said after a while, “the venom with
which these black men soak their weapons is very strong, and unless
Metem’s salve be good, it may well chance that I shall die. Therefore
before I die I wish to say a word to you. What brought you to this
place to-night?”

“A letter from yourself, lady.”

“I know it,” she said, “but I did not write that letter; it was a
snare, set, as I think, by the king Ithobal, who would do you to death
in this way or in that. A messenger of his bribed my waiting-maid to
deliver it, and afterwards I learnt the tale from Metem. Then, guessing
all, I came hither to try to save you.”

“But how could you guess all, lady?”

“In a strange fashion, Prince.” And in a few words she told him her
dream.

“This is marvellous indeed, that you should be warned of my danger by
visions,” he said wondering, and half-doubtingly.

“So marvellous, Prince, that you do not believe me,” Elissa answered.
“I know well what you think. You think that a woman to whom this very
morning you spoke such words as women cannot well forgive, being
revengeful laid a plot to murder you, and then, being a woman, changed
her mind. Well, it is not so; Metem can prove it to you!”

“Lady, I believe you,” he said, “without needing the testimony of
Metem. But now the story grows still more strange, for if you had done
me no wrong, how comes it that to preserve me from harm you set your
tender flesh between the arrow and one who had reviled you?”

“It was by chance,” she answered faintly. “I learnt the truth and ran
to warn you. Then I saw the arrow fly towards your heart, and strove to
grasp it, and it pierced me. It was by chance, by such a chance as made
me dream your danger.” And she fainted.




CHAPTER VIII
AZIEL PLIGHTS HIS TROTH


At first Aziel feared that the poison had done its work, and that
Elissa was dead, till placing his hand upon her heart he felt it
beating faintly, and knew that she did but swoon. To leave her to seek
water or assistance was impossible, since he dared not loose his hold
of the bandage about her wrist. So, patiently as he might, he knelt at
her side awaiting the return of Metem.

How beautiful her pale face seemed there in the moonlight, set in its
frame of dusky hair. And how strange was this tale of hers, of a dream
that she had dreamed, a dream which, to save his own, led her to offer
her life to the murderer’s arrow. Many would not believe it, but he
felt that it was true; he felt that even if she wished it she could not
lie to him, for as he had known since first they met, their souls were
open to each other. Yes, having thus been warned of his danger, she had
offered her life for him—for him who that morning had called her,
unjustly so Metem said, “a girl of the groves and a murderess.” How
came it that she had done this, unless indeed she loved him as—he loved
her?

Aziel could no longer palter with himself, it was the truth. Last night
when Issachar accused him, he had felt this, although then he would not
admit it altogether, and now to-night he knew that his fate had found
him. They would say that, after the common fashion of men, he had been
conquered by a lovely face and form and a brave deed of devotion. But
it was not so. Something beyond the flesh and its works and attributes
drew him towards this woman, something that he could neither understand
nor define (unless, indeed, the vision of Issachar defined it), but of
which he had been conscious since first he set eyes upon her face. It
was possible, it was even probable, that before another hour had gone
by she would have passed beyond his reach, into the deeps of death,
whither for a while he could not follow her. Yet he knew that the
knowledge that she never could be his would not affect the love of her
which burnt in him, for his desire towards her was not altogether a
desire of the earth.

Aziel bent down over the swooning girl, looking into her pale face,
till her lips almost touched his own, and his breath beating on her
brow seemed to give her life again. Now she stirred, and now she opened
her eyes and gazed back at him a while, deeply and with meaning, even
as he gazed at her.

He spoke no word, for his lips seemed to be smitten with silence, but
his heart said, “I love you, I love you,” and her heart heard it, for
she whispered back:—

“Bethink you who and what I am.”

“It matters not, for we are one,” he replied.

“Bethink you,” she said again, “that soon I may be dead and lost to
you.”

“It cannot be, for we are one,” he replied. “One we have been, one we
are to-day, and one we shall be through all the length of life and
death.”

“Prince,” she said again, “once more and for the last time I say:
Bethink you well, for it comes upon me that your words are true, and
that if I take that which to-night you offer, it will be for ever and
for aye.”

“For ever and aye, let it be,” Aziel said, leaning towards her.

“For ever and for aye, let it be,” she repeated, holding up her lips to
his.

And thus in the silent moonlit garden they plighted their strange
troth.


“Lady,” said a voice in their ears, the voice of Metem, “I pray you let
me dress your hand, for there is no time to lose.”

Aziel looked up to see the Phœnician bending over them with a sardonic
smile, and behind him the tall form of Issachar, who stood regarding
them, his arms folded on his breast.

“Holy Issachar,” went on Metem with malice, “be pleased to hold this
lady’s hand, since it seems that the prince here can only tend her
lips.”

“Nay,” answered the Levite, “what have I to do with this daughter of
Baaltis? Cure her if you can, or if you cannot, let her die, for so
shall a stone of stumbling be removed from the feet of the foolish.”
And he glanced indignantly at Aziel.

“Had it not been for this same stone at least the feet of the foolish
by now would have pointed skywards. The gods send me such a stone if
ever a black dwarf draws a poisoned arrow at me,” answered Metem, as he
busied himself with his drugs. Then he added, “Nay, Prince, do not stop
to answer him, but hold the lady’s hand to the light.”

Aziel obeyed, and having washed out the wound with water, Metem rubbed
ointment into it which burnt Elissa so sorely that she groaned aloud.

“Be patient beneath the pain, lady,” he said, “for if it has not
already passed into your blood, this salve will eat away the poison of
the arrow.”

Then half-leading and half-carrying her, they brought her back to the
palace. Here Metem gave her over into the care of her father, telling
him as much of the story as he thought wise, and cautioning him to keep
silent concerning what had happened.

At the door of the palace Issachar spoke to Aziel.

“Did I dream, Prince,” he said, “or did my ears indeed hear you tell
that idolatress that you loved her for ever, and did my eyes see you
kiss her on the lips?”

“It seems that you saw and heard these things, Issachar,” said Aziel,
setting his face sternly. “Now hear this further, and then I pray you
give me peace on this matter of the lady Elissa: If in any way it is
possible, I shall make her my wife, and if it be not possible, then for
so long as she may live at least I will look upon no other woman.”

“Then that is good news, Prince, to me, who am charged with your
welfare, for be sure, if I can prevent you, you shall never mix your
life with that of this heathen sorceress.”

“Issachar,” the prince replied, “I have borne much from you because I
know well that you love me, and have stood to me in the place of a
father. But now, in my turn, I warn you, do not seek to work harm to
the lady Elissa, for in striking her you strike me, and such blows may
bring my vengeance after them.”

“Vengeance?” mocked the Levite. “I fear but one vengeance, and it is
not yours, nor do I listen to the whisperings of love when duty points
the path. Rather would I see you dead, prince Aziel, then lured down to
hell by the wiles of yonder witch.”

Then before Aziel could answer he turned and left him.


As Issachar went to his own chamber full of bitterness and indignation,
he passed the door of Elissa’s apartments, and came face to face with
Metem issuing from them.

“Will the woman live?” he asked of him.

“Be comforted, worthy Issachar. I think so; that is, if the bandage
does not slip. I go to tell the prince.”

“Gladly would I give a hundred golden shekels to him who brought me
tidings that it had slipped and the woman with it, down to the arms of
her father Beelzebub,” broke in the Levite passionately.

“Pretty words for a holy man,” said Metem, feigning amazement. “Well,
Issachar, I will do most things for good money, but to shift that
bandage would be but murder, and this I cannot work even for the gold
and to win your favour.”

“Fool,” answered Issachar, “did I ask you to do murder? I do not fight
with such weapons; let the woman live or die as it is decreed. Nay,
enter my chamber, for I would speak with you, who are a cunning man
versed in the craft of courts. Listen now: I love this prince Aziel,
for I have reared him from his childhood, and he has been a son to me
who have none. More, I am sent hither to this hateful land to watch him
and hold him from harm, and for all that chances to him I must account.
And now, what has chanced? This woman, Elissa, by her witcheries——”

“Softly, Issachar; what witcheries does she need beyond those lips and
form and eyes?”

