University of Virginia Library

7. VII.

But the mind of Adoniakim went not with his present
labour. What to him were the goods of life—the
profits of industry—the successes of his toil? For
whom did he labour? Of what avail were all his
wealth, when the son of his heart, the only child of his
affections and his hopes, had proved so worthless and
unwise? Life itself seemed valueless in his eyes as
he thought of his present sorrow. It brought him little
else than pain; and he felt that it was only fitting that
he should live for the good which he might do in the
approaching struggle for his people, over whom his influence
was so great that he could readily move them to
their just purposes when all other pleading and influence
must fail. He strove to fix his sight upon the collected
folds of closely-written parchment that lay before him,
but he could not. The writing danced confusedly
before his eyes, which grew more and more dim at
every moment; and when he put his hands up to them,
he felt that they were full of tears.

“Unhappy son—unhappy father!” he exclaimed, in
the bitterness of his sorrow. “Would that this toil were
over—this sorrow at the eyes—this deeper suffering at
the heart! Is there a curse, Father Abraham, other
than this and like to this, of a dishonest child, who loves
not where he is beloved, and forgets the duty to that
parent who never forgets him even when least dutiful?
God strengthen me, for I am weak to death!” and the
head of the old man fell heavily, as he spoke, upon the
table before which he sat.

He did not sit in this position long; but suddenly
starting up, he muttered to himself aloud, while he proceeded
to provide some food for the imprisoned youth—

“The boy must not starve, though sinful,” he exclaimed,

as he placed some refreshments in a basket.
He added a little flask of wine to the viands, which he
procured from a recess in one corner of the apartment;
then, placing the basket upon the table, he proceeded to
secure the outer door. This done, he opened a little
bureau in the wall, by pressing a hidden spring, and his
eye rested curiously upon certain beautifully-wrought
Damascus poniards, mingled with sundry other weapons
of a strange and Saracenic fashion. Among these,
for a while, his fingers wandered, without possessing
themselves of any one in particular; and his mind
seemed busied elsewhere, and took no heed of their
movements. At length, however, after a few moments
thus spent, he fixed his attention sufficiently to enable
him to make a choice, which he did of one of the
smallest and simplest of the deadly instruments before
him. This was a little dagger, sufficiently short for
concealment in his bosom. Then, having secured it, he
closed carefully the bureau, and prepared to depart for
the prison of the youth; but a sudden paroxysm of grief,
mingled with self-reproach, seized upon him as he
reached the door, and he straight returned to the chamber
and threw himself upon a cushion, burying his face,
as he did so, in its pliant folds.

“Melchior, my brother,” he exclaimed, after the first
effusion of his sorrow was over, “thou art only too
stern of soul—just in thy awards, but too distrustful of
the once guilty. Thou hast counselled me to carry the
deadly weapon against the life of my child, and I have
placed it in my bosom, as if his blessed mother had not
lain there for many long and blessed seasons. Was it
her thought, when she reposed there so long and so
happily, that such counsel as thine, Melchior, should be
heeded by me? No!—no!—such a thought had been
a sleepless misery to her, and I cast the cruel weapon
from me now. I will not believe that the child of my
love should so far err and be wilful as to make its use

needful; and if I confide too greatly to his love and
duty—if the fears of Melchior be sooth, then, indeed, it
will be time for Adoniakim to die: I will then bare my
bosom to the knife.”

With averted eye, and a shudder of his whole frame
that spoke for his deep feeling, he threw the weapon
from his bosom, as thus passionately he soliloquized
aloud; then, rising hurriedly from the cushion, he hastily
resumed the little basket of refreshments which he
had previously prepared, and, as if he dreaded that, by
lingering, his resolve should undergo alteration, he hastened
at once, as fleetly as his weight of years would
permit, to the apartment where the vicious youth was
imprisoned.

Yet, though in his thought thus indulgent to his son,
and unwilling as he still felt himself, in spite of all the
evidence which he possessed of his guilt, to think that
he was all worthless, he yet resolved that his words
should be those of rebuke and reprehension.

“I will accord him no indulgence—he shall see that
I am firm to withstand his prayers and pleadings. I
will but bid him to his food and leave him.”

It was thus that he muttered his determination to
himself as he reached the chamber in which Amri was
imprisoned. Alas! for the unhappy old man, he overrated
his own strength as much as he did that of his
son's virtue. The result proved his weakness as completely
as it did the viciousness of Amri. He reached
the door, and, tapping gently upon it, he called the
name of the inmate, and bade his attendance. He received
no answer. The youth, at that moment, slept.
He repeated the summons with more emphasis and
earnestness; and though Amri, by this time, had become
conscious of his father's call, he yet obstinately
forbore to answer. With the evil mood of a sullen and
spoiled child, he determined to continue a dogged
silence, having no other object, with the first thought,

