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“It is indeed sweet, holy father,” said Iduna; “but the captive, who has escaped from captivity, can alone feel all its sweetness.”
“It is true,” said the Eremite; “I also have been a captive.”
“Indeed! holy father. To the Infidels?”
“To the Infidels, gentle pilgrim.”
“Have you been at Adrianople?”
“My oppressors were not the Paynim,” replied the Eremite, “but they were enemies far more dire, my own evil passions. Time was when my eye sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure.”
“God is merciful,” said Iduna, “and without His aid, the strongest are but shadows.”
“Ever think so,” replied the Eremite, “and you will deserve rather His love than His mercy. Thirty long years have I spent in this solitude, meditating upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in instruction. My hours are never heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other men.”
“You have seen much, holy father?”
“And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto thee, trust not in thyself.”
“It is a great truth,” remarked Iduna, “and leads to a higher one.”
“Even so,” replied the Eremite. “We are full of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream.”
Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the stream. “Every morn I rise only to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence,” he exclaimed. “Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my fish. To-day I can offer ye a fresh dainty. We will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here, gentle youth, and I will summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much he does not bear so contented a spirit as thyself.”
“He is older, and has seen more,” replied Iduna.
The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a mossy rock, listening to the awakening birds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this reverie, her name was called. She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nicæus.
“How fares my gentle comrade?” inquired the Prince of Athens.
“As well as I hope you are, dear Nicæus. We have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a host.”
“I think I may now congratulate you on your safety,” said the Prince. “This unfrequented pass will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit.”
“Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you,” said Iduna. “My joy would be complete if my father only knew of our safety, and if our late companion were here to share it.”
“Fear not for my friend,” replied Nicæus. “I have faith in the fortune of Iskander.”
“If any one could succeed under such circumstances, he doubtless is the man,” rejoined Iduna; “but it was indeed an awful crisis in his fate.”
“Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy thoughts.”
“We can give him only our thoughts,” said Iduna, “and when we remember how much is dependent on his life, can they be cheerful?”
“Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna,” replied Nicæus.
The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock, and threw it into the stream.
“Dear lady,” said the Prince of Athens, seating himself by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. “Pardon me, if an irrepressible feeling at this moment impels me to recur to a subject, which, I would fain hope, were not so unpleasing to you, as once unhappily you deemed it. O! Iduna, Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together; once more I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I perhaps violated my pledge, but I sought you in captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! Oh! Iduna, if possible, love me!”
She turned away her head, she turned away her streaming eyes. “It is impossible not to love my deliverers,” she replied, in a low and tremulous voice, “even could he not prefer the many other claims to affection which are possessed by the Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for this renewal of a most painful subject, perhaps not under any circumstances, but least of all under those in which we now find ourselves.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the prince, “I can no longer control my passion. My life, not my happiness merely, depends upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear with me, my beloved, bear with me! Were you Nicæus, you too would need forgiveness.”
“I beseech you, cease!” exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer voice; and, withdrawing her hand, she suddenly rose. “This is neither the time nor place for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, but a few days back, I was a hopeless captive, and that my life and fame are even now in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but still I perhaps need the hourly interposition of heavenly aid. Other than such worldly thoughts should fill my mind, and do. Dear Nicæus,” she continued, in a more soothing tone, “you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise: fulfil it in like spirit.”
He would have replied; but at this moment the staff of the Eremite sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark with rage and passion, the Prince of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the upper part of the glen, to conceal his anger and disappointment.
“Eat, gentle youth,” said the Eremite. “Will not thy brother join us? What may be his name?”
“Nicæus, holy father.”
“And thine?”
Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her confusion, she replied, “Iskander.”
“Nicæus,” called out the Eremite, “Iskander and myself await thee!”
Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when the prince returned with a smiling countenance, and joined in the meal, with many cheerful words.
“Now I propose,” said the Eremite, “that yourself and your brother Iskander should tarry with me some days, if, indeed, my simple fare have any temptation.”
“I thank thee, holy father,” replied Nicæus, “but our affairs are urgent; nor indeed could I have tarried here at all, had it not been for my young Iskander here, who, as you may easily believe, is little accustomed to his late exertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must proceed.”
