Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  There was a terrace that looked eastward from the gardens. Thither Nehushta bent her steps, slowly, as though in deep thought, and when she reached the smooth marble balustrade, she leaned over it and let her dark eyes rest on the quiet landscape. The peace of the evening descended upon her; the birds of the day ceased singing with the growing darkness; and slowly, out of the plain, the yellow moon soared up and touched the river and the meadows with mystic light; while far off, in the rose-thickets of the gardens, the first notes of a single nightingale floated upon the scented breeze, swelling and trilling, quivering and falling again, in a glory of angelic song. The faint air fanned her cheek, the odours of the box and the myrtle and the roses intoxicated her senses, and as the splendid shield of the rising moon cast its broad light into her dreaming eyes, her heart overflowed, and Nehushta the princess lifted up her voice and sang an ancient song of love, in the tongue of her people, to a soft minor melody, that sounded like a sigh from the southern desert.

  “Come unto me, my beloved, in the warmth of the darkness, come —

  Rise, and hasten thy footsteps, to be with me at night-time, come!

  “I wait in the darkness for him, and the sand of the desert whirling

  Is blown at the door of my tent which is open toward the desert.

  “My ear in the darkness listeth for the sound of his coming nearer,

  Mine eyes watch for him and rest not, for I would not he found me sleeping.

  “For when my beloved cometh, he is like the beam of the morning;2

  Ev’n as the dawn in a strange land to the sight of a man journeying.

  “Yea, when my beloved cometh, as dew that descendeth from heaven,

  No man can hear when it falleth, but as rain it refresheth all things.

  “In his hand bringeth he lilies, in his right hand are many flowers,

  Roses hath he on his forehead, he is crowned with roses from Shinar.

  “The night-winds make sweet songs for him, even in the darkness soft music;

  Whithersoever he goeth, there his sweetness goeth before him.”

  Her young voice died away in a soft murmuring cadence, and the nightingale alone poured out her heartful of lore to the ancient moon. But as Nehushta rested immovable by the marble balustrade of the terrace, there was a rustle among the myrtles and a quick step on the pavement. The dark maiden started at the sound, and a happy smile parted her lips. But she did not turn to look; only her hand stole out behind her on the marble where she knew her lover’s would meet it. There was in the movement all the certainty of conquest and yet all the tenderness of love. The Persian trod quickly and laid his hand on hers, and bent to her, trying to meet her eyes: for one moment still she gazed out straight before her, then turned and faced him suddenly, as though she had withheld her welcome as long as she could and then given it all at once.

  “I did not call you,” she said, covering him with her eyes in the moonlight, but making as though she would withdraw herself a little from him, as he drew her with his hand, and with his arm, and with his eyes.

  “And yet I heard you call me, my beloved,” answered Zoroaster. “I heard your voice singing very sweet things in your own language — and so I came, for you did call me.”

  “But did you pride yourself it was for you?” laughed Nehushta. “I sang of the desert, and of tents, and of whirling sand — there is none of these things here.”

  “You said that your beloved brought roses in his hand — and so I do. I will crown you with them. May I? No — I shall spoil your head-dress. Take them and do as you will with them.”

  “I will take them — and — I always do as I will.”

  “Then will to take the giver also,” answered Zoroaster, letting his arm steal about her, as he half sat upon the balustrade. Nehushta looked at him again, for he was good to see, and perhaps she loved his straight calm features the better in that his face was fair, and not dark like hers.

  “Methinks I have taken the giver already,” she answered.

  “Not yet — not all,” said Zoroaster in a low voice, and a shadow of sadness crossed his noble face that looked white in the moonlight. Nehushta sighed softly and presently she laid her cheek upon his shoulder where the folding of his purple mantle made a pillow between her face and the polished golden scales of his breastplate.