“By her witcheries, I tell you, has ensnared him so that now he swears
that he will wed her.”

“What of it, Issachar? He might travel far to find a lovelier woman.”

“What of it, do you ask, remembering who he is? What of it, when you
know his faith, and that this fair idolater will sap it, and cause him
to cast away his soul? What of it, when with your own ears you heard
him swear to love her through all the deeps of life and death? Man, are
you mad?”

“No, but some might say that you are, holy father, who forget that I am
also of this religion which you revile. But for good or ill, so the
matter stands; and now what is it that you wish of me?”

“I wish that you should make it impossible that the prince Aziel should
take this woman to wife. Not by murder, indeed, for ‘thou shalt not
kill,’ saith the law, but by bringing it about that she should marry
the king Ithobal, or if that fail, in any other fashion which seems
good to you.”

“‘Thou shalt not kill,’ saith your law; tell me then, Issachar, does it
say also that thou shalt hand over a woman to a fate that she chances
to hold to be worse than death? Doubtless it is foolish of her, and we
should not heed such woman’s folly. Yet this one has a certain strength
of will, and I question if all the elders of the city will bring her
living to the arms of Ithobal.”

“It is nought to me, Metem, if she weds Ithobal, or weds him not, save
that I do not love this heathen man, and surely her temper and her
witcheries would bring ruin on him. What I would have you do is to
prevent her from marrying Aziel; the way I leave to you.”

“And what should I be paid for this service, holy Issachar?”

The Jew thought and answered, “A hundred golden shekels.”

“Two hundred gold shekels,” replied Metem reflectively, “nay, I am sure
you said _two_ hundred, Issachar. At least, I do not work for less, and
it is a small sum enough, seeing that to earn it I must take upon
myself the guilt of severing two loving hearts. But I know well that
you are right, and that this would be an evil marriage for the prince
Aziel, and also for the lady Elissa, who then day by day and year by
year must bear the scourge of your reproaches, Issachar. Therefore I
will do my best, not for the money indeed, but because I see herein a
righteous duty. And now here is parchment, give me the lamp that I may
prepare the bond.”

“My word is my bond, Phœnician,” answered the Levite haughtily.

Metem looked at him. “Doubtless,” he said, “but you are old, and this
is—a rough country where accidents chance at times. Still, the thing
would read very ill, and, as you say, your word is your bond. Only
remember, Issachar, two hundred shekels, bearing interest at two
shekels a month. And now you are weary, holy Issachar, with plotting
for the welfare of others, and so am I. Farewell, and good dreams to
you.”

The Levite watched him go, muttering to himself, “Alas that I should
have fallen to such traffic with a knave, but it is for your sake and
for your soul’s sake, O Aziel my son. I pray that Fate be not too
strong for me and you.”


For two days from this night Elissa lay almost senseless, and by many
it was thought that she would die. But when Metem saw her on the
morning after she had been wounded, and noted that her arm was but
little swollen, and had not turned black, he announced that she would
certainly live, whatever the doctors of the city might declare. Thereon
Sakon, her father, and Aziel blessed him, but Issachar said nothing.

As the Phœnician was walking through the market-place early on the next
day an aged black woman, whom he did not know, accosted him, saying
that she had a message for his ear from the king Ithobal who was camped
without the city and who desired to see the merchandise that he had
brought with him from the coasts of Tyre. Now Metem had already sold
all his wares at a great advantage; still, as he would not neglect this
opportunity of trade, he purchased others from his fellow merchants,
and loading two camels with them, set out for the camp of Ithobal,
riding on a mule. By midday he had reached it. The camp was pitched
near water in a pleasant grove of trees, and on one of these not far
from the tent of Ithobal Metem noted that there hung the body of a
black dwarf.

“Behold the fate of him who shoots at the buck and hits the doe. Well,
I have always said that murder is a dangerous game, since blood calls
out for blood,” thought Metem as he rode towards the tent.

At its door stood king Ithobal looking very huge and sullen in the
sunlight. Metem dismounted and prostrated himself obsequiously.

“May the King live for ever,” he said, “the great King, the King to
whom all the other kings of the earth are as the little gods to Baal,
or the faint stars to the sun.”

“Rise, and cease from flatteries,” said Ithobal shortly; “I may be
greater than the other kings, but at least you do not think it.”

“If the king says so, so let it be,” replied Metem calmly. “A woman
yonder in the market-place told me that the king wished to trade for my
merchandise. So I have brought the best of it; priceless goods that
which much toil I have carried hither from Tyre,” and he pointed to the
two camels laden with the inferior articles which he had purchased, and
began to read the number and description of the goods from his tablets.

“What value do you set upon the whole of them, merchant?” asked
Ithobal.

“To the traders of the country so much, but to you, O King, so much
only,” and he named a sum twice that which he had paid in the city.

“So be it,” assented Ithobal indifferently; “I do not haggle over
wares. Though your price is large, presently my treasurer shall weigh
you out the gold.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Metem said:—

“The trees in this camp of yours bear evil fruit, O King. If I might
ask, why does that little black monkey hang yonder.”

“Because he tried to do murder with his poisoned arrows,” answered
Ithobal sullenly.

“And failed? Well, it must comfort you to think that he did fail if he
was of the number of your servants. It is strange now that some knave
unknown attempted murder last night in the palace gardens, also with
poisoned arrows. I say attempted, but as yet I cannot be sure that he
did not succeed.”

“What!” exclaimed Ithobal, “was——” and he stopped.

“No, King, prince Aziel was not hit; the Lady Elissa took that shaft
through her hand, and lies between life and death. I am doctoring her,
and had it not been for my skill she would now be stiff and black—as
the rogue who shot the arrow.”

“Save her,” said Ithobal hoarsely, “and I will pay you a doctor’s fee
of a hundred ounces of pure gold. Oh! had I but known, the clumsy fool
should not have died so easily.”

Metem took out his tablets and made a note of the amount.

“Take comfort, King,” he said, “I think that I shall earn the fee. But
to speak truth, this matter looks somewhat ugly, and your name is
mentioned in it. Also it is said that your cousin, the great man whom
the prince Aziel slew, was charged to abduct a certain lady by your
order.”

“Then false tales are told in Zimboe, and not for the first time,”
answered Ithobal coldly. “Listen, merchant, I have a question to ask of
you. Will the prince Aziel meet me in single combat with whatever
weapons he may choose?”

“Doubtless, and—pardon me if I say it—slay you as he slew your cousin,
for he is a fine swordsman, who has studied the art in Egypt, where it
is understood, and your strength would not avail against him. But your
question is already answered, for though the prince would be glad
enough to fight you, Sakon will have none of it. Have you nothing else
to ask me, King?”

Ithobal nodded and said:—

“Listen, merchant. I know your repute of old, that you love money and
will do much to gain it, and that you are craftier than any hill-side
jackal. Now, if you can do my will, you will have more wealth than ever
you won in your life before.”

“The offer sounds good in a poor man’s ears, King, but it depends upon
what is your will.”

Ithobal went to the door of the tent, and commanded the sentries who
stood without to suffer none to disturb him or draw near. Then he
returned and said:—

“I will tell you, but beware that you do not betray my counsels in this
or in any other matter, for I have sharp ears and a long arm. You know
how things are between me and the lady Elissa and her father Sakon and
the city which he governs. They stand thus: Unless within eight days
she is given to me in marriage, I have sworn that I will make war upon
Zimboe. Ay, and I will make it, for, filled with hate for the white
man, already the great tribes are gathering to my banners in ten
armies, each of them ten thousand strong. Once let them march beneath
yonder walls, and before they leave it Zimboe, city of gold, shall be
nothing but a heap of ruins, and a habitation of the dead. Such shall
be my vengeance; but I seek love more than vengeance, for what will it
avail me to butcher all that people of traders if—as well may chance in
the accidents of war—I lose her whom I desire, whose beauty shall be my
crown of crowns, and whose mind shall make me great indeed?