“Bearing with us,” added Iduna, “a most grateful recollection of our host.”
“God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed,” replied the Eremite.
“My trust is indeed in Him,” rejoined Iduna.
CHAPTER 15
And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their refreshed horses, Nicæus and Iduna quitted, with many kind words, the cavern of the Eremite, and took their way along the winding bank of the river. Throughout the moonlit night they travelled, ascending the last and highest chain of mountains and reaching the summit by dawn. The cheerful light of morning revealed to them the happy plains of a Christian country. With joyful spirits they descended into the fertile land, and stopped at a beautiful Greek village, embowered in orchards and groves of olive-trees.
The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the Primate, or chief personage of the village, and was conducted to his house; but its master, he was informed, was without, supervising the commencement of the vintage. Leaving Iduna with the family of the Primate, Nicæus went in search of him. The vineyard was full of groups, busied in the most elegant and joyous of human occupations, gathering, with infinite bursts of merriment, the harvest of the vine. Some mounted on ladders, fixed against the festooning branches, plucked the rich bunches, and threw them below, where girls, singing in chorus, caught them in panniers, or their extended drapery. In the centre of the vineyard, a middle-aged man watched with a calm, but vigilant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally stimulated the indolent, or prompted the inexperienced.
“Christo,” said the Prince of Athens, when he had approached him. The Primate turned round, but evidently did not immediately recognise the person who addressed him.
“I see,” continued the prince, “that my meditated caution was unnecessary. My strange garb is a sufficient disguise.”
“The Prince Nicæus!” exclaimed the Primate. “He is, indeed, disguised, but will, I am sure, pardon his faithful servant.”
“Not a word, Christo!” replied the prince. “To be brief, I have crossed the mountains from Roumelia, and have only within this hour recognised the spot whither I have chanced to arrive. I have a companion with me. I would not be known. You comprehend? Affairs of state. I take it for granted that there are none here who will recognise me, after three years’ absence, in this dress.”
“You may feel secure, my lord,” replied Christo. “If you puzzled me, who have known you since you were no bigger than this bunch of grapes, you will quite confound the rest.”
“‘Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in order to give them an opportunity to prepare for my reception. In the meantime, it is necessary to send on a courier at once. You must manage all this for me, Christo. How are your daughters?”
“So, so, please your Highness,” replied Christo. “A man with seven daughters has got trouble for every day in the week.”
“But not when they are so pretty as yours are!”
“Poh! poh! handsome is that handsome does; and as for Alexina, she wants to be married.”
“Very natural. Let her marry, by all means.”
“But Helena wants to do the same.”
“More natural still; for, if possible, she is prettier. For my part, I could marry them both.”
“Ay, ay! that is all very well; but handsome is that handsome does. I have no objection to Alexina marrying, and even Helena; but then there is Lais—”
“Hah! hah! hah!” exclaimed the prince. “I see, my dear Christo, that my foster sisters give you a very proper portion of trouble. However, I must be off to my travelling companion. Come in as soon as you can, my dear fellow, and will settle everything. A good vintage to you, and only as much mischief as necessary.” So saying, the prince tripped away.
“Well! who would have thought of seeing him here!” exclaimed the worthy Primate. “The same gay dog as ever! What can he have been doing at Roumelia? Affairs of state, indeed! I’ll wager my new Epiphany scarf, that, whatever the affairs are, there is a pretty girl in the case.”
