CHAPTER XXXII
HOW MORGIANA PROFFERED TWO CUPS
It was the next morning at El Halebah that Mary found Morgiana in her aviary. Here, in a broad chamber at the top of the palace, too high for any vulgar eye that chanced across the Kuweik to light on the dwellers of this wind-loved spot, the Arabian had her eyry. The high openings in the walls were overhung with fine, nigh invisible nettings, the floor strewn with white sand; and, despite the height, means had been found to keep a little fountain playing in a silver basin; and just now two finches were gayly splashing in its tiny pool. All around in deep tubs were growing oleanders, myrtle, laurel, although the birds made difficult the lives of the blossoms; there were hairy ferns, and the scent of sweet thyme was in the air; around the arabesqued columns roved dark, cool ivy; in and out through the meshes of the netting buzzed the adventurous honey-bee, flying thus high in hopes of spoil. Everywhere were the birds—finch, thrush, sparrow, ring-dove, and even a nightingale that, despite the drooping for his vanished freedom, Morgiana had by some magic art persuaded to sing evening after evening, and make the whole room one garden of music. As the young Arabian stood, upon her shoulder perched a consequential blackcap cocking his saucy head; and a wood-pigeon was hovering over her lips trying to carry away the grain there in his bill. Morgiana had named all the birds, and they learned to answer to their calls. As for fearing her, they would sooner have fluttered at their own shadows. Mary pushed back the door, stepped inside, and as she did so a whir of wings went through all the plants, for she was not so well known to the birds as was their mistress. But after the first flash and chirp there was silence once more, save as the doves in one corner kept up their coo, coo, around a cherished nest. Morgiana opened her lips; the pigeon swept away the grain, and lit upon a laurel spray, proud of his booty. Then the Arabian turned to her visitor. The Greek was very pale; under her eyes dark circles and red, as if she had slept little and cried much. For a moment she did not speak. Then Morgiana brushed the blackcap from her shoulder, and ran and put her arms about Mary.
"Ah! sweet sister,—so I have you back again! It was as I said, folly, impossible madness."
"Yes, madness!" answered the Greek, very bitterly. "I was indeed mad to forget that I am naught but a weak woman, made to be admired and toyed with, for strong men's holiday. But oh, it was passing sweet at first to think, 'I am free—I am going to Richard!'" And at the name of the Norman, her eyes again were bright with tears.
"O dearest and best!" cried Morgiana, clasping her closer, "what can I say to you, how comfort you? I heard the eunuchs tell of the plight in which Iftikhar found you. My blood runs chill as I speak. Allah! There are worse things than to be a captive of Iftikhar Eddauleh!"
"You say well, my sister; but how came Iftikhar to follow me? You did not betray? You told the tale I gave you?"
"Yes," protested the Arab, with half a laugh. "But in the morning, while Iftikhar foamed and the eunuchs dragged the pond, there came on me the desire to breathe the hemp smoke, and when the craving comes, not all the jinns of the abyss may stop me. And as I reeled over the smoke, I saw you in direful peril, clutched by wanton hands, facing a fate worse than death! Then I fought with myself. You were gone at last! And my evil nature said to me, 'Leave the Greek to her living death. Iftikhar is yours alone, you may win back his heart again, and be happy—happy!' But, O dearest, when I thought of your agony, I could not be silent. I told Iftikhar whither you had fled, and he spurred after and saved you."
"Yes," echoed Mary, "he has 'saved' me, as you well say. Not a word did he speak to me on the homeward journey. Last night I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. Oh, bliss, how sweet that long sleep was! And in it I saw Richard Longsword, and he was holding my hand, and I could look up into his face. Then I awoke—Hakem, near me, saying that by the command of the emir hereafter he was to have my ordering! It was passing from heaven to nethermost hell. And here I am again! Helpless, passive, for others to work their will upon! while twenty leagues away lies Antioch and Richard and perfect joy. Yet I thank you, sister,—there is something worse than to be in the hands of Iftikhar, but God alone knows if there be anything I may pay you for the debt I owe."