“Therefore, Metem, if may be, I would win her without war; let the war
come afterwards, as come it must, for the time is ripe. And though she
turned from me, this I should have done, had it not been for yonder
prince Aziel, whom she met in a strange fashion, and straightway
learned to love. Now the thing is more difficult. Nay, while the prince
Aziel can take her to wife it is well-nigh impossible, since no threats
of war or ruin can turn a woman’s heart from him she seeks—to him she
flies. Therefore, I ask you——”

“Your pardon, King,” Metem broke in, “I see that you, like your rival,
are so besotted with the beauty of this girl, that in all with which
she has to do you have lost the rule of your own reason. I would save
you perchance from saying words to which I do not wish to listen, and
when you find a quiet mind again, that you may regret having spoken. If
you were about to require of me that I should cause or be privy to the
death of the prince Aziel, you would require it in vain; yes, even if
you were willing to pay me gold in mountains, and gems in camel loads.
With murder I will have nothing to do; moreover, the prince, your
rival, is my friend and master, and I will not harm him. Further, I may
tell you that after the adventure of last night none will be able to
come near him to hurt a hair of his head, seeing that through daylight
and through darkness he is guarded by two men.”

“With a woman’s body to set before him as a shield,” said Ithobal
bitterly. “But you speak too fast; I was not about to ask you to kill
this man, or even to procure his death, because I know it would be
useless, but rather that you should so contrive that he cannot take
Elissa. How you contrive it I care nothing, so that she is not harmed.
You may kidnap him, or stir up the city against him, as one destined to
be the source of war, and cause him to be despatched back to the great
sea, or bribe the priests of El to hide him away, or what you will, if
only you separate him from this woman for ever. Say, merchant, are you
willing to undertake the task, or must my good gold go elsewhere?”

Metem pondered awhile and answered:—

“I think that I will undertake it, King; that is, if we come to terms,
though whether I shall succeed is another matter. I will undertake it
not only because I seek to enrich myself, but because I and others who
serve him think it is a very evil thing that this prince, Aziel, whose
blood is the most royal in the whole world, without the consent of the
great king of Israel, his grandfather, should wed the daughter of a
Phœnician officer, however beautiful and loving she may be. Also I love
yonder city, which I have known for forty years, and would not see it
plunged in a bloody war and perhaps destroyed because a certain man
desires to call a certain girl his sweetheart. And now if I succeed in
this, what will you give me?”

Ithobal named a great sum.

“King,” replied Metem, “you must double it, for that amount you speak
of I shall be forced to spend in bribes. More; you must give me the
gold now, before I leave your camp, or I will do nothing.”

“That you may steal it—and do nothing,” laughed Ithobal angrily.

“As you will, King. Such are my terms; if they do not please you, well,
let me go. But if you accept them, I will sign a bond under which if
within eight days I do not make it impossible for the prince Aziel to
marry the lady Elissa, you may reclaim so much of the gold as I do not
prove to you to have been spent upon your service, and no bond of Metem
the Phœnician was ever yet dishonoured. No, on second thought I will
learn wisdom from Issachar the Levite and put my hand to no writing
which it would pain me that some should read. King, my sworn word must
content you. Another thing, soon war may break out, or I may be forced
to fly. Therefore, I demand of you a pass sealed with your seal that
will enable me to ride with twenty men and all my goods and treasure,
even through the midst of your armies. Moreover you shall swear the
great oath to me that notice of this pass will be given to your
generals and that it shall be respected to the letter. Do you consent
to these terms?”

“I consent,” said the king presently.


That evening Metem returned to the city of Zimboe, but those who led
his two camels little guessed that now they were laden, not with
merchandise, but with treasure.




CHAPTER IX
GREETING TO THE BAALTIS


When Metem accepted bribes from Issachar and from Ithobal, in
consideration of his finding means to make the union of Aziel and
Elissa impossible, he had already thought out his scheme. It was one
which, while promoting, as he considered, the true welfare of the
lovers, if successful would separate them effectually and for ever.

It will be remembered that Elissa had explained to the prince how, on
the death of the lady Baaltis, another woman was elected by the
colleges of the priests and priestesses to fill her place. This lady
could marry, indeed she was expected to do so, but her husband must
take the title of Shadid, and for her lifetime act as high-priest of
El. Therefore, thought Metem, if it could be brought about that Elissa
should be chosen as the new Baaltis, it was obvious that there would be
an end of the possibility of her marriage to Aziel. Then, in order to
wed her, he must renounce his own religion—a thing which no Jew would
do—and pose as the earthly incarnation of one whom he considered a
false divinity or a devil.

Indeed, not only marriage, but any further intimacy between the pair
would be rendered impracticable, for upon this point the religious law,
lax enough in many particulars, was very strict. In fact, so strict was
it that for the lady Baaltis of the day to be found alone with any man
meant death to her and him. The reason of this severity was that she
was supposed to represent the goddess; and her husband, the Shadid, a
god, so that any questionable behaviour on her part became an insult to
the most powerful divinities of Heaven, which could only be atoned by
the death of their unworthy incarnations. That these laws were actual
and not formal only was proved by the instance that within the hundred
years before the birth of Elissa, a lady Baaltis had been executed for
some such offence, having been hurled indeed from the topmost pinnacle
of the fortress above the temple to the foot of the precipice beneath.

All these sacerdotal customs were familiar to Metem, who argued from
them that to procure the nomination of Elissa as the Baaltis would be
to build an impassable wall between her and the prince Aziel. Also, by
way of compensation, that office would confer upon her the highest
dignity and honour which could be attained by any woman in the city.
Moreover, her election would place her beyond the reach of the
persecutions of Ithobal, since as lady Baaltis she was entitled to
choose her own husband without hindrance or appeal, provided only that
he was of pure white blood, which Ithobal was not.

Having thought the matter out, and convinced himself that such a course
would not only benefit his own pocket, but prove to the lasting
advantage of all concerned, Metem, filled with a glow of righteous
zeal, set about his task with the promptitude and cunning of his race.
It was not an easy task, for although she had enemies and rivals, the
daughter of the dead Baaltis, Mesa by name, was considered to be
certain of election at the poll of the priests and priestesses. This
ceremony was to take place within two days. Nothing discouraged,
however, by the scant time at his disposal or other difficulties,
without her knowledge or that of her father, Metem began his canvass on
behalf of Elissa.

First with a great sum of gold he bought over the ex-Shadid, the
husband of the late lady Baaltis. As it chanced, this worthy had
quarrelled with his daughter. Therefore it followed that he would
prefer to see some stranger chosen in her place in the hope that,
notwithstanding his years, by choosing him in marriage she might
confirm him in his position of spouse to the goddess.

All Metem’s further negotiations need not be followed: money played a
part in most of them; jealousy and dislike in some. A few there were
also whom he won over by urging the beauty and wisdom of Elissa, and
her extraordinary fitness for the post, as evinced by her recent
inspiration in the temple! He found his most powerful allies, however,
among the members of the council of the city. To these grandees he
pointed out that Elissa was a woman of great strength of character, who
would certainly never consent to be forced into a marriage with
Ithobal, although her refusal should mean a desperate war, and that her
father was so much under her influence that he could not be brought to
put pressure upon her. Therefore it was obvious that the only way out
of the difficulty was her election as Baaltis. This must prove a
perfect answer to the suit of the savage king, since the goddess could
not be compelled, and even Ithobal, fearing the vengeance of Heaven,
would shrink from offering her violence.

Their support gained, having first sworn him to secrecy, he attacked
Sakon himself, using similar arguments with him. He pointed out, in
addition, that if the governor hoped to see his daughter married to
prince Aziel, who was in love with her, however dazzling might be the
prospects of such a match, it would certainly bring upon him the
present wrath of Ithobal, and, in all probability, future trouble with
the Courts of Egypt, of Israel, and through them, of Tyre. Thus working
in many ways, Metem laboured incessantly to win his end, so that when
at last the hour of election came he awaited its issue, fairly
confident of success.

