Читать книгу "God Wills It!" A Tale of the First Crusade - William Stearns Davis - Страница 17

"Yes, my father," was the simple reply; "we have glory, art, learning, a name never to die. But the future is with these Franks—so boisterous, so brutish! For high resolve and higher action make people great, not gazing at statues, and reading of brave deeds done of old."

More silence save for the bulbuls and the fountain.

"Daughter mine," replied the Cæsar, "you say well. We have fought a good fight—we of the Rome by the Bosphorus: we have flung back Avar and Arab. The Turks press hard, yet we may hold them at bay a little longer; but our race is indeed grown old, and our glory, too. And you love the West? What wonder! your mother spoke this Languedoc in which this De Valmont sings. And doubtless you will give your hand to him; men say he is a mighty cavalier; as his wife you will be a great lady among these Franks."

"Father!" cried out Mary, in protest.

"No," said the Greek, still smiling, "I will not give you away against your will. If not he, whom? Does the Moslem Iftikhar find favor? Religion sits light in this strange Sicily."

But Mary shook her head angrily.

"Ah, then you perhaps were glad when young Richard of Cefalu came to-day. But he is no poet like De Valmont. His manners may prove as rough as his blows."

"I will not give myself to a chamberlain or a troubadour. Shall I receive cansos when my hair is gray, or my face wrinkled? If I wish soft manners, let it be one of the eunuch-courtiers about the Emperor's palace."

The Cæsar laughed softly. "You have seen this Richard but little; he saved us both; we owe him all gratitude. He shall come often. I am a shrewd judge of men, and read their faces. His I like well. Just now he thinks De Valmont has you snared, and is very sorrowful. But no trial harms the lover. To-day he worships your face, as do all. Later let us see if he looks deeper, and loves you with all your faults!"

"My faults?"

"Yes," with another soft laugh, "you are over-fond of the applause, and glitter, and whir of admiration. You know your face is very fair to see, and love to let men see it. And though in action you are often prudent and demure, yet—as on that night at Cefalu—you are like a coiled spring—such as moves the singing bird of the Emperor: one touch will make you flash forth in some madness. But beneath all I know you are pure and strong, and will make a noble woman."

"You temper praise with blame, my father," was her answer.

"Now let me sup and go to rest; and while I drink, take your lute and sing. Not from the choruses of Æschylus; nor Pindar nor Anacreon: sing me Proclus's hymn to the Muses, the last pagan poem in our Greek, which is worthy to stand beside our best; and the burden of the hymn, too, fits with my mood to-night."

So Mary took up the lute, let her fingers wander over the strings, and then, while the fountain babbled accompaniment, sang sweet as a silver bell:—

"Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth, The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove: Who all the passage dark to death from birth Lead wandering souls with their bright beams of love.

"Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe, The tender solace of their counsel saves: The healing secrets of their songs forego Despair: and when we tremble at the waves

"Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude, Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed, Their hand points out the beacon star of good, Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:—

"Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who know The winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer; Who light the flame that lightens all below, And bring the spirits of the perfect there,

"Where the immortals are, when this life's fever Is left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed, And souls, like mariners, escaped forever, Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!"

The lute was still. Naught but the plash, plash of the fountain, the distant call of the birds. In through the marble tracery stole the silent panels of moonlight. Manuel Kurkuas sat long in deeper revery:—

"'Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!'" he murmured; "ah! daughter mine, it is late: we must seek rest."