 | CHAPTER II. El Fureidîs |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
The next phase of Eastern life in which we behold our
traveller is one of excitement, suffering, and danger. It
is the evening of the second day since he left Beyrout,
attended only by the youthful Abdoul. Nightfall has
overtaken them among the mountains, and the distant
thunder betokens an approaching tempest. Worn with
fatigue, exhausted and feverish from exposure to the
Syrian sun, and riding a horse scarcely less jaded than
himself, our hero, despite his love of adventure, contemplates
with no little dread the prospect of passing the
night, shelterless, and exposed to the fury of the elements.
Nor is this the worst he has to fear. Distrust of his guide
is superadded to the hardships of the journey, and the
senses which would otherwise be benumbed with weariness
are now strained to their utmost in apprehension of treachery.
Not that Meredith is by nature cowardly or suspicious.
On the contrary, he is a model of manly vigor
and accomplishments, while the generosity of his own
disposition is such as to encourage confidence in others.
But it is no ordinary situation in which he finds himself,
and various incidents have occurred on the route calculated
to excite him to wariness and prudence.
Both pride and policy, however, forbid his betraying
to his Bedouin attendant any symptom of uneasiness, nor,
save the simple precaution of keeping constantly in the
measures. Even this prudential order of precedence may
be deemed inevitable, since, but for the encouragement
afforded by Abdoul's example, the European traveller,
skilful rider as he is, would hesitate to spur his horse
over the wide chasms, narrow passes, and precipitous
descents, which everywhere mark and interrupt their
passage. The night is dark, the journey hazardous, and
both the gloom and the perils of the way are every moment
becoming more appalling. Now and then pale streaks of
lightning illumine the wild scene with their ghastly glare,
bringing into bold relief the bare and frowning peaks
above, the yawning precipices below, and all the dangers of
the rough and flint-strown path, which at one moment
skirts the edge of an overhanging rock, then winds along
the dry bed of a mountain torrent. The sudden darkness
which succeeds, the echoing of the thunder as it resounds
from crag to crag, and now and then the roar of a neighboring
cataract, all combine to heighten the awful strenness
and grandeur of the place and hour.
Trusting wholly to the sagacity and sure-footedness of
his horse, which he no longer attempts to guide, Meredith
hails eagerly the lightning flash which enables him to
measure the difficulties of the way and scan the face
of the youthful Ishmaelite, who successfully veils every
emotion, whether of weariness, doubt, or treachery, beneath
features of motionless inflexibility. At length, as Meredith
finds himself upon a platform of some little breadth, while
the steed of Abdoul is already plunging down the fearful
declivity which succeeds, the Englishman pauses, and for
the first time for some hours addresses the young Arab.
“Abdoul!” he exclaimed.
At the sound of the clear voice ringing through the
haunches, and, with a surprising feat on the part of both
steed and rider, the animal was forced to remount the
ascent backwards until it gained the level occupied by
Meredith.
“Abdoul, the journey is long, the road fearful, and there
is a storm coming on.”
“Allah! you say truly,” replied Abdoul with an unmoved
air.
“Where are we to find shelter for the night?” continued
Meredith.
“Behind yonder mountain,”—and Abdoul pointed to a
precipitous mass of rock, which, as the lightning played
over it, seemed within a stone's throw.
“And you will guide me there in safety?”
“Have I not promised? and is not the written contract
sealed with the seal of Abdoul?” answered the youth,
proudly.
“But do you know the way?” questioned Meredith, who
believed himself misled, not being able to credit the possibility
that he was pursuing a travelled and recognizable
road.
“Does the camel of the desert know the water-spring?
and can the eagle find its nest?” said the boy, with gravity.
“But the horses? they are worn out, and cannot carry us
much farther.”
“Trust them,” replied Abdoul; “they will smell their
evening meal and the hand that grooms them.”
There was a pause. The Englishman forbore further
questioning, and the Bedouin, after waiting the word from
Meredith, responded to his command to proceed by plunging
once more down the cliff.
An hour of patient travelling succeeded; the storm had
veins of Meredith had given place to a fearful chill as the
cold rain drenched him to the skin. And still the promised
destination seemed as distant as ever. It was inconceivable
to the Englishman that they should be so long in gaining
the place of refuge, which, when pointed out an hour before,
had been apparently close at hand. He could not forget
the mysterious communication which Abdoul had held the
previous evening with some stragglers of a Bedouin tribe
whom they had encountered on their road; nor the fierce
gesticulations with which the boy had given emphasis to
his discourse. While engaged in these and similar reflections,
a sound of rushing water fell upon his ear, and he soon
became conscious that the path was leading him to the
verge of a narrow causeway, beneath which, at a distance
of more than a hundred feet, there foamed and dashed an
impetuous mountain stream. This causeway was a natural
bridge of solid rock, suspended over a terrific chasm, and unprotected
by the slightest barrier. Thick darkness hid the
scene from view; but the roaring of the flood beneath, and
the hesitating step of his horse, afforded Meredith sufficient
indication of the crisis he had reached in his already sufficiently
perilous expedition. At the same instant he felt his
Bedouin guide tightly grasp his right arm, thus rendering
powerless the hand which held his only weapon of defence,
a small pocket-pistol.
Confident that the moment had come when resistance
was the truest wisdom, he released himself by a sudden
effort of strength from the hold of his seeming antagonist,
and with a threatening exclamation raised his pistol. At
this critical instant a broad, vivid flash of lightning illumiued
earth and sky, revealing a picture as strange and
startling as it was sudden and momentary. In the very
midway between earth and heaven, both horsemen were
stationed abreast, having come to a sudden halt. Meredith
sat firm and upright in his saddle, Abdoul bent backwards
in the position into which he had been thrown by the force
of Meredith's sudden repulse, and the eyes of each gazed
into those of the other.