It was on this same afternoon that for the first time since she had
received the arrow which was meant for his heart, Aziel was admitted to
see Elissa. Now at length her recovery was certain, although she had
not shaken off her weakness, and her right arm and wrist were still
stiff and swollen. Except for two or three of her women, who were
seated at their work behind a screen near the far end of the great
chamber, she was alone, lying upon a couch in the recess of the
window-place. Advancing to her, Aziel bent down to kiss her wounded
hand.

“Nay,” said Elissa, hiding it beneath the folds of her robe, “it is
still black and unsightly with the poison.”

“The more reason that I should kiss it, seeing how the stain came
there,” he answered.

Her eyes met his, and she whispered, “Not my hand, but my brow, Prince,
for so I shall be crowned.”

He pressed his lips upon her forehead, and replied:—

“Queen of my heart you are already, and though the throne be humble it
is sure. The life you saved is yours, and no other’s.”

“I did but repay a debt,” she answered; “but speak of it no more.
Gladly would I have died to save you; should such choice arise, would
you do so for me, I wonder?”

“There is little need to ask such a question, lady; for your sake I
would not only die, I would even endure shame—that is worse than
death.”

“Sweet words, Aziel,” she answered, smiling, “of which we shall learn
the value when the hour of trial comes, as come, I think, it will. You
told me but now that you were mine, and no other’s; but is it so? I
have heard the story of a certain princess of Khem with whom your name
was mingled. Tell me, if you will, what was it that set you journeying
to this far city of ours?”

“The desire to find you,” he answered smiling; then seeing that she
still looked at him with questioning eyes, he added, “Nay, this is the
truth, if you seek truth. Indeed, it is the best that I should tell
you, since it seems that already you have heard something of the tale.
A while ago I was sent to the Court of the Pharaoh of Egypt, by the
will of my grandsire, the king of Israel, upon an embassy of
friendship, and to escort thence a certain beautiful princess, my
cousin, who was affianced by treaty to an uncle of mine, a great prince
of Israel. This I did, showing to the lady courtesy, and no more. But
the end of the matter was that when we came to Jerusalem the princess
refused to be married to my uncle, to whom she was betrothed——” and he
hesitated.

“Nay, be not timid, Prince,” said Elissa sharply; “continue, I pray
you. I have heard that the lady added somewhat to her refusal.”

“That is so, Elissa. She declared before the king that she would wed no
man except myself only, whereon my uncle was very angry, and accused me
of playing him false, which, indeed, I had not done.”

“Although the lady was so fair, Aziel? But what said the great king?”

“He said that never having seen him to whom she was affianced, he would
not suffer that she should be forced into marriage with him against her
will. Yet that her will might be uninfluenced, he commanded that I
should be sent upon a long journey. That was his judgment, lady.”

“Yes, but not all of it; surely he added other words?” she broke in
eagerly.

“He added,” continued Aziel, with some reluctance, “that if while I was
on this journey the princess changed her mind, and chose to wed my
uncle, it would be well. But, when I returned from it, if she had not
changed her mind, and chose—to marry me—then it would be well also,
and, though he was little pleased, with this saying my uncle must be
satisfied.”

“It does not satisfy me, prince Aziel,” Elissa answered, the tears
starting to her dark eyes. “I know full well that the lady will not
change her mind, and take a man who is in years, and whom she hates, in
place of one who is young, and whom she loves. Therefore, when you
return hence to Jerusalem, by the king’s command you will wed her.”

“Nay, Elissa; if I am already married that cannot be,” he said.

“In Judea, Prince, I am told that men take more wives than one; also,
they divorce them,” she replied; then added, “Oh, return not there
where I shall lose you. If, indeed, you love me, I pray you return not
there.”

Before he could answer, a sound of singing and of all sorts of music
caught Aziel’s ear. Looking through the casement, he saw a great
procession of the priests and priestesses of El and Baaltis clad in
their festal robes and accompanied by many dignitaries of the city, a
multitude of people and bands of musicians, advancing across the square
towards the door of the palace.

“Why, what passes?” he exclaimed. As he spoke the door opened and two
richly arrayed heralds, wands of office in their hands, entered and
prostrated themselves before Elissa.

“Greeting to you, most noble and blessed lady, the chosen of the gods!”
they cried with one voice. “Prepare, we beseech you, to hear glad
tidings, and to receive those who are sent to tell them.”

“Glad tidings?” said Elissa. “Has Ithobal then withdrawn his suit?”

“Nay, lady; it is not of Ithobal that the messengers come to speak.”

“Then I cannot receive them,” she said, sinking back in apprehension.
“I am still ill and weak, and I pray to be excused.”

“Nay, lady,” answered the herald, “that which they have to tell will
cure your sickness.”

Again Elissa protested. Before the words had left her lips there
appeared in the doorway he who had been husband of the dead Baaltis,
followed by priests and priestesses, by Sakon her father, with whom was
Metem, and many other nobles and dignitaries.

“All hail, lady!” they cried, prostrating themselves before her. “All
hail, lady, chosen of the gods!”

Elissa looked at them bewildered.

“Your pardon,” she said, “I do not understand.”

Then, rising from his knees, he who was still the Shadid until his
successor was appointed, addressed her as spokesman.

“Listen,” he said, “and learn, lady, the great thing that has befallen
you. Know, O divine One, that by the inspiration of El and Baaltis,
rulers of the heavens, the colleges of the priests and priestesses of
the city, following the voice of the oracles and the pointing of the
omens, have set you in that high place which death has emptied.
Greeting to you, holder of the spirit of the goddess! Greeting to the
Baaltis!”

“I did not seek this honour,” she murmured in the silence that
followed, “and I refuse it. The throne of the goddess is Mesa’s right;
let her take it, or if she will not, then find some other woman who is
more worthy.”

“Lady,” said the Shadid, “these words become you well, but it has
pleased the gods to choose you and not my daughter, the lady Mesa, or
any other woman, and the choice of the gods may not be set aside. Till
death shall take you, you and you alone are the lady Baaltis whom we
obey.”

“Must I then be made divine against my will,” she pleaded, and turned
to Aziel as though for counsel.

“Be pleased to stand back, prince Aziel,” said the stern voice of the
Shadid, interposing. “Remember that henceforth no man may speak to the
Baaltis save he whom she names with the name of Shadid to be her
husband. Henceforward you are parted, since to seek her company would
be to cause her death.”

Now understanding that the doom of life-long separation had fallen upon
them like the sudden sword of fate, Aziel and Elissa gazed at each
other in despair. Then, before either of them could speak a word, at a
sign from the Shadid, the priestesses closed round Elissa. Throwing a
white veil over her head, they broke into a joyful pæan of song, and
half-led, half-carried her from the chamber to enthrone her in the
palace of the goddess, which was henceforth to be her home.

Presently all the company, including the waiting women, having joined
the procession, the chamber was empty, with the exception of Aziel,
Metem and Issachar the Levite, who, drawn by the sound of singing, had
entered the place unnoticed.

“Take comfort, Prince,” said the Phœnician in a half-bantering voice,
“if you and the lady Baaltis are truly dear to each other she may still
be yours, for you have but to bow the knee to El, and she will name you
Shadid and husband.”

“Blaspheme not,” cried Issachar sternly. “Shall a worshipper of the God
of Israel do sacrifice to a demon to win a woman’s smile?”

“That time will prove,” answered Metem, shrugging his shoulders; “at
least it is certain that he will win it in no other way. Prince,” he
added, changing his tone, “if you have any such thoughts, abandon them,
I pray of you, for on this matter the law may not be broken. The man
spoke truth, moreover, when he told you that should you be found with
the Baaltis, not being her husband, you would cause her death.”

Aziel took no notice of his words, but turning to the Levite, he asked
in a quiet voice:—

“Did you plot this to separate us, Issachar? If so, you shall live to
mourn the deed.”

