2.1. THE LAST MAN.
CHAPTER I.
DURING this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed
on deck, watching the glancing of the waves and the
changeful appearances of the sky, I discovered the
total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had
wrought in the mind of my sister. Were they the same
waters of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice,
repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen
chains, flowed through the regions of her soul in
gushing and grateful exuberance? She did
not believe that he was dead, but she knew that he was in danger,
and the hope of assisting in his liberation, and the
idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that he might
have undergone, elevated and harmonized the late
jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as
she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
sanguine, but secure; and the expectation of seeing the
lover she had banished, the husband, friend, heart's
companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt
her senses in delight, her mind in placidity. It was
beginning life again; it was leaving barren sands for
an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after a
tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy
waking from a terrible dream.
Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not
well understand what was going forward. She heard that
we were bound for Greece, that she would see her
father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of
him to her mother.
On landing at Athens we found difficulties
encrease upon us: nor could the storied earth or balmy
atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure,
while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had
ever excited so strong an interest in the public mind;
this was apparent even among the phlegmatic English,
from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had
expected their hero to return in triumph; the women had
taught their children to lisp his name joined to
thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage, his
devotion to their cause, made him appear in their eyes
almost as one of the ancient deities of the soil
descended from their native Olympus to defend them.
When they spoke of his probable death and certain
captivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even as the
women of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and
mothers of Greece lament our English Raymond—Athens
was a city of mourning.
All these shews of despair struck Perdita with
affright. With that sanguine but confused expectation,
which desire engendered while she was at a distance
from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of
instantaneous change, when she should set her foot on
Grecian shores. She fancied that Raymond would already
be free, and that her tender attentions would come to
entirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance.
But his fate was still uncertain; she began to fear the
worst, and to feel that her soul's hope was cast on a
chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely
child of Lord Raymond became objects of intense
interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were
besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his
restoration; all these circumstances added to the
dismay and fears of Perdita.
My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left
Athens, and joined the army stationed at Kishan in
Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon discovered
the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner,
suffering the most rigorous
confinement and wanton
cruelties. We put in movement every impulse of policy
and money to redeem him from their hands.
The impatience of my sister's disposition now returned
on her, awakened by repentance, sharpened by remorse.
The very beauty of the Grecian climate, during the
season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The
unexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth—the
genial sunshine and grateful shade—the melody of the
birds—the majesty of the woods—the splendour of the
marble ruins—the clear effulgence of the stars by
night—the combination of all that was exciting and
voluptuous in this transcending land, by inspiring a
quicker spirit of life and an added sensitiveness to
every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and
"He suffers" was the burthen of all her
thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay on the bare
earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments,
endeavoured to hold communion
with his distant pain. I
remembered in one of her harshest moments a quotation
of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. "Perdita,"
I had said, "some day you will discover that you have
done wrong in again casting Raymond on the thorns of
life. When disappointment has sullied his beauty, when
a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and
loneliness made even triumph bitter to him, then you
will repent; and regret for the irreparable change
"will move
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love." [1]
The stinging "remorse of love" now pierced her heart.
She accused herself of his journey to Greece—his
dangers—his imprisonment. She pictured to herself the
anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager
delight he had in former days made her the partner of
his joyful hopes—with what grateful affection he
received her
sympathy in his cares. She called to mind
how often he had declared that solitude was to him the
greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him
more full of fear and pain when he pictured to himself
a lonely grave. "My best girl," he had said, "relieves
me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in
her dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of
finding myself alone. Even if I die before you, my
Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle
with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not
a materialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I
may feel that my inanimate dust mingles with yours, and
thus have a companion in decay." In her resentful mood,
these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and
disdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking
sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest from her uneasy
mind.
Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a
promise of Raymond's release. Confinement and hardship
had undermined his health;
the Turks feared an
accomplishment of the threats of the English
government, if he died under their hands; they looked
upon his recovery as impossible; they delivered him up
as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites
of burial.
