Читать книгу Sarchedon: A Legend of the Great Queen - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 25

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Deep in his own thoughts, and wholly unconscious he was watched, Sarchedon hurried through the outskirts of the palace, traversing, with one passing glance of curiosity and compassion, an open space in which the Israelitish and Egyptian captives lay bound. The voice of mourning was hushed at last among these sufferers, save where some weeping woman, waking, as it were, to a sense of intolerable misery, pressed both hands against her throat, and thus enhanced the long vibrations of that dismal wail—so piteous, so keen, so thrilling, that it stirred the very jackal in his lair amongst the vineyards without the city walls.

Groups of these prisoners sat or grovelled on the ground, in attitudes expressive of the utmost sorrow and desolation. Here was a wounded archer, one of Pharaoh's choicest marksmen, gnawing his bonds in impotent rage and shame, while he cursed the javelin that disabled him—the comrades who had fled and abandoned him to be taken captive—the gods in all their different earthly shapes of goose, bull, falcon, stork, and locust, whom he had worshipped faithfully by the Nile, that they might leave him here in Babylon to die. There was a cluster of children, the elder sleeping the calm lovely sleep of youth, the youngest prattling, laughing, stretching its little arms towards the stars. And beside them, on her knees, their tawny mother, with head bowed down, dark eyes fixed, dim but tearless, and thoughts far away in the South, by a rude hut raised on props above the river, where last she saw him stark, motionless, and gashed from brow to breastplate, the lover of her girlhood, the husband of her heart, the father of those dear ones, dragged, without hope of return, into the land of their captivity. Wherever grieved a dark-skinned mourner, from brawny warrior to tender maiden, there seemed to be embodied the very abandonment of woe; while a few Ethiopians, surprised by hazard amongst Pharaoh's auxiliaries, before they had time to run away, wept and bemoaned themselves, with a force of lungs and vehemence of gesture, so unbridled as to border on the grotesque.

But somewhat apart, treated, as it would seem, by their Assyrian conquerors with less rigour than the rest, a handful of prisoners had disposed themselves, with scrupulous attention to decency of attitude and bearing. Conversing little, and only to each other, their low tones were forcible and expressive; their demeanour, grave and gentle, was marked with a certain sad dignity and grace. Though dark of beard and hair, they were far less swarthy in complexion than their fellow sufferers, and while nobler of stature and fuller of limb, lacked the sinuous ease and pliancy of movement so remarkable in the slender Egyptian. Their high features, kindling eyes, and curved nostrils partook of the peculiar beauty general amongst their present masters; but they showed none of the haughty self-assertion, the lofty warlike bearing, of the fierce Assyrian race. Such kin they seemed to their conquerors as the dog to the wolf, the ossifrage to the eagle, the patient ox in the furrow to the fiery wild-bull of the fell.

Presently silence came over them, and taking advantage of the laxity of their fetters, one and all rose to their feet and stood erect. Then he who seemed eldest and gravest spoke a few words in a loud solemn voice, to which the others listened attentively, responding at intervals, with heads sunk on their breasts. Sarchedon, hastening past, had yet time to observe their motions, and marvelled, in his own mind, if this could be a religious ceremonial, thus divested of all pomp and outward form; no sacrifice of blood, nor drink-offering poured out, nor altar raised,—only deep awe and reverence impressed on every face, courage, love, and trust beaming in each worshipper's eyes. The white robe of a priest of Baal flitted through the darkness round the circle; but Sarchedon's heart was filled with a sentiment that left no room for interest or curiosity, save on one subject, and he sped towards his goal, longing only for the moment that should bring him face to face with her he loved.

The moon was low in the sky, yet gave light enough to have guided him on his way, even had not every step of it been familiar as the handle of his sword. Was it strange he should have found so readily a path that led to the home of Ishtar? that he should have had access to the roof of a dwelling adjoining the palace of Arbaces? that the girl herself should have been restless, unable to sleep, and fevered with a desire to spread her carpets and cushions under the sky in the cool night air by the parapet of her father's house?

No, it was not strange; and the reason seemed simple enough as explained in a low measured chant, by a rich sweet voice—richer and sweeter that it was toned down and suppressed—which thrilled and scorched through every fibre of the young girl's being, while Sarchedon poured forth his heart in passionate pleading conveyed through the fanciful imagery of the East.