This Ismael promised with much seeming sincerity, to undertake for; and assured them, he would exhibit his power and influence to procure for them a speedy release from captivity; giving them to understand, that their rank was known, and that he was answerable for their persons. Far different was the truth; their death had been generally credited in the Imperial army; the little inquiry that had been made relative to their bodies, had been unsatisfactory, and 'twas supposed they had been trampled upon undistinguished in the day of battle, and had been thrown with the multitude of dead bodies beyond all power of discrimination.
When carried to his tent, he perceived, from their military uniform, that they were of some rank in the army; he had therefore craftily destroyed their clothes, and from their wounds, their persons had but few traits left that could answer any description given of them. He had taken care to place no one near them that understood their language;—and by these artful manoeuvres, had them securely in his power.
As they advanced in a state of convalescence, he began to reflect, that in Adrianople, it would be impossible to retain them from the hazard of being known, or of finding an opportunity to give information of their existence, if they were permitted to be at liberty, which he could not well refuse when they had recovered strength sufficient to walk.
To perfect his schemes, it was necessary to take them further into the country, where their dependence must rest solely on him, nor any knowledge of affairs reach them but through his hands. This determined on, he came to their apartment one morning with an air of haste and distraction. He told them, a commotion had begun in the city; that the troops, dissatisfied with the commanders for agreeing to a truce, instead of pursuing their victories, had risen in large bodies, both in Constantinople and in that city also; and, as it was impossible to judge of the event, or how far the rage of the soldiery might proceed, their only safety depended on flight. Fortunately he had a country house in the neighbourhood of Philippo, where they would be secure against violence or disaffection. To this house they should be immediately conveyed in a litter, to preserve them from the fury of the mob, which might possibly know no bounds, if they were discovered to be Germans.
This plausible tale, fabricated to impose on the unsuspicious friends, were by them credited without reserve, and they felt the warmest gratitude towards Ismael for his kind solicitude to save and serve them.—Within a few hours, every thing was arranged and they were on the road to Philippo, Ismael assuring them of his attention to their interests, and that he would either quickly join them, or if the insurrection was subdued, send orders for their speedy return.
Their state of health would not admit of travelling fast; therefore the slow proceeding of the litter was to them a convenience; and in the open roads they were permitted to be uncovered, and have the benefit of the air. The small villages they stopped at afforded but indifferent accommodations; nor did they meet with a single being who understood their language.
On the second day, they halted at a tolerable large hamlet, at one end of which were the remains of a miserable fort, inhabited by a few soldiers. The person who commanded them held some conversation with their conductors; presently after which, they made signs for them to alight. Two of them took hold of the Count to assist him. Ferdinand was preparing to follow, when instantly two men with drawn scimitars jumped into the litter, seized his arms. The curtains were closed, and they moved forwards, regardless of the struggles and exclamations of Ferdinand, and the cries of the Count, which died away upon his ear as they proceeded.
Too late convinced that some treachery was intended, distracted at being separated from his friend, and equally incapable of making any resistance, or obtaining any compassion from his guards, without money to bribe, or language to persuade, he resigned himself to despair; and the most heartfelt sighs, and pathetic gestures, portrayed the anguish of his mind. Totally insensible to his distress, and mindful only of their charge, they conversed with the utmost insensibility, eying him continually with glances of disdain and suspicion.
It was the third day before they arrived at the end of their journey. For some miles they had travelled through a barren and mountainous country: At length they descended into a plain, which was extensive, and terminated with a view of another mountain, on which stood a castle, with several small fortresses on the declivities, all of which were surrounded with high walls, that reached a considerable way on the plain. At some distances from each other, thinly scattered on the skirts of the plain, and a rising hill on one side, stood a few houses; but the general appearance of the country seemed desolate and uncultivated.
Ferdinand was permitted to take a view of this cheerless prospect, as they crossed the plain towards a large pair of gates fixed in the wall at the foot of a scraggy part of the mountain, and at one end of the wide extended plain. Here a paper was delivered to the sentinel at the gates, which, having read, they were opened, and proceeding round the mountain, they came to a similar pair of gates, where the same ceremony was observed, and on their entrance, an easy winding path-way led them to the Castle, passing several small forts, guarded by savage and half-starved looking men, who scowled under their bushy eye-brows, and, by their haggard ferocious countenance, inspired terror and despair.
At the Castle, Ferdinand was assisted to alight. He was so far exhausted by weakness, fatigue, and distress of mind, that they were obliged to carry him into an apartment, and give him some sherbet to prevent him from fainting. He laid himself down on a sofa, indifferent to life, and overwhelmed with misery. He was now a prisoner in a dreary and uncomfortable place, deprived of society, lost to his child, his friends, and his dear Count. This last stroke of being separated from him, was the completion of his misfortunes; and in the bitterness of his grief, he cursed the barbarians, whose callous hearts had divided them.