“Listen, Prince,” broke in Metem, “it was not Issachar who plotted that
the lady Elissa should be chosen Baaltis, but I, or at least I helped
the plot. Shall I tell you why I did this? It was to save you and her,
and if possible to prevent a great war also. You could not wed this
woman who is not of your race, or rank, or religion; and if you could,
it would bring about a struggle that must cost thousands their lives,
and this city its wealth. Nor could you make of her less than a wife,
seeing that she is well-born and that you are her father’s guest.
Therefore for your own sake it is best that she should be placed beyond
your reach. For her sake also it is best, since she is ambitious and
born to rule, who henceforth will be clothed with power for all her
days. Moreover, had it been otherwise, in the end she must have passed
to that savage Ithobal, whom she hates. Now this is scarcely possible,
for the lady Baaltis can wed no man who is not of pure white blood, and
whom she does not choose of her own free will. That is a decree which
may not be broken even by Ithobal. So revile me not, but thank me,
though for a little while your heart be sore.”

“My heart is sore indeed,” answered Aziel, “and if you think your words
be wise, their medicine does not soothe, Phœnician. You may have
laboured for my welfare and for that of the lady Elissa, or, like the
huckster that you are, for your own advantage, or for both—I know not,
and do not care to know. But this I know, that you, and Issachar also,
are striving to snare Fate in a web of sand, and that Fate will be too
strong for it and you. I love this woman and she loves me, because such
is our destiny, and no barriers which man may build can serve to
separate us. Also of this I am assured, that by your plots you draw the
evils you would ward away upon the heads of us all, for from them shall
spring war, and deaths, and misery.

“For the rest, do not think, Metem and Issachar, that I, whom you
betrayed, and the woman you have ruined with a crown of greatness she
did not seek, are clay to be moulded at your will. It is another hand
than yours which fashioned the vessel of our destiny; nor can you stay
our lips from drinking of the pure wine that fills it. Farewell,” and
with a grave inclination of the head he left the room.

Metem watched him go, then he turned to Issachar and said:—

“I have earned my hire well, and you must pay the price, but now it
troubles me to think that I touched this business. Why it is I cannot
say, but it comes upon me that the prince speaks truth, and that no
plot of ours can avail to separate these two who were born to each
other, although it well may happen that we shall unite them in death
alone. Issachar,” he added with fierce conviction, “I will not take
your gold, for it is the price of blood! I tell you it is the price of
blood!”

“Take it or no, as you will, Phœnician,” answered the Levite; “at least
I am well pleased that the promise of it bought your service. Even
should the prince Aziel discharge this day’s work with his young life,
it is better that he should perish in the body than that he should lose
his soul for the bribe of a woman’s passing beauty. Whatever else be
lost, that is saved to him, since those sorceress lips of hers are set
beyond his reach. An Israelite cannot mate with the oracle of Baaltis,
Metem.”

“You say so, Issachar, but I have seen men climb high to pluck such
fruit. Yes, I have seen them climb even when they knew that they must
fall before the fruit was reached.”

Then he went also, leaving Issachar alone and oppressed with a dread of
the future which was none the less real because it could not be
defined.




CHAPTER X
THE EMBASSY


Weak as she was still with recent illness, half-fainting also from the
shock of the terrible and unexpected fate which had overtaken her,
Elissa was borne in triumph to the palace that now was hers. Around her
gilded litter priestesses danced and sang their wild chants,
half-bacchanalian and half-religious; before it marched the priests of
El, clashing cymbals and crying, “Make way, make way for the new-born
goddess! Make way for her whose throne is upon the horned moon!” while
all about the multitude of spectators prostrated themselves in worship.

Elissa was borne in triumph. Vaguely she heard the shouts and music,
dimly she saw the dancing-girls and the bowing crowds. But all the
while her heart was alive with pain and her brain, crushed beneath the
menace of this misery, could grasp nothing clearly save the
completeness of her loss. Loss! Yes, she was lost indeed. One short
hour ago and she was rejoicing in the presence of the man she loved,
and who, as she believed, loved her, while in her mind rose visions of
some happy life with him far away from this city and the dark rites of
the worshippers of Baal. And now she found herself the chief priestess
of that worship which already she had learned to fear if not to hate.
More, as its priestess, till death should come to comfort her, she was
cut off for ever from him whom she adored, cut off also from the hope
of that new spiritual light which had begun to dawn upon her soul.

Elissa looked upon the beautiful women who leapt and sang about her
litter, listening to the clash of their ornaments of gold, and as she
listened and looked her eyes seemed to gain power to behold the spirits
within them. Surely she could see these, dark and hideous things, with
shifting countenances, terrible to look on, and themselves wearing in
their eyes of flame a stamp of eternal terror, while in her ears the
music of their golden necklaces was changed to a clank as of fetters
and of instruments of torment. Yes; and there before the dancers in the
red cloud of dust which rose from their beating feet, floated the dim
shape of that demon of whom she had been chosen the high-priestess.

Look at her mocking, inhuman countenance, and her bent brow of power!
Look at her spread and flaming hair and her hundred hands outstretched
to grasp the souls of men! Hark! the clamour of the cymbals and the cry
of the dancers blended together and became her voice, a dreadful voice
that gave greeting to her princess, promising her pride of place and
life-long power in payment for her service.

“I desire none of these,” her heart seemed to answer; “I desire him
only whom I have lost.”

“Is it so?” replied the Voice. “Then bid him burn incense upon my altar
and take him to yourself. Have I not given you enough of beauty to
snare a single soul from among the servants of my enemy the God of the
Jews?”

“Nay, nay!” her heart cried; “I will not tempt him to do this evil
thing.”

“Yea, yea!” mocked the phantom Voice; “for your sake he shall burn
incense upon my altar.”


The phantasy passed, and now the golden gates of the palace of Baaltis
rolled open before Elissa. Now, too, the priestesses bore her to the
golden throne shaped like a crescent moon, and threw over her a black
veil spangled with stars, symbol of the night. Then having shut out the
uninitiated, they worshipped her after their secret fashion till she
sank down upon the throne overcome with fear and weariness. Then at
last they carried her to that wonder of workmanship and allegorical
art, the ivory bed of Baaltis, and laid her down to sleep.


At dawn upon the following day an embassy, headed by Sakon, governor of
the city, in whose train were Metem and Aziel, went to the camp of
Ithobal. The mission of these envoys was to give the king answer to his
suit, for he refused to come to Zimboe unless he were allowed to bring
a larger force than it was thought prudent to admit into the city
gates. At some distance from the tents they halted, while messengers
were sent forward inviting Ithobal to a conference on the plain, as it
seemed scarcely safe to trust themselves within the stout thorn fence
which had been built about the camp. Metem, who said that he had no
fear of the king, went with these men, and on reaching the _zeriba_ was
at once bidden to the pavilion of Ithobal. He found the great man
pacing its length sullenly.

“What seek you here, Phœnician?” he asked, glancing at him over his
shoulder.

“My fee, King. The king was pleased to promise me a hundred ounces of
gold if I saved the life of the Lady Elissa. I come, therefore, to
assure him that my skill has prevailed against the poisoned arrow of
that treacherous dog of the desert, which pierced her hand as she spoke
with the prince Aziel the other night, and to claim my reward. Here is
a note of the amount,” and he produced his tablets.

“If half of what I hear is true, rogue,” answered Ithobal savagely,
“the tormentor and the headsman alone could satisfy all my debt to you.
Say, merchant, what return have you made me for that sackful of gold
which you bore hence some few days gone?”

“The best of all returns, King,” answered Metem cheerfully, although in
truth he began to feel afraid. “I have kept my word, and fulfilled the
command of the king. I have made it impossible that the prince Aziel
should wed the daughter of Sakon.”

“Yes, rogue, you have made it impossible by causing her to be
consecrated Baaltis, and thus building a barrier which even I shall
find too hard to climb. It is scarcely to be hoped that now she will
choose me of her own will, and to offer violence to the Baaltis is a
sacrilege from which any man—yes, even a king—may shrink, for such
deeds draw the curse of Heaven. Know that for this service I am minded
to settle my account with you in a fashion of which you have not
thought. Have you heard, Phœnician, that the chiefs of certain of my
tribes love to decorate their spear-shafts with the hide of white men,
and to bray their flesh into a medicine which gives courage to its
eater?”

With this pleasing and suggestive query Ithobal paused, and looked
towards the door of the tent as though he were about to call his guard.

Now Metem’s blood ran cold, for he knew that this royal savage was not
one who uttered idle threats. Yet the coolness and cunning which had so
often served him well did not fail him in his need.