He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind,
favourable to him, blew so strongly in shore, that we
were unable, as we had at first intended, to meet him
on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was
besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out
for; till on the first of May the gallant frigate bore
in sight, freighted with treasure more invaluable than
the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed
Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At early
dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore; it was
conjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles
from land. The news spread through Athens, and the
whole city poured out at the gate of the Piraeus, down
the roads,
through the vineyards, the olive woods and
plantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The
noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of their
dress, the tumult of carriages and horses, the march of
soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of
martial music added to the high excitement of the
scene; while round us reposed in solemn majesty the
relics of antient time. To our right the Acropolis rose
high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient
glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of
dear-bought liberty; tombs and cenotaphs were strewed
thick around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation; the
mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in
our enthusiasm and congregated numbers a renewal of the
scenes in which they had been the actors. Perdita and
Clara rode in a close carriage; I attended them on
horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was
agitated by the outward swell of the sea; the beach, as
far could be discerned, was covered by a moving
multitude, which, urged by
those behind toward the sea,
again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar
burst close to them. I applied my glass, and could
discern that the frigate had already cast anchor,
fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee
shore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I saw that
Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's side; he was
let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the
bottom of the boat.
I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were
rowing about the harbour to pull up, and take me into
their skiff; Perdita at the same moment alighted from
her carriage—she seized my arm—"Take me with you,"
she cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to
her—"You must not," I said, "the sea is rough—he will
soon be here—do you not see his boat?" The little bark
to which I had beckoned had now pulled up; before I
could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in
it—Clara followed her mother—a loud shout echoed from
the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour;
while my sister at the prow, had caught hold of one of the
men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions,
careless of the spray that broke over her, deaf,
sightless to all, except the little speck that, just
visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We
approached with all the speed six rowers could give;
the orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on
the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the stirring
breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of
the eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were
purely eastern; the sight of temple-crowned rock, the
white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun,
and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of
lofty mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the
splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my soul
in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course
of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to
look through the glass with which I had watched the
motion of the crew, when the frigate's boat had first
been
launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at length
the number and forms of those within could be
discerned; its dark sides grew big, and the splash of
its oars became audible: I could distinguish the
languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at
our approach.
Perdita's questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm,
panting with emotions too acute for tears—our men
pulled alongside the other boat. As a last effort, my
sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped
from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she
sprang towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing
her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by
her long hair, gave herself up to tears.
Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach,
but it was with difficulty that he exerted himself even
thus much. With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale and
gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita? I
continued awe-struck and mute—he looked smilingly on
the poor girl; the smile was his. A day of sun-
shine falling on a dark valley, displays its before hidden
characteristics; and now this smile, the same with
which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had
welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered
countenance, made me in my heart's core feel that this
was Raymond.
He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the
trace of manacles on his bared wrist. I heard my
sister's sobs, and thought, happy are women who can
weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the
oppression of their feelings; shame and habitual
restraint hold back a man. I would have given worlds to
have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to
my breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over
him; my swelling heart choked me; the natural current
would not be checked; the big rebellious tears gathered
in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the
sea—they came fast and faster;—yet I could hardly be
ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors were not
un-
moved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from among
our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which
convalescence always induces, enjoying in secure
tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he
adored. Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion,
and rose,—she looked round for Clara; the child
frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected
by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she came
at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to Raymond;
her first words were: "Beloved, embrace our child:"
"Come hither, sweet one," said her father, "do you not
know me?" she knew his voice, and cast herself in his
arms with half bashful but uncontrollable emotion.
Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill
consequences from the pressure of the crowd on his
landing. But they were awed as I had been, at the
change of his appearance. The music died away, the
shouts abruptly ended; the soldiers had cleared a space
in which a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it;
Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort
closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring
of the near waves, went through the multitude; they
fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of
injuring him they had come to welcome, by loud
testimonies of joy, they satisfied themselves with
bending in a low salaam as the carriage passed; it went
slowly along the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique
temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the
citadel. The sound of the waves was left behind; that
of the multitude continued at intervals, supressed and
hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches,
and public buildings were decorated with tapestry and
banners—though the soldiery lined the streets, and the
inhabitants in thousands were assembled to give him
hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery
presented arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand
waved a streamer, and vainly sought to discern the hero
in the vehicle, which,
closed and encompassed by the
city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his
abode.
Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he
perceived to be excited on his account, filled him with
proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with kindness. It
is true, the populace retained themselves; but there
arose a perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round
the palace, which added to the noise of fireworks, the
frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of
horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was
the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired awhile
to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care added each
day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous
attention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the
causes which induced his rapid recovery; but the second
was surely the delight he felt in the affection and
good will of the Greeks. We are said to love much those
whom we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and
conquered for the Athenians; he had suffered,
on their account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their
gratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to
unite his fate for ever to that of a people so
enthusiastically devoted to him.
Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked
feature in my disposition. In early youth, the living
drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul into its
vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I
hoped, I enjoyed; but there was something besides this.
I was inquisitive as to the internal principles of
action of those around me: anxious to read their
thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining
their inmost mind. All events, at the same time that
they deeply interested me, arranged themselves in
pictures before me. I gave the right place to every
personage in the groupe, the just balance to every
sentiment. This undercurrent of thought, often soothed
me amidst distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to
that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul would
have revolted: it bestowed pictorial colours
on misery
and disease, and not unfrequently relieved me from
despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or
instinct, was now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened
devotion of my sister; Clara's timid, but concentrated
admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite for
renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of
affection of the Athenians. Attentively perusing this
animated volume, I was the less surprised at the tale I
read on the new-turned page.
The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto;
and the Greeks, hastening their preparations, and
sending each day reinforcements, were on the eve of
forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the
coming struggle as that which would be to a great
degree decisive; as, in case of victory, the next step
would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks.
Raymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to
re-assume his command in the army.
Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination.
She only stipulated to be permitted
to accompany him.
She had set down no rule of conduct for herself; but
for her life she could not have opposed his slightest
wish, or do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his
projects. One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than
battles or sieges, during which she trusted Raymond's
high command would exempt him from danger. That word,
as yet it was not more to her, was PLAGUE. This enemy
to the human race had begun early in June to raise its
serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of Asia,
not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was
in Constantinople; but as each year that city
experienced a like visitation, small attention was paid
to those accounts which declared more people to have
died there already, than usually made up the accustomed
prey of the whole of the hotter months. However it
might be, neither plague nor war could prevent Perdita
from following her lord, or induce her to utter one
objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near
him, to be loved by him, to
feel him again her own, was
the limit of her desires. The object of her life was to
do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a
difference. In past times, without thought or foresight
she had made him happy, being so herself, and in any
question of choice, consulted her own wishes, as being
one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the
question, sacrificing even her anxiety for his health
and welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his
desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory,
and hatred of the barbarian government under which he
had suffered even to the approach of death, stimulated
him. He wished to repay the kindness of the Athenians,
to keep alive the splendid associations connected with
his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power which,
while every other nation advanced in civilization,
stood still, a monument of antique barbarism. Having
effected the reunion of Raymond and Perdita, I was
eager to return to England; but his earnest request,
added to awakening
curiosity, and an indefinable
anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now apparently at
hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish
warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the
autumn, the period of my residence in Greece.
As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently
re-established, he prepared to join the Grecian camp,
hear Kishan, a town of some importance, situated to the
east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to
remain until the event of the expected battle. We
quitted Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had
recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If
I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured
countenance, if care had besieged his brow,
"And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field," [2]
if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look,
considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs
of added years and past sufferings, yet there was something
irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately
snatched from the grave, renewing his career, untamed
by sickness or disaster. The Athenians saw in him, not
as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man, who was
ready to die for them; but the prudent commander, who
for their sakes was careful of his life, and could make
his own warrior-propensities second to the scheme of
conduct policy might point out.