At night, he was shown into a small room about eight feet square, with a couch to sleep on, the only furniture it contained. Some cakes made of rice, a few grapes and sherbet had been put ready for him, of which he partook very sparingly, and retired to rest upon a mattress, covering himself with a quilt, as is the custom of the Turks in all places.
For several hours, Ferdinand lay a prey to the utmost inquietude, and the most distressing recollections. Why Ismael had deceived them, what purpose it was to answer, or wherefore he had cruelly separated him from the Count, were the questions that agitated his mind, and precluded sleep.
Wearied out at length with uncertain conjectures, and his spirits fatigued for want of rest, towards morning, he dropped into an unrefreshing slumber, from which he was awakened by a Turk, who stood beside him with a basin of coffee. He started up, and receiving the basin with an inclination of his head, and a few words in thanks, which, though not understood by the man, yet the tone and courteous look that accompanied them seemed to please him, and a little relaxed the unbending severity of his countenance. He stayed until the coffee was drank, then making a sign for the other to follow, he led him into a larger apartment, that overlooked the opposite side of the Castle from that which he had entered at, and appeared to terminate in a wood or grove at some distance beyond the walls. At the right, he observed the ruins of several noble edifices, and farther off a building in a circular form, resembling an amphitheatre.—To the left, were some extensive fields, but uncultivated, there he saw some goats bounding about from thence to the sides of the hills, at the foot of which run a small rivulet of water, clear as crystal.
Such was the prospect that presented itself on all sides, dreary and uncomfortable, without a hope of any thing more animating to gratify the eye, or indulge the search of curiosity; for he judged most rightly, that the walls which enclosed the Castle would be the boundary of his liberty.
For the rest, he had not much to complain of; he was served with fruits generally dried, milk, sherbet, and rice, and with some little show of civility; but he had no one to converse with; no books to amuse him; no friend to partake either of his distresses or comforts; and his own
recollections of the past, any more than his expectations of the future, were not calculated to afford him any amusement, or even to indulge a visionary hope of relief.
Yet strange to say, under all this anxiety, with little rest, and less appetite, his weakness decreased: he found himself in three or four days considerably better in health, and with amended strength, which he attributed solely to the salubrity of the air. His solicitude for the safety and health of the Count contributed not a little to augment his uneasiness; and the incertitude whether his letters from Adrianople had been sent to his friends, which, from subsequent transactions, he entertained some doubts of, gave him the most poignant concern.
Entirely precluded from conversation, by his ignorance of the Turkish language, he resolved, if possible, to attain some knowledge of it. The person who commanded at the Castle, now and then visited him.—Policy, as well as good breeding, induced him to behave with politeness. To the man who attended him, he showed a complacency and thankfulness, which appeared to be gratifying. He began, therefore, to make both understand, by his signs, that he wished to comprehend them. He repeated their words, and retained the names of things brought to him, and of such as he pointed out from the windows.
The Turks appeared pleased with his attentions, and desire of knowledge; and in about a week after his residence there, the commander was constant in his visits; delighted in making him understand the names of every thing he wanted; taught him several common and useful expressions; and, as their language is much more comprehensive than our's; as Ferdinand had nothing to divert his thoughts, and was determined to profit by his master's instructions, it is not at all extraordinary, that, in the space of two months, he had acquired as much knowledge, if not more, than in the ordinary course of things he might have learnt in six or eight.
During his progression in the language, he had obtained information, that Ismael was nearly related to this gentleman who commanded the Castle; that he had received instructions to be extremely careful of Ferdinand, as a prisoner of his, for whom he expected a considerable ransom. By no means to permit him to emigrate beyond the Castle walls; but at the same time to treat him with civility, that his captivity might not injure his health, and deprive him of the sums he expected for him, and also another prisoner, whom he had ordered to be confined elsewhere.
This intelligence unravelled the whole plot to Ferdinand. He saw that liberty was not to be hoped for in the usual way of an exchange, and doubted not but that their letters had been suppressed to prevent the application of their friends. Though he detested the duplicity and avarice of Ismael, yet he was rejoiced to find a clue to account for his conduct, which held out a remote hope, that the Count and himself might be liberated, since he was well assured that any demand he should think proper to make, their friends would readily comply with, however undeserving he might be of their generosity.
This information, in a great degree, contributed to restore both his health and spirits; he made many attempts to find out the name of the place where the Count and he were separated; but Heli, which was the name of the commander, protested his entire ignorance. Whether he was sincere or not, could not be known, and Ferdinand was obliged to be contented with the limited confidence he had obtained, and amuse the tediousness of his captivity, by studying the language with unremitted diligence, and conciliating the esteem of Heli.
He made no attempts to subvert the fidelity which the commander had pledged to Ismael; for in the first place, he held a trust committed and engaged for in a sacred light: And could he have satisfied his scruples in that point, he risked every thing; the loss of every indulgence, if he attempted, and was repulsed. By this prudent conduct, he engaged the regard of Heli, who begun to unbend from that frigid reserve and taciturnity which characterize the Turks, and to be pleased with the diligence and progress of his pupil. One morning, when the weather was uncommonly fine, he entered Ferdinand's apartment, who was standing at the window, just then in a very pensive mood.
