University of Virginia Library

17. XVII.

The air seemed to be charmed at the close of the
song, and the feet of Amri were fastened where he
stood. Was it fancy that made him think that a breathing
sound in the air around him was the renewed respiration
of spirit forms, that had heretofore been listening?
His own breathing was still suppressed. But he heard
a movement below, and he went forward. The song
had guided him in the direction he should take. He
reached a little gallery that overlooked a small but richly-decorated
apartment. He gazed wistfully down upon
it. Thyrza knelt—her arm clasping the harp, while her
head was bent down, and resting upon the golden image
which crowned the instrument. One hand hung at her
side, while her long black hair, which had become unfastened,
now fell loosely, and mingled in lovely contrast
with the bright strings, which it equalled in length. She
looked up as she heard him, and he saw that the dark
eyes of the maiden glistened with their tears. But the
sentiment of her face was so holy—so subdued—so like
that of one crowned with the joys and filled with the
spirit of heaven, that the intruder was awed while he
surveyed her. She knew him not in his disguise, and
for the first time, for many years, he beheld her in her
woman vestments.

“Who art thou?—what wouldst thou?” she demanded
hurriedly, as she beheld him.

“What! thou knowest me not, Thyrza?” he exclaimed,
forgetting his disguise.

“How should I know thee?” she replied. “Tell me
thy name, stranger, for I remember not to have seen
thee before.”

He leaped boldly down into the chamber, and threw
aside the garment which disguised him.

“Amri!” she exclaimed, with astonishment, as she
looked upon him.

“The same, sweet Thyrza—the same. Amri, the
son of Adoniakim—thy father's friend, and thine.”

“Does my father know of thy coming here, Amri?”
she demanded.

“He does not,” was the answer.

“And wherefore hast thou come?” she asked.

“Wherefore not?” he replied. “I came to see thee
—to hear thee—to look upon thy loveliness—to know
thee well—and, if thou wilt, sweetest Thyrza, to love
thee.”

“Leave me, Amri,” was the calm response of the
maiden. “Leave me! Thou hast done wrong in
coming hither without the presence or the permission of
Melchior. I fear me that he will chide.”

“The fault is mine, dear Thyrza—he cannot complain
of thee.”

“I should be guilty of thy fault too, Amri, if I did
not urge thee to depart,” replied the maiden, with some
show of annoyance in her manner, but still with a degree
of calmness and decision which altogether surprised
the intruder.

“Nay,” he replied, “I have but seen thee, beautiful
Thyrza—I would know thee—I would have thee know
me.”

“I do know thee, Amri,” was the quiet answer—and
she seemed unconscious of the sarcasm of her speech,
though Amri was not.

“Thou dost not—thou canst not know me, Thyrza.
Thou hast heard of me from those only who know me
not, or speak falsely of their knowledge. Thou shalt
know me better. I would have thee know me, Thyrza,
as I know thee.”

She looked at him with inquiring eyes, but spoke nothing.
He continued—

“I know thee to love thee, Thyrza—I would have

thee know me until thou hast learned to love me in return.”

“Love thee!” she exclaimed, sadly, and her eyes,
still tearful, looked upward, as if seeking the glance of
that one single star, for worship, of which her song had
spoken.

“Yes, love me, Thyrza—canst thou not, dearest
Thyrza? Believe me when I tell thee that I love thee
much.”

“Speak not thus, Amri, I pray thee. Leave me now.
My father will chide that thou art here.”

“Wilt thou not answer me, Thyrza? Speak to my
prayer. I came to thee for this. Thou hast won my
heart till it hath no self-mastery, and it comes to thee
in devotion, and it seeks for thee in hope. Tell me,
then, dearest Thyrza, that thou holdest me not in
scorn.”

“I do not hold thee in scorn, Amri,” said the maiden,
meekly.

“Tell me, then, that thou wilt love me—that thou wilt
strive to love me;—that I may hope for thy heart in
season.”

“I cannot—I dare not, Amri. I should speak falsely
to thee if I did so.”

“Now, out upon thy cruelty,” exclaimed the passionate
youth; “thou hast but seen me, yet thou tellest me
thou canst not love.”

“Be not angry with me, Amri,” said the maiden,
gently; “be not angry with me, I pray thee, that I tell
thee so. But it is truth—I cannot give thee such hope
as thou desirest.”