All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he
had landed a month ago, the noisy populace had been
hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a festival day
to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their
picturesque costume, and the gay colours of which it
was composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild
appearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the
hope of each wife, mother or betrothed bride, whose
husband, child, or lover,
making a part of the Greek
army, were to be conducted to victory by him.
Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it
was full of romantic interest, as we passed through the
vallies, and over the hills, of this divine country.
Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of
recovered health; he felt that in being general of the
Athenians, he filled a post worthy of his ambition;
and, in his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he
counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the
waste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals of
man; when a city of grand historic association, the
beauty of whose site was the wonder of the world, which
for many hundred years had been the strong hold of the
Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism,
and restored to a people illustrious for genius,
civilization, and a spirit of liberty. Perdita rested
on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and
fame, even as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every
thought
was transport, each emotion bathed as it were
in a congenial and balmy element.
We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather
during our journey had been serene. Each day, before
dawn, we left our night's encampment, and watched the
shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the
golden splendour of the sun's approach. The
accompanying soldiers received, with national vivacity,
enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful
nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by
triumphant strains, while the birds, heard by snatches,
filled up the intervals of the music. At noon, we
pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering
wood among the mountains, while a stream prattling over
pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening march, more
calm, was yet more delightful than the morning
restlessness of spirit. If the band played,
involuntarily they chose airs of moderated passion; the
farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed
and closed by some solemn
hymn, which harmonized with
the tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the
soul to grand and religious thought. Often all sounds
were suspended, that we might listen to the
nightingale, while the fire-flies danced in bright
measure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of
fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a valley?
Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with
beauteous hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a
living map, was spread beneath, her renowned pinnacles
cleaving the ether; her rivers threading in silver line
the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English
travellers surveyed with extasy this splendid
landscape, so different from the sober hues and
melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we
quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace
afforded fewer beauties; yet our journey continued to
be interesting. An advanced guard gave information of
our approach, and the country people were quickly in
motion to do honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were
decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by day, and
lamps by night; tapestry waved from the windows, the
ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of
Raymond, joined to that of Greece, was echoed in the
Evive of the peasant crowd.
When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing
of the advance of Lord Raymond and his detachment, the
Turkish army had retreated from Rodosto; but meeting
with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In
the meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief,
had advanced, so as to be between the Turks and
Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable. Perdita
and her child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked
me, if I would not continue with them. "Now by the
fells of Cumberland," I cried, "by all of the vagabond
and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at your
side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed
as a victor along with you!"
All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance
of sixteen leagues, was alive with troops, or with the
camp-followers, all in motion at the approach of a
battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various
towns and fortresses, and went to swell the main army.
We met baggage waggons, and many females of high and
low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to wait
the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at
Rodosto, we found that the field had been taken, and
the scheme of the battle arranged. The sound of firing,
early on the following morning, informed us that
advanced posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment
after regiment advanced, their colours flying and bands
playing. They planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole
elevations in this level country, and formed themselves
into column and hollow square; while the pioneers threw
up small mounds for their protection.
These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the
battle itself; far different from any
thing the imagination had pictured. We read of centre
and wing in Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot,
plain as a table, and soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn
forth, so that the most ignorant of the game can discover
science and order in the disposition of the forces.
When I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off
to the left far out of sight, fields intervening
between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently
near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of
understanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching
myself to Raymond attended with intense interest to his
actions. He shewed himself collected, gallant and
imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of
the events of the day to me miraculous. In the mean
time the cannon roared; the music lifted up its
enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of
the mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the
fallen sheaves which death gathered into his
storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in
smoke, now banners and staves peering above the cloud, while
shout and clamour drowned every sound.
Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously,
and Raymond assumed the command of the whole army. He
made few remarks, till, on observing through his glass
the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded
for awhile with doubt, became radiant. "The day is
ours," he cried, "the Turks fly from the bayonet. And
then swiftly he dispatched his aides-de-camp to command
the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat
became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry
rallied, and horse pursued the flying Turks along the
dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was dispersed in
various directions, to make observations, and bear
commands. Even I was dispatched to a distant part of
the field.
The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level
plain—so level, that from the tumuli you saw the
waving line of mountains on the
wide-stretched horizon;
yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least
irregularity, save such undulations as resembled the
waves of the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had
been so long a scene of contest, that it had remained
uncultivated, and presented a dreary, barren
appearance. The order I had received, was to make an
observation of the direction which a detachment of the
enemy might have taken, from a northern tumulus; the
whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had poured
eastward; none but the dead remained in the direction
of my side. From the top of the mound, I looked far
round—all was silent and deserted.
The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from
behind the far summit of Mount Athos; the sea of
Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while the
Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low
cloud. Many a casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen
from unnerved arms, reflected the departing ray; they
lay
scattered far and near. From the east, a band of
ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came
sailing along towards their harvest; the sun
disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet sweet, has
always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally
led to commune with higher powers; our mortal sternness
departs, and gentle complacency invests the soul. But
now, in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could
a thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity
possess one of the murderers? During the busy day, my
mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the state of
things presented to it by its fellow-beings; historical
association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm
had held dominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening
star, as softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the
orange hues of sunset. I turned to the corse-strewn
earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were
the placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in
mist, and in this change assisted the swift
disappearance of twilight
usual in the south; heavy
masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red
and turbid lightning shot from their dark edges; the
rushing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and
was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness
gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct,
I descended from my station, and with difficulty guided
my horse, so as to avoid the slain.
Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to
rise from the earth; it flew swiftly towards me,
sinking to the ground again as it drew near. All this
passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my
horse, so that it should not trample on the prostrate
being. The dress of this person was that of a soldier,
but the bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks
discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her
aid, while she, with heavy groans, and her hand placed
on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the
hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and
in my native
accents endeavoured to soothe the
sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations did the
lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) recognize the
language of her lover; pain and fever from her wound
had deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries
and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me with
compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the name
of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from
her, while the Turks with fearful instruments of
torture were about to take his life. Then again she
sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a
woman's heart and sensibility, should be driven by
hopeless love and vacant hopes to take up the trade of
arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man privation,
labour, and pain—the while her dry, hot hand pressed
mine, and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire.
As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the
ground; her emaciated form hung over my arm, her sunken
cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral voice she
murmured:—"This is
the end of love!—Yet not the
end!"—and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm
up to heaven: "there is the end! there we meet again.
Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O Raymond,
and now I expire, thy victim!—By my death I purchase
thee—lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are
my servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now!
I have sold myself to death, with the sole condition
that thou shouldst follow me—Fire, and war, and
plague, unite for thy destruction—O my Raymond, there
is no safety for thee!"
With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her
delirium; I made her a bed of cloaks; her violence
decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as the
paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I
placed her on the cloaks. She continued to rave of her
speedy meeting with her beloved in the grave, of his
death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared
that he was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard
destiny. Her voice grew
feebler, her speech
interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her
muscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more to be
sustained, one deep sigh, and life was gone.
I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead;
wrapt in cloaks, I placed her beneath a tree. Once more
I looked on her altered face; the last time I saw her
she was eighteen; beautiful as poet's vision, splendid
as a Sultana of the East—Twelve years had past; twelve
years of change, sorrow and hardship; her brilliant
complexion had become worn and dark, her limbs had lost
the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk
deep,
Crushed and o'erworn,
The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow
With lines and wrinkles.
With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human
passion and human misery; I heaped over her all of
flags and heavy accoutrements I could find, to guard
her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow
on her a
fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my
course from among the heaps of slain, and, guided by
the twinkling lights of the town, at length reached
Rodosto.
[1]
Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.