Nothing could be more wildly picturesque than the tableau
thus presented, nothing more striking than the contrast
afforded by the two individuals, each of whom furnished
a fitting type of his own race and nation.
The resolute determination which marked both the face
and figure of the European, the calm caution and deep-seated
distrust evinced both in his countenance and air, were
met with equally characteristic indications on the part of
the Arab youth, who, with his head thrown back, his thin
lips compressed, and his loose garments floating over the
verge of the precipice, shot from his eyes such a glance
of scorn, that the piercing orbs might have been deemed the
central fires from which radiated the mountain lightning.
Not less significant were the words which succeeded this
striking pantomime.
“Traitor!” said the Englishman, between his teeth,
“would you hurl me over the precipice?”
“Son of an infidel,” answered Abdoul, with proud disdain,
“the waters of yonder flood are deep, and the caves
of the valley are mute as the grave; but the Frank shall
tread the mountain pass unharmed, for Abdoul has given
his word of faith, and the son of Sheik Zanadeen never
lies.”
Momentary as were the glances thus exchanged, and
short as was the dialogue that followed, the effect was no
less instantaneous.
To the Englishman the good faith of the Arab was established
beyond a question. The scorn with which he met
the charge of treachery, the proud words with which he repelled
it, not only carried with them conviction of his fidelity,
but excited in the mind of the generous Meredith an
involuntary respect and admiration for the true-hearted
youth.
The good understanding, however, was far from mutual.
The indifference with which the young Bedouin had previously
regarded Meredith had now given place to a sentiment
of a wholly different character. Not only had the
lips of the Frank branded him with the base charge of
traitor, but the lightning flash had revealed to him a countenance,
every line of which was darkened with distrust.
It was for a moment only, but Abdonl never forgot it.
Maintaining, however, that self-control which marks the
Arab even under circumstances of excitement, he quietly
resumed his duties as escort and guide, and the next moment
sufficed to explain the movement which had alarmed
Meredith, and given rise to the misunderstanding. The
stone causeway upon which they had halted, although extremely
narrow at the entrance, widened, as we have seen,
towards the centre, sufficiently to admit of two horsemen
abreast. Abdoul had availed himself of this circumstance
to fall back to a position parallel with that of Meredith, in
order, by aid of voice and arm, to assist him and encourage
his steed in surmounting a difficult ascent which presented
itself at the farther extremity of the bridge. It was merely
to assure himself of the desired proximity that the youth
had in the darkness grasped the arm of Meredith; and this
fact became evident, when, as they actually attempted to
climb the smooth, slippery rock, on which the horses could
with difficulty obtain a foothold, the jaded animal which
assistance promptly rendered by the skilful Bedouin.
This difficulty surmounted, the path became gradually
more smooth and practicable, the rain ceased, and the prospects
of the travellers appeared more encouraging, though
as yet no place of rest and refreshment was visible.
Half ashamed of the doubts and surmises which, although
warranted by the occasion, now seemed to Meredith the
effects of a heated and distempered brain, he strove to
atone for them by manifesting towards his guide the renewed
confidence with which the demeanor of the latter
had inspired him, and with this view endeavored to engage
the lad in conversation. But Abdoul could not be roused
from his taciturnity, and the responses called forth by the
questioning of Meredith, although civil, were invariably
brief.
They were now descending the mountain whose summit
they had crossed earlier in the evening, and the
moon, having risen from behind a bank of clouds, afforded
an uncertain light which partially illumined the prospect.
The craggy heights and bluffs which stretched their huge
and shapeless masses in every direction were becoming
more thickly wooded and verdant with every step of the
travellers' progress, but desolate grandeur was still the
predominant feature of the landscape. The path the riders
were following led around the slope of a tall, projecting
cliff, whose dark, frowning side shut in and barred the prospect,
affording only the view of its own pine-clad acclivities
above and the deep chasm at its base.
Just as Meredith drew near the point where, by a sudden
turning in the road, he might command a view of the
opposite valley, a sound fell upon his ear as startling as a
trumpet and as welcome as the voice of a friend. It was
reverberated from cliff to cliff, reassured his heart with its
familiar welcome to the abodes of men. Its solemn peals
were still vibrating among the hills, when other musical
tones burst forth from a nearer quarter, mingling with the
bass notes which rung out from the opposite cliff,—a
plaintive minor strain, forming a perfect concord with the
deeper and sterner harmony.
Astonishment gave place to awe, as Meredith listened
until the sounds died away upon the air, and awe again
yielded to an ecstasy of surprise, as, turning the angle of
the mountain precipice, he beheld at a glance what seemed
to his enraptured vision a more than earthly paradise.
Reposing in the heart of the mountain, nestling in the
giant arms of Lebanon, a lovely and picturesque village lay
before him, its white, flat-roofed cottages gleaming in the
unclouded splendor of the now brilliant moonlight.
“Behold!” said Abdoul, checking his horse, and waving
his hand in the direction of the highland glen, as if, in
presenting it to Meredith, he sealed the fulfilment of his
sacred contract,—“behold El Fureidis (the Paradise), the
happy valley,—watered by the springs of Barûk,—the
home of the mountain-rose,—the garden of Lebanon!”
“A garden indeed!” thought Meredith, as the delicious
perfume of herbs and flowers was borne to him on the
summer breeze. “Fit place in which to spend a lifetime!”
he mentally added, as the sweet repose, the calm serenity,
of the scene stole in upon his weary senses.
| CHAPTER II. El Fureidîs | |