“Thou lovest another,” he furiously spoke.

She did not reply; but her lip quivered, and the tear
rose, like a brilliant jewel, upon her long lashes. He
repeated the words. She raised her head and looked
steadfastly upon him ere she replied. When she did so,
he remarked that the tones of her voice were no longer

tremulous, and he thought that they were now rather
stern than sad.

“Wilt thou not leave me, Amri, when I pray thee?”

“And why dost thou pray me to leave thee, when
I have but a moment come? Dost thou hate me,
Thyrza?”

“It is not for me to hate; I hate thee not.”

“Thou wilt love me, then?—thou wilt strive to love
me?”

“Leave me, Amri.”

“Not till thou hast promised.”

“Thou dost wrong,—and my father will chide when
he cometh.”

She spoke so gently that her manner deceived the
youth, whose eyes had seldom seen resolution expressed
except when associated with stern words and every show
of violence.

“I will leave thee if thou sayest it; but first, dearest
Thyrza—”

He paused in his speech and approached her. She
retreated a pace.

“Fly me not, lovely Thyrza; but, as a sign that thou
wilt strive to love me,—as a promise which shall give
me to hope, let my lips—”

“Away—touch me not, Amri,” and her eye kindled,
and her hand was uplifted as he advanced.

“But one embrace—one kiss, sweet Thyrza.”

“Leave me, sir, I command you.”

But Amri was not accustomed to be controlled or
commanded when no power stronger than that of a gentle
woman stood in opposition to his will. Blunt in his
own sensibilities, and with appetites that defeated his
finer feelings, he regarded her objections as those only
of form and artifice. He continued to advance, therefore,
and she to retreat, until farther retreat was impossible.
She leaned against the wall of the apartment,
and bade him desist. He heeded her not, and his arms

were stretched forth to embrace her, when her own arm
was uplifted. He started back when he beheld, glittering
in her hand, the poniard which she always wore.

“Go!” she exclaimed; “leave me—thou hast done
wrong, and I will tell my father all of thy intrusion when
he returns. Thou wilt do well not to see him, for he is
quick to strike when there is a wrong purposed to his
child. I would not that he should harm thee, Amri, and
I pray thee to keep from his presence.”

The base soul of the youth cowered before the majestic
person of the maiden. Her eye was fixed upon
him in the unmoved calmness of a conscious and fearless
superiority. She kept her position, and, with the
point of the lifted dagger, she indicated the entrance to
the chamber. Ashamed and shrinking, he obeyed its
direction and left the apartment. The maiden remained
alone. When he had gone she fastened the door carefully,
and restored the poniard to the sheath at her side.
But it was long before her limbs resumed their firmness,
though they trembled not, in the slightest degree, while
Amri stood before her. When Melchior returned, she
communicated to him the particulars of the interview
which she had had with the intruder, though she dwelt
not harshly upon the more unfavourable features of his
behaviour. Melchior heard her with grief and annoyance,
but he approved of her conduct.

“Thou art like thy mother, my child,—thou art
sweet and true. Thou hast done rightly—thou art not
in fault. But this boy—unhappy Adoniakim! what a
curse thou hast made of a blessing sent thee from God.
Much I fear me this boy will work thee the bitterest
sorrow. We must strive, my Thyrza, that we are not
made to partake of it.”

“Shall I bring thee wine, my father?—thy cheek is
pale with thy toils of the morning—”

“A cup, my child, and then get thee to thy harp. I
would forget—I would remember. Give me an old

memory—a lay of the desert—that, in looking back,
I may not see the gloom and the trial which are before
me.”

“The Hymn to the Departed, dear father,—shall I
sing thee that?”

“It is solemn,—it is sweet,—it looks to the past and
to the future,—it may well hide the present from my
sight. Sing, Thyrza, as thou sayest.”

How holy were both hearts when Thyrza had finished
this hymn! How upward-looking their eyes! How
upward-lifted their souls! Though the thought of
Melchior was of war—yet it was a war for the people

and the God of his love; and if, in the heart of Thyrza,
a more earthly flame and feeling had a home, it was
sublimed by a sweet unselfishness, which would not
have been unwilling, if, like the daughter of Jephthah, the
God of her worship or the father of her love had required
it, to offer herself up in sacrifice for the cause, and at
the requisition of either.