than the annoyance of his venerable father. This
thought, however, was superseded by another of a more
criminal nature still, as he discovered from the subsequent
words of the old man, and his tremulous utterance,
that Adoniakim was seriously alarmed by his
silence. Cautiously, therefore, he undid the sash from
about his waist, and so quickly and silently did he effect
his movements, that not the most distant sound reached
the senses of the aged listener. This done, he wrapped
the sash about his neck, and turning himself upon his
face, continued to hear, without regard, the reiterated
calls of his father. His subterfuge was not practised
in vain. Paternal affection got the better of all human
and politic caution; and, procuring himself a stool,
which enabled him to rise sufficiently high to look into
the chamber through the iron grating above the door,
Adoniakim saw with horror the position of his son. His
utter immobility—his silence—the sash tightly fixed
about his neck, the ends of which, though now relaxed,
seemed drawn by a desperate and determined hand—
all conspired to impose upon him completely; and, with
a cry of terror, rapidly descending from his elevation,
the old man tore away the bar from the door, threw
wide the entrance, and, rushing forward to his son,
would have cast himself upon him, but that the more
adroit and active youth, watchful of his opportunity, in
that moment hastily eluded his embrace, and leaping to
his feet, stood erect, while the aged sire fell heavily
upon the floor in the place where the son had lain.
Before Adoniakim could recover from his astonishment
at this base deception, and rise from the floor, the elated
youth had already fled the apartment. His exulting
laugh reached his father's ears, and went like a viper's
tooth into his heart. In the next instant the old man
heard the bar fall into the sockets on each side of the
door, and he then knew, even if the audacious youth
had said nothing, that he now filled his place and was
the prisoner of his son. But the soul of Amri was too
utterly base to forbear the taunts which now came
thickly and insolently from his lips.

“Ha! Adoniakim, is it with thee thus? Where is
Melchior now to counsel with and to aid thee? Thou
canst hope for nothing from me. Thou didst look on
tamely, and see me trampled under foot by his brutal
violence; thou didst obey his commands to put thy
own flesh and blood into bondage—where is he now to
help thee forth?”

“Amri, I will curse thee with a heavy curse,” said
the old man, threateningly, as he looked up and beheld
the exulting eyes of his son glaring down upon him
with scorn and laughter.

“Curse on!” was the defiance which the son sent
back in response—“curse on!—I care not. Thou
wilt heed, too, the saying of the Arab—`Curses, like
good chickens, ever come home to roost!' Beware,
then, for so will it be with thee. Thou hast cursed me
already in thy denials—in the ready obedience thou
hast given to the malice of Melchior. Thou hast no
curse in thy mind which I can fear more than those
which thou and he have already made me to suffer.
Now, I defy him and thee! Thee will I keep safe, for
I will keep thee from the Cave of Wamba. But hear
me, Adoniakim—Melchior will I destroy. I go to
Edacer now—I go to the governor of Roderick in
Cordova. I go with thy secret and the secret of Melchior.
Thee will I save—I will keep thee where thou
art; but Melchior of the Desert, and Abimelech the
Mighty, and others whom I hate, will I give up to the
executioner of the Goth. I leave thee with this purpose,
my father; yet thou wilt need food, and the
basket which thou hast brought for my service I leave
to thee for thine. I pray that it be well and choicely
filled, for thou well meritest what thou hast provided.”

He dropped the basket through the grating above the

door, and was about to descend from his stool, after
saying these words, when the voice of Adoniakim
reached his ears. He paused and listened to his
words.

“Stay but a moment, Amri—I would have thee see
and hear me but for an instant.”

“Speak quickly, then, Adoniakim, for I thirst to see
the armed bands of the Lord Edacer, in preparation for
the quest upon which I shall soon send them.”

“I shall not keep thee long,” was the reply; and, as
he spoke these words, Adoniakim knelt down, folded
his hands and bowed his head, as in prayer, while thus
he appealed to Heaven—

“Hear me, Jehovah—hear me, Father Abraham—
let the doom of the ungrateful and false son be sharp
and sudden: let him feel it; and let it be fatal. I implore
thee for this, God of my fathers, as thou art just
and merciful.”

He rose from his knees, waved his hands, and exclaimed—

“Now, Amri, thou art free to depart. Go!—go
where thou wilt, thou wilt not escape my curse. It will
for ever pursue thee.” He said no more, but turned
away his eyes, and deigned no other word or look.
A cold and strange chill rushed through all the veins of
Amri as he heard this fearful invocation. For a moment
his limbs refused to perform their office; but,
gathering strength at last, he descended and fled hurriedly,
but even as he fled a voice seemed to follow him
into the public ways, saying perpetually in his ears,
with a low and solemn tone—

“Be his doom sharp and sudden—let him feel it, and
let it be fatal!”

He hurried with the speed of fear—he rushed to the
dwelling of the Lord Edacer, and strove with earnest
endeavour, but strove in vain, to lose the sound from
his ready senses of that pursuing voice. For many

hours it continued to pursue him, repeating its fearful
penalty, until his own lips at length caught up the words,
and joined also in the repetition of the doom.