"Do you believe in a good God?" said Morgiana, stepping backward and looking into the Greek's eyes.
"Do not Christians and Moslems alike believe in Him?" was the wondering answer.
"Then," persisted Morgiana, a fierce ring coming into her tone; "why does He suffer you to endure such sorrow?"
"He alone knows," was the reply. "It is as I said,—some fearful sin that I have committed and forgotten; or else"—and there was a new brightness in the eye of the Greek—"I am permitted to endure some pain that my husband had otherwise been made to bear."
"O foolish one!" came the retort of the Arabian. "You sin? The soul of Allah is not whiter than yours; no, not as white! Richard Longsword is strong enough to endure his own pains; yes, and has endured them if you are to him as he to you! I will curse God—you may not stay me. Unkind, cruel, He is! All-powerful indeed, yet using His power to plunge His creatures into misery!"
The Greek shuddered. "Beware! He will strike you dead!" her warning.
"Dead?" echoed Morgiana, lifting her dark bare arms high, as if calling down heavenly wrath, and bidding it welcome; "almost I think His power ends there! If He had mercy on me, I were dead long ago. But no—I go on, living, breathing, talking, laughing,"—and here she did indeed laugh, in a terrible manner that made Mary quake.
"Pity me. God is angry enough with us already. Anger Him no more!" cried the Greek.
Morgiana laughed again. "Hei!" she continued, "let us look at our case with both eyes. You are back again at El Halebah. By your flight Iftikhar assuredly considers his pledge to you at an end. What do you expect?"
"To be treated like any other captive of his 'bow and spear,' as you people say. To be at his will, sometimes to be caressed as these birds are by you, sometimes neglected; when I grow old or out of favor to see new women thrust before me, as, St. Theodore pity me, I have supplanted you. I shall in time grow sleepy, fat, and in a poor way contented; for such is the manner of the harem. Within four walls and a garden I shall live out my life. If God is still angry, I shall become very old. At last I shall die—when I shall have been among you Moslems so long that I can scarce remember 'Our Father.' Where my soul then will go, I know not; it will be worth little; sodden and dried by this cageling's life till an ox's were nobler."
"O dearest," cried the Arabian, laughing, but half in tears now, "your words are arrows to my soul. You must be free, free—either you or I. What would you give to be truly free? Give for rest, peace, joy, an end of sorrow, struggle, longing?"
"That waits only beyond the stars," answered the Greek. But she started when she saw the wandering glitter in Morgiana's eyes, and there was a wild half-rhythm in the Arabian's words when she replied: "Why not the stars and beyond? Why not seek out the pathways of the moon, the gates of the sun, the enchanted islands of the sweet West, and rest, rest, sleep, sleep—pangless, painless, passionless!"
"Morgiana!" exclaimed Mary. The other answered still in half-chant. "Yes, there is a way—a way. I will go, will return, and to one of us the door is opened,—opened wide!"
Then with a gliding, uneasy step she started away. "Back!" warned Morgiana to Mary, who attempted to follow. "I will do myself no harm. I return at once." Almost immediately she reëntered, in each hand a silver cup, the cups identical, each filled with violet sherbet. She set them upon the slab by the fountain. There was no madness in her glance now.
"I am thirsty," said the Greek, simply; "may I drink?"
"Drink?" repeated the Arabian, with a strange intonation. "Yes, in Allah's name, but first hearken! Many years ago, in Bagdad, a wise old woman taught me of an Indian drug, two pellets, small as shrivelled peas, in a little wine. Drink, and go to sleep—sleep so sound that you waken only when Moukir and Nakir, the death angels, sift soul from body. In Palermo, Iftikhar brought to his harem a Moorish girl. It was the hour of the beginning of my sorrow. A little made my breast fire, and my jealousy was swifter than the falling stars, which are Allah's bolts against the rebel efreets. One night when the Moor drank sherbet, she tasted nothing, she went to sleep; they found her body with a smile on the lips—her soul—? Ask the winds and the upper air."