“I have heard that your people have strange customs,” he answered with
a laugh, “but I think that even a spear-shaft would scarcely gain
beauty from my wrinkled hide, and if anything, the eating of my flesh
would make tradesmen and not warriors of your chiefs. Well, let the
jest pass, and listen. King, in all my schemings one thought never
crossed my mind, namely, that you were a man to suffer scruples to
stand between you and the woman you would win. You think that now she
is a goddess? Well, if that be so—and it is not for me to say—who could
be a fitter mate for the greatest king upon the earth than a goddess
from the heavens? Take her, king Ithobal, take her, and this I promise
you, that when your armies are encamped without the walls, the priests
of El will absolve you of the crime of aspiring to the fair lips of
Baaltis.”

“The lips of Baaltis,” broke in Ithobal; “do you think that I shall
find them sweet when another man has rifled them? Secret chambers are
many yonder in the palace of the gods, and doubtless the Jew will find
his way there.”

“Nay, King, for between these two I have indeed built a wall which
cannot be climbed. The worshipper of the Lord of Israel may not traffic
with the high-priestess of Ashtoreth. Moreover, I shall bring it about
that ere long Prince Aziel’s face is set seawards.”

“Do that, and I will believe you, merchant, though it would be better
if you could bring it about that his face was set earthwards, as I will
if I can. Well, this time I spare you, though be sure that if aught
miscarry, you shall pay the price, how, I have told you. Now I go to
talk with these traders, these outlanders, of Zimboe. Why do you wait?
You are dismissed and—alive.”

Metem looked steadily at the tablets which he still held in his hand.

“I have heard,” he said humbly, “that the king Ithobal, the great king,
always pays his debts, and as I—an outlander—shall be leaving Zimboe
shortly under his safe conduct, I desire to close this small account.”

Ithobal went to the door of his tent and commanded that his treasurer
should attend him, bringing money. Presently he came, and at his lord’s
bidding weighed out one hundred ounces of gold.

“You are right, Phœnician,” said Ithobal; “I always pay my debts,
sometimes in gold and sometimes in iron. Be careful that I owe you no
more, lest you who to-day are paid in gold, to-morrow may receive the
iron, weighed out in the fashion of which I have spoken. Now, begone.”

Metem gathered up the treasure, and hiding it in his ample robe, bowed
himself from the royal presence and out of the thorn-hedged camp.

“Without doubt I have been in danger,” he said to himself, wiping his
brow, “since at one time that black brute, disregarding the sanctity of
an envoy, had it in his mind to torture and to kill me. So, so, king
Ithobal, Metem the Phœnician is also an honest merchant who ‘always
pays his debts,’ as you may learn in the market-places of Jerusalem, of
Sidon and of Zimboe, and I owe you a heavy bill for the fright you have
given me to-day. Little of Elissa’s company shall you have if I can
help it; she is too good for a cross-bred savage, and if before I go
from these barbarian lands I can set a drop of medicine in your wine,
or an arrow in your gizzard, upon the word of Metem the Phœnician, it
shall be done, king Ithobal.”


When Metem reached Sakon and the envoys, he found that a message had
already been sent to them announcing that Ithobal would meet them
presently upon the plain outside his camp. But still the king did not
come; indeed, it was not until Sakon had despatched another messenger,
saying that he was about to return to the city, that at length Ithobal
appeared at the head of a bodyguard of black troops. Arranging these in
line in front of the camp, he came forward, attended by twelve or
fourteen counsellors and generals, all of them unarmed. Half-way
between his own line and that of the Phœnicians, but out of bowshot of
either, he halted.

Thereon Sakon, accompanied by a similar number of priests and nobles,
among whom were Aziel and Metem, all of them also unarmed, except for
the knives in their girdles, marched out to meet him. Their escort they
left drawn up upon the hillside.

“Let us to business, King,” said Sakon, when the formal words of
salutation had passed. “We have waited long upon your pleasure, and
already troops move out from the city to learn what has befallen us.”

“Do they then fear that I should ambush ambassadors?” asked Ithobal
hotly. “For the rest, is it not right that servants should bide at the
door of their king till it is his pleasure to open?”

“I know not what they fear,” answered Sakon, “but at least we fear
nothing, for we are too many,” and he glanced at his soldiers, a
thousand strong, upon the hillside. “Nor are the citizens of Zimboe the
servants of any man unless he be the king of Tyre.”

“That we shall put to proof, Sakon,” said Ithobal; “but say, what does
the Jew with you?” and he pointed to Aziel. “Is he also an envoy from
Zimboe?”

“Nay, King,” answered the prince laughing, “but my grandsire, the
mighty ruler of Israel, charged me always to take note of the ways of
savages in peace and war, that I might learn how to deal with them.
Therefore, I sought leave to accompany Sakon upon this embassy.”

“Peace, peace!” broke in Sakon. “This is no time for gibes. King
Ithobal, since you did not dare to venture yourself again within the
walls of our city, we have come to answer the demands you made upon us
in the Hall of Audience. You demanded that our fortifications should be
thrown down, and this we refuse, since we do not court destruction. You
demanded that we should cease to enslave men to labour in the mines,
and to this we answer that for every man we take we will pay a tax to
his lawful chief, or to you as king. You demanded that the ancient
tribute should be doubled. To this, out of love and friendship, and not
from fear, we assent, if you will enter into a bond of lasting peace,
since it is peace we seek, and not war. King, you have our answer.”

“Not all of it, Sakon. How of that first condition—that Lady Elissa the
fair, your daughter, should be given me to wife?”

“King, it cannot be, for the gods of heaven have taken this matter from
our hands, anointing the lady Elissa their high-priestess.”

“Then as I live,” answered Ithobal with fury, “I will take her from the
hands of the gods and anoint her my dancing-woman. Do you think to make
a mock of me, you people of Zimboe, whom I have honoured by desiring
one of your daughters in marriage? You seek to trick me with your
priests’ juggling that you may keep her to be the toy of yonder
princeling? So be it, but I tell you that I will tear your city stone
from stone, and anoint its ruins with your blood. Yes, your young men
shall labour in the mines for me, and your high-born maidens shall wait
upon my queens. Listen you,”—and he turned to his generals—“let the
messengers who are ready start east and west, and north and south, to
the chiefs whose names you have, bidding them to meet me with their
tribesmen, at the time and place appointed. When next I speak with you,
Elders of Zimboe, it shall be at the head of a hundred thousand
warriors.”

“Then, King, on your hands be all the innocent lives that these words
of yours have doomed, and may the weight of their wasted blood press
you down to ruin and death.”

Thus answered Sakon proudly, but with pale lips, for do what they would
to hide it, something of the fear they felt for the issue of this war
was written on the faces of all his company.

Ithobal turned upon his heel, deigning no reply, but as he went he
whispered a word into the ear of two of his captains, great men of war,
who stayed behind the rest of his party searching for something upon
the ground. Sakon and his counsellors also turned, walking towards
their escort, but Aziel lingered a little, fearing no danger, and being
curious to learn what the men sought.

“What do you seek, captains?” he asked courteously.

“A gold armlet that one of us has lost,” they answered.

Aziel let his eyes wander on the ground, and not far away perceived the
armlet half-hidden in a tussock of dry grass, where, indeed, it had
been placed.

“Is this the ring?” he asked, lifting it and holding it towards them.

“It is, and we thank you,” they answered, advancing to take the
ornament.

The next moment, before Aziel even guessed their purpose, the captains
had gripped him by either arm and were dragging him at full speed
towards their camp. Understanding their treachery and the greatness of
his danger, he cried aloud for help. Then throwing himself swiftly to
the ground, he set his feet against a stone that chanced to lie in
their path in such fashion that the sudden weight tore his right arm
from the grip of the man that held him. Now, quick as thought, Aziel
drew the dagger from his girdle, and, still lying upon his back,
plunged it into the shoulder of the second man so that he loosed him in
his pain. Next he sprang to his feet, and, leaping to one side to
escape the rush of his captors, ran like a deer towards the party of
Sakon, who had wheeled round at the sound of his cry.