  “I have strange news to tell you, beloved,” said Zoroaster presently. Nehushta started and looked up, for his voice was sad. “Nay, fear not!” he continued, “there is no harm in it, I trust; but there are great changes in the kingdom, and there will be greater changes yet. The seven princes have slain Smerdis in Shushan, and Darius is chosen king, the son of Gushtasp, whom the Greeks call Hystaspes.”

  “He who came hither last year?” asked Nehushta quickly. “He is not fair, this new king.”

  “Not fair,” replied the Persian, “but a brave man and a good. He has, moreover, sent for me to go to Shushan—”

  “For you!” cried Nehushta, suddenly laying her two hands on Zoroaster’s shoulders and gazing into his eyes. His face was to the moonlight, while hers was in the dark, and she could see every shade of expression. He smiled. “You laugh at me!” she cried indignantly. “You mock me — you are going away and you are glad!”

  She would have turned away from him, but he held her two hands.

  “Not alone,” he answered. “The Great King has sent an order that I shall bring to Shushan the kinsfolk of Jehoiakim, saving only Daniel, our master, for he is so old that he cannot perform the journey. The king would honour the royal seed of Judah, and to that end he sends for you, most noble and most beloved princess.”

  Nehushta was silent and thoughtful; her hand slipped from Zoroaster’s grasp, and her eyes looked dreamily out at the river, on which the beams of the now fully-risen moon glanced, as on the scales of a silver serpent.

  “Are you glad, my beloved?” asked Zoroaster. He stood with his back to the balustrade, leaning on one elbow, and his right hand played carelessly with the heavy gold tassels of his cloak. He had come up from the fortress in his armour, as he was, to bring the news to Nehushta and to Daniel; his gilded harness was on his back, half-hidden by the ample purple cloak, his sword was by his side, and on his head he wore the pointed helmet, richly inlaid with gold, bearing in front the winged wheel which the sovereigns of the Persian empire had assumed after the conquest of Assyria. His very tall and graceful body seemed planned to combine the greatest possible strength with the most surpassing activity, and in his whole presence there breathed the consciousness of ready and elastic power, the graceful elasticity of a steel bow always bent, the inexpressible ease of motion and the matchless swiftness that men had when the world was young — that wholeness of harmonious proportion which alone makes rest graceful, and the inactivity of idleness itself like a mode of perfect motion. As they stood there together, the princess of Judah and the noble Persian, they were wholly beautiful and yet wholly contrasted — the Semite and the Aryan, the dark race of the south, on which the hot air of the desert had breathed for generations in the bondage of Egypt, and left its warm sign-manual of southern sunshine, — and the fair man of the people whose faces were already set northwards, on whom the north breathed already its icy fairness, and magnificent coldness of steely strength.

  “Are you glad, my beloved?” asked Zoroaster again, looking up and laying his right hand on the princess’s arm. She had given no answer to his question, but only gazed dreamily out over the river.

  She seemed about to speak, then paused again, then hesitated and answered his question by another.

  “Zoroaster — you love me,” again she paused, and, as he passionately seized her hands and pressed his lips to them, she said softly, turning her head away, “What is love?”

  He, too, waited one moment before he answered, and, standing to his lordly height, took her head between his hands and pressed it to his breast; then, with one arm around her, he stood looking eastward and spoke:

  “Listen, my belove
d, and I, who love you, will tell you what love is. In the far-off dawn of the soul-life, in the ethereal distance of the outer firmament, in the mist of the star-dust, our spirits were quickened with the spirit of God, and found one another, and met. Before earth was for us, we were one; before time was for us, we were one — even as we shall be one when there is no time for us any more. Then Ahura Mazda, the all-wise God, took our two souls from among the stars, and set them in the earth, clothed for a time with mortal bodies. But we know each other, that we were together from the first, although these earthly things obscure our immortal vision, and we see each other less clearly. Yet is our love none the less — rather, it seems every day greater, for our bodies can feel joy and sorrow, even as our spirits do; so that I am able to suffer for you, in which I rejoice, and I would that I might be chosen to lay down my life for you, that you might know how I love you; for often you doubt me, and sometimes you doubt yourself. There should be no doubt in love. Love is from the first, and will be to the end, and beyond the end; love is so eternal, so great, so whole, that this mortal life of ours is but as a tiny instant, a moment of pausing in our journey from one star-world to another along the endless paths of heavenly glory we shall tread, together — it is nothing, this worldly life of ours. Before it shall seem long that we have loved, this earth we stand on, these things we touch, these bodies of ours that we think so strong and fair, will be forgotten and dissolved into their elements in the trackless and undiscoverable waste of past mortality, while we ourselves are ever young, and ever fair, and for ever living in our immortal love.”

  Nehushta looked up wonderingly into her lover’s eyes, then let her head rest on his shoulder. The high daring of his thoughts seemed ever trying to scale heaven itself, seeking to draw her to some wondrous region of mystic beauty and strange spirit life. She was awed for a moment, then she, too, spoke in her own fashion.

  “I love life,” she said, “I love you because you live, not because you are a spirit chained and tied down for a time. I love this soft sweet earth, the dawn of it, and the twilight of it; I love the sun in his rising and in his setting; I love the moon in her fulness and in her waning; I love the smell of the box and of the myrtle, of the roses and of the violets; I love the glorious light of day, the splendour of heat and greenness, the song of the birds of the air and the song of the labourer in the field, the hum of the locust, and the soft buzzing of the bee; I love the brightness of gold and the richness of fine purple, the tramp of your splendid guards and the ring of their trumpets clanging in the fresh morning, as they march through the marble courts of the palace. I love the gloom of night for its softness, the song of the nightingale in the ivory moonlight, the rustle of the breeze in the dark rose-thickets, and the odour of the sleeping flowers in my gardens; I love even the cry of the owl from the prophet’s tower, and the soft thick sound of the bat’s wings, as he flits past the netting of my window. I love it all, for the whole earth is rich and young and good to touch, and most sweet to live in. And I love you because you are more beautiful than other men, fairer and stronger and braver, and because you love me, and will let no other love me but yourself, if you were to die for it. Ah, my beloved, I would that I had all the sweet voices of the earth, all the tuneful tongues of the air, to tell you how I love you!”

  “There is no lack of sweetness, nor of eloquence, my princess,” said Zoroaster; “there is no need of any voice sweeter than yours, nor of any tongue more tuneful. You love in your way, I in mine; the two together must surely be the perfect whole. Is it not so? Nay — seal the deed once again — and again — so! ‘Love is stronger than death,’ says your preacher.”

  “‘And jealousy is as cruel as the grave,’ he says, too,” added Nehushta, her eyes flashing fire as her lips met his. “You must never make me jealous, Zoroaster, never, never! I would be so cruel — you cannot dream how cruel I would be!”

  Zoroaster laughed under his silken beard, a deep, joyous, ringing laugh that startled the moonlit stillness.

  “By Nabon and Bel, there is small cause for your jealousy here,” he said.

  “Swear not by your false gods!” laughed Nehushta. “You know not how little it would need to rouse me.”

  “I will not give you that little,” answered the Persian. “And as for the false gods, they are well enough for a man to swear by in these days. But I will swear by any one you command me, or by anything!”

  “Swear not, or you will say again that the oath has need of sealing,” replied Nehushta, drawing her mantle around her, so as to cover half her face. “Tell me, when are we to begin our journey? We have talked much and have said little, as it ever is. Shall we go at once, or are we to wait for another order? Is Darius safe upon the throne? Who is to be chiefest at the court — one of the seven princes, I suppose, or his old father? Come, do you know anything of all these changes? Why have you never told me what was going to happen — you who are high in power and know everything?”