CHAPTER 16
The fair Iduna, after all her perils and sufferings, was at length sheltered in safety under a kind and domestic roof. Alexina, and Helena, and Lais, and all the other sisters emulated each other in the attentions which they lavished upon the two brothers, but especially the youngest. Their kindness, indeed, was only equalled by their ceaseless curiosity, and had they ever waited for the answers of Iduna to their questions, the daughter of Hunniades might, perhaps, have been somewhat puzzled to reconcile her responses with probability. Helena answered the questions of Alexina; Lais anticipated even Helena. All that Iduna had to do was to smile and be silent, and it was universally agreed that Iskander was singularly shy as well as excessively handsome. In the meantime, when Nicæus met Iduna in the evening of the second day of their visit, he informed her that he had been so fortunate as to resume an acquaintance with an old companion in arms in the person of a neighbouring noble, who had invited them to rest at his castle at the end of their next day’s journey. He told her likewise that he had dispatched a courier to Croia to inquire after Iskander, who, he expected, in the course of a few days, would bring them intelligence to guide their future movements, and decide whether they should at once proceed to the capital of Epirus, or advance into Bulgaria, in case Hunniades was still in the field. On the morrow, therefore, they proceeded on their journey. Nicæus had procured a litter for Iduna, for which her delicate health was an excuse to Alexina and her sisters, and they were attended by a small body of well-armed cavalry, for, according to the accounts which Nicæus had received, the country was still disturbed. They departed at break of day, Nicæus riding by the side of the litter, and occasionally making the most anxious inquiries after the well-being of his fair charge. An hour after noon they rested at a well, surrounded by olive-trees, until the extreme heat was somewhat allayed; and then remounting, proceeded in the direction of an undulating ridge of green hills, that partially intersected the wide plain. Towards sunset the Prince of Athens withdrew the curtains of the litter, and called the attention of Iduna to a very fair castle, rising on a fertile eminence and sparkling in the quivering beams of dying light.
“I fear,” said Nicæus, “that my friend Justinian will scarcely have returned, but we are old comrades, and he desired me to act as his Seneschal. For your sake I am sorry, Iduna, for I feel convinced that he would please you.”
“It is, indeed, a fair castle,” replied Iduna, “and none but a true knight deserves such a noble residence.”
While she spoke the commander of the escort sounded his bugle, and they commenced the ascent of the steep, a winding road, cut through a thick wood of ever-green shrubs. The gradual and easy ascent soon brought them to a portal flanked with towers, which admitted them into the outworks of the fortification. Here they found several soldiers on guard, and the commander again sounding his bugle, the gates of the castle opened, and the Seneschal, attended by a suite of many domestics, advanced and welcomed Nicæus and Iduna. The Prince of Athens dismounting, assisted his fair companion from the litter, and leading her by the band, and preceded by the Seneschal, entered the castle.
They passed through a magnificent hall, hung with choice armour, and ascending a staircase, of Pentelic marble, were ushered into a suite of lofty chambers, lined with Oriental tapestry, and furnished with many costly couches and cabinets. While they admired a spectacle so different to anything they had recently beheld or experienced, the Seneschal, followed by a number of slaves in splendid attire, advanced and offered them rare and choice refreshments, coffee and confectionery, sherbets and spiced wines. When they had partaken of this elegant cheer, Nicæus intimated to the Seneschal that the Lady Iduna might probably wish to retire, and instantly a discreet matron, followed by six most beautiful girls, each bearing a fragrant torch of cinnamon mind roses, advanced and offered to conduct the Lady Iduna to her apartments.
The matron and her company of maidens conducted the daughter of Hunniades down a long gallery, which led to a suite of the prettiest chambers in the world. The first was an antechamber, painted like a bower, but filled with the music of living birds; the second, which was much larger, was entirely covered with Venetian mirrors, and resting on a bright Persian carpet were many couches of crimson velvet, covered with a variety of sumptuous dresses; the third room was a bath, made in the semblance of a gigantic shell. Its roof was of transparent alabaster, glowing with shadowy light.
CHAPTER 17
A flourish of trumpets announced the return of the Lady Iduna and the Prince of Athens, magnificently attired, came forward with a smile, and led her, with a compliment on her resuming the dress of her sex, if not of her country, to the banquet. Iduna was not uninfluenced by that excitement which is insensibly produced by a sudden change of scene and circumstances, and especially by an unexpected transition from hardship, peril, and suffering, to luxury, security, and enjoyment. Their spirits were elevated and gay: she smiled upon Nicæus with a cheerful sympathy. They feasted, they listened to sweet music, they talked over their late adventures, and, animated by their own enjoyment, they became more sanguine as to the fate of Iskander.