Ithobal and his men had turned also and sped towards them, but at a
little distance they halted, the king shouting aloud:—

“I desired to hold this foreigner, who is the cause of war between us,
hostage for your daughter’s sake, Sakon, but this time he has escaped
me. Well, it matters nothing, for soon my turn will come. Therefore, if
you and he are wise, you will send him back to the sea, for thither
alone I promise him safe conduct.”

Then without more words he walked to his camp, the gates of which were
closed behind him.


“Prince Aziel,” said Sakon, as they went towards the city, “it is ill
to speak such words to an honoured guest, but it cannot be denied that
you bring much trouble on my head. Twice now you have nearly perished
at the hands of Ithobal, and should that chance, doubtless I must earn
the wrath of Israel. On your behalf, also, the city of Zimboe is this
day plunged into a war that well may be her last, since it is because
you have grown suddenly dear to her that my daughter has continued to
refuse the suit of Ithobal, and because of his outraged pride at this
refusal that he has raised up the nations against us. Prince, while you
remain in this city there is no hope of peace. Do not, therefore, hate
me, your servant, if I pray of you to leave us while there is yet
time.”

“Sakon,” answered Aziel, “I thank you for your open speech, and will
pay you back in words as honest as your own. Gladly would I go, for
here nothing but sorrow has befallen me, were it not for one thing
which to you may seem little, but to me, and perhaps to another, is all
in all. I love your daughter as I have never loved a woman before, and
as my mind is to hers, so is hers to mine. How, then, can I go hence
when the going means that I must part from her for ever?”

“How can you stay here, Prince, when the staying means that you must
bring her to shame and death, and yourself with her? Say now, are you
prepared, for the sake of this maiden, to abandon the worship of your
fathers and to become the servant of El and Baaltis?”

“You know well that I am not so prepared, Sakon. For nothing that the
world could give me would I do this sin.”

“Then, Prince, it is best that you should go, for that and no other is
the price you must pay if you would win my daughter Elissa. Should you
seek to do so by other means, I tell you that neither your high rank
nor the power of my rule and friendship, nor pity for your youth and
hers, can save you both from death, since to forgive you then would be
to bring down the wrath of its outraged gods upon Zimboe. Oh! Prince,
for your own sake and for the sake of her whom both you and I love thus
dearly, linger no longer in temptation, but turn your back upon it as a
brave man should, for so shall my blessing follow you to the grave and
your years be filled with honour.”

Aziel covered his eyes with his hand, and thought a while; then he
answered:—

“Be it as you will, friend. I go, but I go broken-hearted.”




CHAPTER XI
METEM SELLS IMAGES


Upon reaching the palace, Aziel went to the apartments of Issachar.
Finding no keeper at the door, he entered, to discover the old priest
kneeling in prayer at the window, which faced towards Jerusalem. So
absorbed was he in his devotions that it was not until he had ended
them and risen that Issachar saw Aziel standing in the chamber.

“Behold, an answer to my prayer,” he said. “My son, they told me that
some fresh danger had overtaken you, though none knew its issue.
Therefore it was that I prayed, and now I see you unharmed.” And taking
him in his arms, he embraced him.

“It is true that I have been in danger, father,” answered Aziel, and he
told him the story of his escape from Ithobal.

“Did I not pray thee not to accompany this embassy?”

“Yes, father, yet I have returned in safety. Listen: I come with
tidings which you will think good. Not an hour ago I promised Sakon
that I would leave Zimboe, where it seems my presence breeds much
trouble.”

“Good tidings, indeed!” exclaimed Issachar, “and never shall I know a
peaceful hour until we have seen the last of the towers of this doomed
city and its accursed people of devil-worshippers.”

“Yes, good for you, father, but for me most ill, for here I shall leave
my youth and happiness. Nay, I know what you think; that this is but
some passing fancy bred of the pleasant beauty of a woman, but it is
not so. I say that from the moment when first I saw Elissa, she became
life of my life, and soul of my soul and that I go hence beggared of
joy and hope, and carrying with me a cankering memory which shall eat
my heart away. You deem her a witch, one to whom Baaltis has given
power to drag the minds of men to their destruction, but I tell you
that her only spell is the spell of her love for me, also that she whom
you named so grossly is no longer the servant of the demon Baaltis.”

“Elissa not the servant of Baaltis? How comes she then to be her
high-priestess? Aziel, your passion has made you mad.”

“She is high-priestess because Metem and others brought about her
election without her will, urged on to it by I know not whom.” And he
looked hard at Issachar, who turned away. “But what matters it who did
the ill deed,” he continued, “since this, at least, is certain, that
here my presence breeds sorrow and bloodshed, and therefore I must go
as I have promised.”

“When do we depart, Prince?” queried Issachar.

“I know not, it is naught to me. Here comes Metem, ask of him.”

“Metem,” said the Levite, “the prince desires to leave Zimboe and march
to the coast, there to take ship to Tyre. When can your caravan be
ready?”

“So I have heard, Issachar, for Sakon tells me that he has come to an
agreement with the prince upon this matter. Well, I am glad to learn
it, for troubles thicken here, and I think that the woe you prophesied
is not far from this city of Zimboe where every man seeks to serve his
own hand, and is ready to sell his neighbour. When can the caravan be
got ready? Well, the night after next; at least, we can start that
night. To-morrow evening, so soon as the sun is down, I will send on
the camels by ones and twos, and with them the baggage and treasure, to
a secret place I know of in the mountains, where we and the prince’s
guard can follow upon the mules and join them. As it chances, I have a
safe conduct from Ithobal. Still I should not wish to put his troops
into temptation by marching through them with twenty laden camels, or
to lose certain earnings of my own that will be hidden in the baggage.
Moreover, if our departure becomes known, half the city would wish to
join us, having no love of soldiering, and misdoubting them much of the
issue of this war with Ithobal.”

“As you will,” said Issachar, “you are captain of the caravan, and
charged with the safety of the prince upon his journeyings. I am ready
whenever you appoint, and the quicker that hour comes, the more praise
you will have from me.”

“Come with me, I wish to speak with you,” said Aziel to the Phœnician
as they left the presence of Issachar. “Listen,” he added, when they
had reached his chamber, “we leave this city soon, and I have farewells
to make.”

“To the Baaltis?” suggested Metem.

“To the lady Elissa. I desire to send her a letter of farewell; can you
deliver it into her own hand?”

“It may be managed, Prince, at a price—nay, from you I ask no price. I
have still some images that I wish to sell, and we merchants go
everywhere, even into the presence of the Baaltis if it pleases her to
admit them. Write your scroll and I will take it, though, to be plain,
it is not a task which I should have sought.”

So Aziel wrote slowly and with care. Then having sealed the writing he
gave it to Metem.

“Your face is sad, Prince,” he said, as he hid it in his robe, “but,
believe me, you are doing what is right and wise.”

“It may be so,” answered Aziel, “yet I would rather die than do it, and
may my curse lie heavy upon the heads of those who have so wrought that
it must be done. Now, I pray you, deliver this scroll into the hands of
her you know, and bring me the answer if there be any, betraying it to
none, for I will double whatever sum is offered for that treachery.”

“Have no fear, Prince,” said Metem quietly, but without taking offence,
“this errand is undertaken for friendship, not for profit. The risk is
mine alone; the gain—or loss—is yours.”


An hour later the Phœnician stood in the palace of the gods, demanding,
under permit from Sakon, governor of the city, to be admitted into the
presence of the Baaltis, to whom he desired to sell certain sacred
images cunningly fashioned in gold. Presently it was announced that he
was allowed to approach, and the officers of the temple led him through
guarded passages, to the private chambers of the priestesses. Here he
found Elissa in a long, low hall, sweet with scented woods, rich with
gold, and supported by pillars of cedar.

She was seated alone at the far end of this hall, beneath the
window-plate, clad in her white robes of office, richly broidered with
emblems of the moon. Her women, most of whom were employed in
needle-work, though some whispered idly to each other, were gathered at
the lower end of the hall near to its door.