"Are you not well?" demanded he.
"I cannot say I am ill," answered Ferdinand; "but I am weak enough to be affected by a dream, which I have had, and have risen quite unrefreshed from my couch, with a great depression of spirits."
The Turks are extremely superstitious.—Heli viewed him for a few minutes in silence; at length—"I am sorry you are afflicted," said he; "and it shall not be my fault if you do not shake off this dejection. I am come to a resolution to enlarge your liberty. This morning I have heard from my kinsman Ismael; he is gone to Constantinople. He charges me to be careful of you; but hopes soon to ease me of the trouble, as he expects daily to hear from your friends. Believe me, Christian, I shall rejoice at your enlargement from your captivity, though I shall lose a companion, which, in this solitary place, must be a cause of regret. I come, however, to prove my regard and confidence, to invite you to a walk. Have you no curiosity to stroll beyond these walls?"
"Doubt it not," replied Ferdinand, agreeably surprised.—"I have frequently wished to view those buildings, and that amphitheatre which appears to be mouldering into ruins; but I had too much respect for you to ask any thing you did not seem inclined to offer, or to express a desire to pass beyond the bounds limited for my residence."
"I am not insensible of your moderation," returned he; "and 'tis in that consideration, I am tempted to extend your liberty. Come then, if you can walk. The morning is truly inviting." Ferdinand wanted no further invitation, but with much pleasure, followed his gentle jailer to the gates, which, having passed, they walked on down the declivities into the plain.
They crossed a considerable extent of ground before they came to the ruins of several noble buildings.
"Here," said Heli, "once stood the superb edifices of many Roman senators. In those adjoining fields was fought the memorable battle between Marc Anthony, Augustus Caesar, Brutus, and Cassius. By tradition, every step you take here is sacred, either from the battles of heroes, or the residence of noble Romans, with whose names or actions I am but little acquainted; but you Christians, who possess an insatiable curiosity, to you every object here must be of consequence."
"Of consequence, indeed," cried Ferdinand, whose heart glowed with the idea that he had the power of contemplating the ground so renowned in story, and reviving the remembrance of those heroes, once law-givers to the world; but how quick the transition from admiration to wonder and regret. "Where now was that mighty universal empire, which delegated her authority over all the known nations of the world? Whose heroes were as invincible in war as they were superior in peace: Whose principles were incorruptible; whose integrity was unquestionable. Are these mouldering ruins; these decayed mansions, all that remain here to mark the conquerors of the world? Melancholy idea.
"Whilst brave, great, and virtuous, Rome was invincible; but when luxury and corruption crept into the state; when senators became venal, and heroes selfish and ambitious, Rome fell from her ancient glory:—Degenerated from her great forefathers—plunged into licentiousness; sunk into a supine weakness.—She turned her arms against herself; destroyed her own powers, and no longer revered as the virtuous republic, giving laws to mankind. Her glory gradually diminished, 'till she fell, to rise no more.
"What a warning to nations! what a lesson to the princes of the present day!—Rome fell by corruption and licentiousness; by civil wars, and internal commotions;—by ambitious and self interested statesmen;—by the tribunes; by the men of the people, who, loudly crying for liberty, and, by factious intrigues, distracting the state, and interrupting the course of justice; by pretending patriotism, and by sowing sedition among the lower classes of men, ever ripe to trample upon all order, and assemble in tumultuous meetings. By such wicked and imprudent measures was Rome destroyed.
"Whilst virtuous and united, she was invulnerable; but 'a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand,' and in the general decay, all share the common ruin: There can be no discrimination; for who shall say to a misguided tumultuous people, 'Thus far shalt t
hou go, and no farther.' Alas! a turbulent spirit, once raised, it is difficult to subdue; and measures never once intended, are often times pursued to the confusion and ruin of its first projectors."
CHAPTER VIII
Lost in these, and such like reflections, Ferdinand wandered over the broken monuments of ancient glory, every pillar of which raised an enthusiastic spirit, and a concomitant sorrow. Heli, unmoved, walked among the ruins without either reflection or reverence; but observing that his companion looked fatigued, as well as thoughtful, "I think," said he, "your walk has been sufficiently extensive for the present.—To-morrow you shall take a view of the amphitheatre and the grove. Yet, if it has no other effect than to increase your dejection, we might as well remain in the Castle."
"Do not mistake the nature of my feelings," replied Ferdinand.—"'Tis impossible to view these fragments of ancient grandeur, without ruminating on the causes which tumbled them into ruin. But I assure you, that I am much obliged and gratified by your indulgence; and could the mind of man divest itself from the selfishness inherent to our nature, we should have but little reason to murmur at our own losses and misfortunes, when we reflect on the entire downfall of a nation once so great and mighty as the Romans."
"I cannot say," returned Heli, 'that looking on these ruinous palaces, at all lessens my regret for the want of fortune, or comforts me for being doomed to live in this solitary place."
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 181