“In two or three days we shall know more,” said Nicæus. “In the meantime, rest is absolutely necessary to you. It is only now that you will begin to be sensible of the exertion you have made. If Iskander be at Croia, he has already informed your father of your escape; if he have not arrived, I have arranged that a courier shall be dispatched to Hunniades from that city. Do not be anxious. Try to be happy. I am myself sanguine that you will find all well. Come, pledge me your father’s health, fair lady, in this goblet of Tenedos!”
“How know I that at this moment he may not be at the point of death,” replied Iduna. “When I am absent from those I love, I dream only of their unhappiness.”
“At this moment also,” rejoined Nicæus, “he dreams perhaps of your imprisonment among barbarians. Yet how mistaken! Let that consideration support you. Come! here is to the Eremite.”
“As willing, if not as sumptuous, a host as our present one,” said Iduna; “and when, by-the-bye, do you think that your friend, the Lord Justinian, will arrive?”
“Oh! never mind him,” said Nicæus. “He would have arrived to-morrow, but the great news which I gave him has probably changed his plans. I told him of the approaching invasion, and he has perhaps found it necessary to visit the neighbouring chieftains, or even to go on to Croia.”
“Well-a-day!” exclaimed Iduna, “I would we were in my father’s camp!”
“We shall soon be there, dear lady,” replied the Prince. “Come, worthy Seneschal,” he added, turning to that functionary, “drink to this noble lady’s happy meeting with her friends.”
CHAPTER 18
Three or four days passed away at the castle of Justinian, in which Nicæus used his utmost exertions to divert the anxiety of Iduna. One day was spent in examining the castle, on another he amused her with a hawking party, on a third he carried her to the neighbouring ruins of a temple, and read his favourite Æschylus to her amid its lone and elegant columns. It was impossible for any one to be more amiable and entertaining, and Iduna could not resist recognising his many virtues and accomplishments. The courier had not yet returned from Croia, which Nicæus accounted for by many satisfactory reasons. The suspense, however, at length became so painful to Iduna, that she proposed to the Prince of Athens that they should, without further delay, proceed to that city. As usual, Nicæus was not wanting in many plausible arguments in favour of their remaining at the castle, but Iduna was resolute.
“Indeed, dear Nicæus,” she said, “my anxiety to see my father, or hear from him, is so great, that there is scarcely any danger which I would not encounter to gratify my wish. I feel that I have already taxed your endurance too much. But we are no longer in a hostile land, and guards and guides are to be engaged. Let me then depart alone!”
“Iduna!” exclaimed Nicæus, reproachfully. “Alas! Iduna, you are cruel, but I did not expect this!”
“Dear Nicæus!” she answered, “you always misinterpret me! It would infinitely delight me to be restored to Hunniades by yourself, but these are no common times, and you are no common person. You forget that there is one that has greater claims upon you even than a forlorn maiden, your country. And whether Iskander be at Croia or not, Greece requires the presence and exertions of the Prince of Athens.”
“I have no country,” replied Nicæus, mournfully, “and no object for which to exert myself.”
“Nicæus! Is this the poetic patriot who was yesterday envying Themistocles?”
“Alas! Iduna, yesterday you were my muse. I do not wonder you are wearied of this castle!” continued the prince in a melancholy tone. “This spot contains nothing to interest you; but for me, it holds all that is dear, and, O! gentle maiden, one smile from you, one smile of inspiration, and I would not envy Themistocles, and might perhaps rival him.”
They were walking together in the hall of the castle; Iduna stepped aside and affected to examine a curious buckler, Nicæus followed her, and placing his arm gently in hers, led her away.
“Dearest Iduna,” he said, “pardon me, but men struggle for their fate. Mine is in your power. It is a contest between misery and happiness, glory and perhaps infamy. Do not then wonder that I will not yield my chance of the brighter fortune without an effort. Once more I appeal to your pity, if not to your love. Were Iduna mine, were she to hold out but the possibility of her being mine, there is no career, solemnly I avow what solemnly I feel, there is no career of which I could not be capable, and no condition to which I would not willingly subscribe. But this certainty, or this contingency, I must have: I cannot exist without the alternative. And now upon my knees, I implore her to grant it to me!”