Mary's eyes were fastened on the silver cups; were they brimmed with nectar of the old Greek gods that they should charm her so? She heard her heart-beats, and bated her breath while Morgiana continued: "You wish to be free. So do I. Life is terrible to you; only when you sleep is there peace, fair visions, joy. Do you know, I had resolved, when I learned Iftikhar was bringing you to Aleppo, that you should drink of sherbet from my hands the first night of all; and wake—where even Iftikhar's eagle eye could never follow you?"
"Holy Mother! why did you spare me?" came across Mary's teeth.
"Why? Because, when I saw you pure as a lily of the spring, and so fair that the rose blushed in redder shame before you, and knew that your sorrow passed mine,—I had no will to kill you. Yes, your very love for death disarmed my hate. And now?"—she pointed to the cups.
Mary felt herself held captive as her spellbound gaze followed Morgiana.
The Arabian knelt by the marble slab; took up the two cups; held them forth.
"Mary, Star of the Greeks," said Morgiana, looking straight into the Christian's eyes, "you believe in God; that He is good; that He orders all things well. Be it so. Then either He ordains that you spend your life the slave of Iftikhar, or that you be free. Either He ordains that I should possess Iftikhar, and he me—me only, or that I should flit far hence, where pang and remembrance of my loss can never follow. Therefore I say this. Here are two cups, alike as two drops of the spraying fountain. In one,—but I say not which,—I have placed the pellet of the Indian drug. The cups I cannot tell apart, save as I remember. You shall take the cups. I leave the room. You shall place them where you will, only so that I may forget which has received the magic pellet. I will then return. You shall drink of one, whichever you choose,—I the other. We shall kiss one another three times, lie down on the divan, and rest. Whom Allah wills, shall awake beyond the stars; whom Allah wills, shall awake in El Halebah! All is left to God. There is no taste, no pang; only sleep, sweet as a child on its mother's arm. For every day my love for you grows; but every day my heart says, 'Except Mary the Christian and Morgiana the Moslem be sundered by seven seas, woe—only woe—for both!'" Still the Greek did not reply. What were these visions flitting before her eyes? Not the birds; not the feathery palm groves waving beneath the palace walls. All her past life was there,—her father's stately house in Constantinople; the glory of the great city; the wild scenes of the escape to Sicily; Richard Longsword plucking her from the Berbers; the tourney—De Valmont in his blood; the hour when Richard touched her lips with the first kiss; the marriage; the last sight of her husband in the morning twilight at Dorylæum. Scene upon scene, a wild, moving pageant; yet behind all seemed to hover the shadow of Iftikhar—Iftikhar, the cause of sorrow and tears unnumbered. Still Morgiana held out the cups. "Taste!" she was saying. "You cannot tell. All is in the hands of God,—whether you bow your head to your fate, or to-night the moonbeams are your pillow; or whether I am escaped from all my heartache; can flit over your couch on unseen wing, and teach you to endure, as best you may, till the hour comes when hand in hand we can fly up the path of the sun and join in the dance of the winds."
As bidden, Mary touched her finger first in one cup then in the other, placing each drop in turn on her lips. The same—she might have drained both goblets and known no difference. Truly the issue was with God! And still Morgiana proffered.
"Take; we have been dear sisters together. How can I bless Allah when I desire to love you so, yet know that your life is misery to me, as misery to you? You have many times said you prayed for death."
And then Mary spoke, a wondrous spell binding her:—
"Not so, Morgiana,—unfair. Why should I live and you die? Let me drink alone of this blessed drug that makes the heart cease bleeding. And you may live—live and be glad with Iftikhar."
Morgiana shook her raven-black hair, and spoke with an awful smile.