Metem saluted them as he entered, and they detained him, answering his
greeting by requests for news and with jests, not too refined, or by
demands for presents of jewels, in return for which they promised him
the blessings of the goddess. To each he made some apt reply, for even
the priestesses of Baaltis could not abash Metem. But while he bandied
words, his quick eyes noted one of their number who did not join in
this play. She was a spare, thin-lipped woman whom he knew for Mesa,
the daughter of the dead Baaltis, who had been a rival candidate for
the throne of the high-priestess when Elissa was chosen in her place.

When he entered the hall Mesa was seated upon a canvas stool, a little
apart from the others, her chin resting upon her hand, staring with an
evil look towards the place where Elissa was enthroned. Nor did her
face grow more gentle at the sight of the cunning merchant, for she
knew well it was through his plots and bribery that she had been ousted
from her mother’s place.

“A woman to be feared,” thought Metem to himself as, shaking off the
priestesses, he passed her upon his way up the long chamber. Presently
he had reached the end of it, and was saluting the presence of the
Baaltis by kneeling and touching the carpet with his brow.

“Rise, Metem,” said Elissa, “and set out your business, for the hour of
the sunset prayer is at hand, and I cannot talk long with you.”

So he rose, and, looking at her while he laid out his store of images,
saw that her face was sad, and that her eyes were full of a strange
fear.

“Lady,” he said, “on the second night from now I depart from this city
of yours, and glad shall I be to leave it living. Therefore I have
brought you these four priceless images of the most splendid
workmanship of Tyre, thinking that it might please you to purchase them
for the service of the goddess.”

“You depart,” she whispered; “alone?”

“No lady, not alone; the holy Issachar goes with me, also the escort of
the prince Aziel—and the prince himself, whose presence is no longer
desired in Zimboe.” Here he stopped, for he saw that Elissa was about
to betray her agitation, and whispered, “Be not foolish, for you are
watched; I have a letter for you. Lady,” he continued in a louder
voice, “if it will please you to examine this precious image in the
light, you will no longer hesitate or think the price too high,” and
bowing low he led the way behind the throne, whither Elissa followed
him.

Now they were standing beneath the window-place, which they faced, and
hidden from the gaze of the women by the gilded back of the high seat.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the parchment into her hand, “read quickly,
and return it to me.”

She snatched the roll from him, and as her eyes devoured the lines, her
face fell in, and her lips grew pale with anguish.

“Be brave,” murmured Metem, for his heart was stirred to pity; “it is
best for all that he should go.”

“For him, perchance it is best,” she answered; as with an unwilling
hand she gave him back the letter which she dared not keep, “but what
of me? Oh! Metem, what of me?”

“Lady,” he said sadly, “I have no words to soothe your sorrow save that
the gods have willed it thus.”

“What gods?” she asked fiercely; “not those they bid me worship.” She
shuddered, then went on, “Metem, be pitiful! Oh! if ever you have loved
a woman, or have been loved of one, for her sake be pitiful. I must see
him for the last time in farewell, and you can help me to it.”

“I! In the name of Baal, how?”

“When do you have to leave the city, Metem?”

“At moonrise on the night after next.”

“Then an hour before moonrise I will be in the temple, whither I can
come by the secret way that leads thither from this palace, and he can
enter there, for the little gate shall be left unbarred. Pray him to
meet me, then—for the last time.”

“Lady,” he urged, “this is but madness, and I refuse. You must find
another messenger.”

“Madness or not it is my will, and beware how you thwart me in it,
Metem, for at least I am the Lady Baaltis, and have power to kill
without question. I swear to you that if I do not see him, you shall
never leave this city living.”

“A shrewd argument, and to the point,” said Metem reflectively. “Well,
I have prepared myself a rock-hewn tomb at Tyre, and do not wish that
my graven sarcophagus of best Egyptian alabaster should be wasted, or
sold to some upstart for a song.”

“As assuredly it will be, if you do not obey me in this matter, Metem.
Remember—an hour before moonrise, at the foot of the pillar of El in
the inner court of the temple.”

As she spoke Metem started, for his quick ears had caught a sound.

“O Queen divine,” he said in a loud voice, as he led the way to the
front of the throne, “you are a hard bargainer! Were there many such, a
poor trader could not make a living. Ah! here is one who knows the
value of such priceless works of art,” and he pointed to Mesa, who,
with folded arms and downcast eyes, stood within five paces of the
throne, as near, indeed, as custom allowed her to approach. “Lady,” he
went on addressing you, “you will have heard the price I asked; say,
now, is it too much?”

“I have heard nothing, sir. I stand here, waiting the return of my holy
mistress that I may remind her that the hour of sunset prayer is at
hand.”

“Would that I had so fair a mentor,” exclaimed Metem, “for then I
should lose less time.” But to himself he said, “She _has_ heard
something, though I think but little,” then added aloud: “Well judge
between us, lady. Is fifty golden shekels too much for these images
which have been blessed and sprinkled with the blood of children by the
high priest of Baal at Sidon?”

Mesa lifted her cold eyes and looked at them. “I think it too much,”
she said, “but it is for the lady Baaltis to judge. Who am I that I
should open my lips in the presence of the lady Baaltis?”

“I have appealed to the oracle, and it has spoken against me,” said
Metem, wringing his hands in affected dismay. “Well, I abide the
result. Queen, you offered me forty shekels and for forty you shall
take them, for the honour of the holy gods, though in truth I lose ten
shekels by the bargain. Give your order to the treasurer, and he will
pay me to-morrow. So now farewell,” and bowing till his forehead
touched the ground, he kissed the hem of her robe.

Elissa bent her head in acknowledgment of the salute, and as he rose
her eyes met his. In them was written a warning which he could not fail
to understand, and although she did not speak, her lips seemed to shape
the word, “Remember.”

Ten minutes later Metem stood in the chamber of Aziel.

“Has she seen the letter, and what did she answer?” asked the prince,
springing up almost as he passed the threshold.

“In the name of all the gods of all the nations I pray you not to speak
so loud,” answered Metem when he had closed the door and looked
suspiciously about him. “Oh! if ever I find myself safe in Tyre again,
I vow a gift, and no mean one, to each of them that has a temple there,
and they are many; for no single god is strong enough to bring me safe
out of this trouble. Have I seen the lady Elissa? Oh, yes, I have seen
her. And what think you that this innocent lamb, this undefiled dove of
yours, threatens me with now? Death! nothing less than death, if I will
not carry out her foolish wishes. More, she means the threat, and has
the strength to fulfil it, for to the lady Baaltis is given power over
the lives of men, or at the least, if she takes life none question the
authority of the goddess. Unless I do her will I am a dead man, and
that is the reward I get for mixing myself up in your mad love
affairs.”

“Hold!” broke in Aziel, “and tell me, man, what is her will?”

“Her will is—what do you think? To meet you in farewell an hour before
you leave this city. Well, as my throat is at stake, by Baal! it shall
be gratified if I can find the means, though I tell you that it is
madness and nothing else. But listen to the story——” and he repeated
all that had passed. “Now,” he added, “are you ready to take the risk,
Prince?”

“I should be a coward indeed if I did not,” answered Aziel, “when she,
a woman, dares a heavier.”

“And I am a coward, that is why I take it, for otherwise I also must
dare a heavier. But what of Issachar? This meeting can scarcely be kept
a secret from him.”

Aziel thought awhile and said:—

“Go fetch him here.” So Metem went, to return presently with the
Levite, to whom, without further ado, the prince told all, hiding
nothing.

Issachar listened in silence. When both Aziel and Metem had done
speaking, he said:—

“At least, I thank you, Prince, for being open with me; and now without
more words I pray you to abandon this rash plan, which can end only in
pain, and perhaps in death.”

“Abandon it not, Prince,” interrupted Metem, “seeing that if you do it
will certainly end in my death, for the girl is mad, and will have her
way. Or if she does not, then I must pay the price.”

“Have no fear,” answered Aziel smiling. “Issachar, this must be done
or——”

“Or what, Prince?”

“I will not leave the city. It is true that Sakon may thrust me from
it, but it shall be as a dead man. N

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2855