“Nicæus,” said Iduna, “this continued recurrence to a forbidden subject is most ungenerous.”
“Alas! Iduna, my life depends upon a word, which you will not speak, and you talk of generosity. No! Iduna, it is not I that I am ungenerous.”
“Let me say then unreasonable, Prince Nicæus.”
“Say what you like, Iduna, provided you say that you are mine.”
“Pardon me, sir, I am free.”
“Free! You have ever underrated me, Iduna. To whom do you owe this boasted freedom?”
“This is not the first time,” remarked Iduna, “that you have reminded me of an obligation, the memory of which is indelibly impressed upon my heart, and for which even the present conversation cannot make me feel less grateful. I can never forget that I owe all that is dear to yourself and your companion.”
“My companion!” replied the Prince of Athens, pale and passionate. “My companion! Am I ever to be reminded of my companion?”
“Nicæus!” said Iduna; “if you forget what is due to me, at least endeavour to remember what is due to yourself?”
“Beautiful being!” said the prince, advancing and passionately seizing her hand; “pardon me! pardon me! I am not master of my reason; I am nothing, I am nothing while Iduna hesitates!”
“She does not hesitate, Nicæus. I desire, I require, that this conversation shall cease; shall never, never be renewed.”
“And I tell thee, haughty woman,” said the Prince of Athens, grinding his teeth, and speaking with violent action, “that I will no longer be despised with impunity. Iduna is mine, or is no one else’s.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the daughter of Hunniades. “Is it, indeed, come to this? But why am I surprised! I have long known Nicæus. I quit this castle instantly.”
“You are a prisoner,” replied the prince very calmly, and leaning with folded arms against the wall.
“A prisoner!” exclaimed Iduna, a little alarmed. “A prisoner! I defy you, sir. You are only a guest like myself. I will appeal to the Seneschal in the absence of his lord. He will never permit the honour of his master’s flag to be violated by the irrational caprice of a passionate boy.”
“What lord?” inquired Nicæus.
“Your friend, the Lord Justinian,” answered Iduna. “He could little anticipate such an abuse of his hospitality.”
“My friend, the Lord Justinian!” replied Nicæus, with a malignant smile. “I am surprised that a personage of the Lady Iduna’s deep discrimination should so easily be deceived by ‘a passionate boy!’ Is it possible that you could have supposed for a moment that there was any other lord of this castle, save your devoted slave?”
“What!” exclaimed Iduna, really frightened.
“I have, indeed, the honour of finding the Lady Iduna my guest,” continued Nicæus, in a tone of bitter raillery. “This castle of Kallista, the fairest in all Epirus, I inherit from my mother. Of late I have seldom visited it; but, indeed, it will become a favourite residence of mine, if it be, as I anticipate, the scene of my nuptial ceremony.”
Iduna looked around her with astonishment, then threw herself upon a couch, and burst into tears. The Prince of Athens walked up and down the hall with an air of determined coolness.
“Perfidious!” exclaimed Iduna between her sobs.
“Lady Iduna,” said the prince; and he seated himself by her side. “I will not attempt to palliate a deception which your charms could alone inspire and can alone justify. Hear me, Lady Iduna, hear me with calmness. I love you; I love you with a passion which has been as constant as it is strong. My birth, my rank, my fortunes, do not disqualify me for an union with the daughter of the great Hunniades. If my personal claims may sink in comparison with her surpassing excellence, I am yet to learn that any other prince in Christendom can urge a more effective plea. I am young; the ladies of the court have called me handsome; by your great father’s side I have broken some lances in your honour; and even Iduna once confessed she thought me clever. Come, come, be merciful! Let my beautiful Athens receive a fitting mistress! A holy father is in readiness dear maiden. Come now, one smile! In a few days we shall reach your father’s camp, and then we will kneel, as I do now, and beg a blessing on our happy union.” As he spoke, he dropped upon his knee, and stealing her hand, looked into her face. It was sorrowful and gloomy.