"Always is death sweet—I will not shun it, if Allah so wills. All I know is, we twain cannot live together; not in this world. Perhaps it is the Most High's will that I should go out, and you remain to give joy to Iftikhar. We leave all to Him. Then let us drink; and each await the other. Therefore—take." Mary had received the cups. "Place them where and as you will; I return speedily." And Morgiana was gone. The Greek gazed on the magic liquor as though on her lover's face. Almost she seemed to feel herself transformed, transfigured; clothed with wings white as swans' sails, and soaring upward, upward into perfect freedom. She saw her father, her mother,—that fair angel face of childish years. She thought of Richard Longsword. There would be no time for her, while awaiting the golden morning when her husband could look upon her face with naught to dread. Did thus God will? She had set the cups on the railing by the windows. "Come back!" was her call to Morgiana. The Arab glided straight to the cups; took one; lifted to her lips. "Let Allah have pity on one of us!" her words. But as Mary's hand stretched out to do the like, she gave a mighty cry. Her goblet fell: the other was dashed from Morgiana's hand.
"Dear God! What do we?" cried the Greek. "Spare me this temptation! Nor do you commit this wickedness. Never shall we so tempt God. Though the grief be a thousand times more great, yet will I trust His mercy. I am a Christian, and Our Lord did not hang on the tree in vain to make us strong to bear. Death would be sweet. But had we God's wisdom, our present pangs would seem nothing, hid in the speeding ages of joy. Let us, each after our manner, call on God to show us pity. But never shall one of us stand before His face unsummoned, and cry, 'I am too weak to bear what Thou appointest!'"
Morgiana's face flushed livid; she staggered back.
"Then let Allah, if He may, have mercy; our need is great!"—such her cry from twitching lips. But as the words came, Mary saw the Arab's eyes set in a glassy stare; the lithe form fell heavily. Mary caught her round the waist, and laid her on the marble floor by the fountain; then dashed water in her face, and shouted for help.
Help came—the under-eunuchs, Hakem, Zeyneb; and finally Iftikhar, lordly and splendid, in a suit of perfectly plain black armor with two white hawks' wings nodding on his helmet, spurred and girded as for a foray. The eunuchs brought cordials, strong waters, and pungent perfumes. But Iftikhar first knelt by Morgiana's side, drew forth the little red vial, and laid the magic, fiery drops upon her tongue. The Arab shook herself; her form relaxed; the eyes opened. They bore her into a room leading from the aviary, and propped her on the divan cushions. Not till then did Iftikhar speak a word. Now one gesture sent all save the two women and Zeyneb from the chamber, when the emir broke forth:—
"In the name of Allah Omnipotent, what means this, Morgiana? I demand it; speak!"
And the Arab answered with her gaze full on Iftikhar.
"Cid, I asked Mary the Greek to drink out of one of two goblets, in one of which was a sleeping potion from which the sleeper awakens never. She refused, saying it were better to endure than to tempt the Most High. That is all."
A flash of terrible rage crossed the emir's face. "Witch! sorceress! Have you sought to make the Greek take her life? As the Most High lives, you shall be impaled!"
"Peace, master," said Mary, gently. "I have refused her proffer. Be assured I will find strength to bear until I see once more my true husband, or having endured your unholy will, in God's own time I die."
But at the word the face of Iftikhar was blackened with yet deeper fury. "Your husband!" came thickly. "Yes, master," answered the Greek; "for, living or dying, Richard de St. Julien is my true husband."
Iftikhar cut her short: "Dying? What if dead?"
A frightful suspicion crossed Mary's mind. It was her face that was pallid now. But Iftikhar reassured her with a forced laugh: "Ya, how easy to tell you, 'Richard, the Frankish barbarian, whose sport is slaying guileless boys, has gone to his long account in the fighting around Antioch.' But I say to you, he lives, and I go to Antioch to seek his life."
The Greek was herself once more. Very steadily she answered: "Master, let God judge Richard de St. Julien for slaying Gilbert de Valmont, since Zeyneb I see has learned and told the tale. But let God also judge Iftikhar Eddauleh, who is mightier with the dagger of his underlings than with his own sword, and who finds iron lances as light in his hand as those of reed."
The words of the Greek were slingstones whirled in the emir's face. In the blindness of his fury he sprang toward her, and struck. The woman tottered, recovered; then tore back the muslin from her neck and shoulders:—
"Strike!" cried she, "strike again! Are you not master? Are you not lord of this body of mine you so lust after? What is a little pain, a few blows, beside what I ever bear!"