  “Your questions flock upon me like doves to a maiden who feeds them from her hand,” said Zoroaster, with a smile, “and I know not which shall be fed first. As for the king, I know that he will be great, and will hold securely the throne, for he has already the love of the people from the Western sea to the wild Eastern mountains. But it seemed as though the seven princes would have divided the empire amongst them, until this news came. I think he will more likely take one of your people for his close friend than trust to the princes. As for our journey, we must depart betimes, or the king will have gone before us from Shushan to Stakhar in the south, where they say he will build himself a royal dwelling and stay in the coming winter time. Prepare yourself for the journey, therefore, my princess, lest anything be forgotten and you should be deprived of what you need for any time.”

  “I am never deprived of what I need,” said Nehushta, half in pride and half in jest.

  “Nor I, when I am with my beloved!” answered the Persian. “And now the moon is high, and I must bear this news to our master, the prophet.”

  “So soon?” said Nehushta reproachfully, and she turned her head away.

  “I would there were no partings, my beloved, even for the space of an hour,” answered Zoroaster, tenderly drawing her to him; but she resisted a little and would not look at him.

  “Farewell now — good-night, my princess — light of my soul;” he kissed her dark cheek passionately. “Good-night!”

  He trod swiftly across the terrace.

  “Zoroaster! prince!” Nehushta called aloud, but without turning. He came back. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him almost desperately. Then she pushed him gently away from her.

  “Go — my love — only that,” she murmured, and he left her standing by the marble balustrade, while the yellow moon turned slowly pale as she rose in the heavens, and the song of the lorn nightingale re-echoed in the still night, from the gardens to the towers, in long sweet cries of burning love, and soft, complaining, silvery notes of mingled sorrow and joy.

  CHAPTER III.

  IN THE PROPHET’S chamber, also, the moonbeams fell upon the marble floor; but a seven-beaked Hebrew lamp of bronze shed a warmer light around, soft and mellow, yet strong enough to illuminate the scroll that lay open upon the old man’s knee. His brows were knit together, and the furrows on his face were shaded deeply by the high light, as he sat propped among many cushions and wrapped in his ample purple cloak that was thickly lined with fur and drawn together over his snowy beard; for the years of his life were nearly accomplished, and the warmth of his body was even then leaving him.

  Zoroaster raised the heavy curtain of carpet that hung before the low square door, and came and bowed himself before the teacher of his youth and the friend of his manhood. The prophet looked up keenly, and something like a smile crossed his stern features as his eyes rested on the young officer in his magnificent armour; Zoroaster held his helmet in his hand, and his fair hair fell like a glory to his shoulders, mingling with his silky beard upon his breastplate
. His dark blue eyes met his master’s fearlessly.

  “Hail! and live for ever, chosen of the Lord!” he said in salutation. “I bring tidings of great moment and importance. If it be thy pleasure, I will speak; but if not, I will come at another season.”

  “Sit upon my right hand, Zoroaster, and tell me all that thou hast to tell. Art thou not my beloved son, whom the Lord hath given me to comfort mine old age?”

  “I am thy servant and the servant of thine house, my father,” answered Zoroaster, seating himself upon a carved chair at a little distance from the prophet.

  “Speak, my son, — what tidings hast thou?”

  “There is a messenger come in haste from Shushan, bearing tidings and letters. The seven princes have slain Smerdis in his house, and have chosen Darius the son of Gushtasp to be king.”

  “Praise be to the Lord who hath chosen a just man!” exclaimed the prophet devoutly. “So may good come out of evil, and salvation by the shedding of blood.”

  “Even so, my master,” answered Zoroaster. “It is also written that Darius, may he live for ever, will establish himself very surely upon the throne of the Medes and Persians. There are letters by the hand of the same messenger, sealed with the signet of the Great King, wherein I am bidden to bring the kinsfolk of Jehoiakim, who was king over Judah, to Shushan without delay, that the Great King may do them honour as is meet and right; but what that honour may be that he would do to them, I know not.”