Iftikhar's muscles grew tense as springing steel when he reined in his passion. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky: "Woman, you drive me to all bounds. You do well to call me 'master.' Truly I am, as you shall own with sorrow, if not with joy. But two evenings past you were queen, with the heir of Hassan Sabah your slave. But now—" he was silent, but broke forth again—"my pledge to you is at an end. You are mine. I will break your will, if I may not win it. You still hold the face of Richard Longsword dear?"
"Yes, by every saint!" flashed the defiant Greek.
"Hark, then," was the laugh of hate; "I go soon to Antioch in company with the great host Kerbogha of Mosul gathers to rescue Yaghi-Sian besieged by the Christians. I go second in command, with the twelve thousand 'devoted' of Syria, to whom death is less than sleep, who can stanch thirst with the vapor from the sunburned sand, whose steeds find food sniffing the desert blast. We will gird round the Franks tight as a ring girds the finger. I know the bull valor of your Christians. But they shall die as die the flies, or fall one and all our prey—prisoners. And Richard Longsword—"
"Look him fairly in the face—as at Dorylæum!" cried the Greek, in hot scorn. "As at Dorylæum!"
"And Richard Longsword," continued Iftikhar, still steadily, "as surely as the sun moves from east to west, I will slay in battle, or, taking alive, you shall see him my captive. Yes; by the brightness of Allah! When I go to Antioch, you go also; with your own eyes you shall see the fate of those Franks you love. You shall see Richard borne asunder on the cimeters of the 'devoted' or haled fettered before me."
He paused, expecting an outburst. None! The Greek was standing proudly, her head poised high, eyes very bright.
"And at the end you shall indeed touch the head of your Richard. The head,—for you shall hear the crier traverse the city, proclaiming, 'He who would amuse himself, come to the great square,—the body of Richard the Frank is exposed to the dogs!'"
Mary took two steps toward the Ismaelian; her voice was low; she was pale, but did not tremble.
"Lord Iftikhar, if God suffered and you placed even now the head of Richard Longsword in my arms, rest assured I would kiss it with never so much love. For I would know a brave and noble spirit waited on high till it were granted me to stand at his side, all his sins washed white by God's mercy. But, my Cid, better to think of bearding the lion than of celebrating the hunting. For, hear my word; go to Antioch, you, the 'devoted,' the hordes of Kerbogha,—go all, and meet there men with a love for God in their hearts, a heaven-sped strength in their good arms. Not with dagger and stealth shall you meet; but man to man, breast to breast, sword to sword,—and Christ shall conquer!"
"Silence!" tossed out the emir, losing self-control.
"Well you cry 'silence'! First silence your own dark soul—silence reproach for blood spilled wantonly, for tears your deeds have made to flow. At heart you Ismaelians believe in no God! Believe then in devils; tremble! For many await you! And this you shall find: men can die for Christ no less than for Allah! Aye, and can live for Christ; by His strength, make you Moslems die! As for me I shall not die; in some strange way, by some strange voice, I am warned God will save me utterly; and I shall see you blasted, stricken, accursed—and that were joy of joys!"
Mary's voice had risen higher, fiercer; her hands outstretched in imprecation. Before the wild gust of her passion Iftikhar had shrunk back like a timid beast. For a moment the Greek was master, queen as never before. Then sudden as the flame had flashed, it died. Mary stood with drooping head, silent, statue-like.
"Away! From my sight!" commanded Iftikhar. His captive did not move. Hakem had reëntered.
"Take her away," cried his master; "keep her close,—let her lack nothing; but as Allah lives, her will shall bow. Let her go to Antioch when I go; but I will not see her face again until I can show her Richard Longsword dead or my captive. And now—begone!"
Mary followed the eunuch with never a word. But Morgiana, silent long, broke forth:—
"Cid—seek no more blood in private quarrel. Keep the Greek. I do not pray for her or for me. But for your own sake—for you who are still the light of my soul, despite all the wrongs—do not go to Antioch. Ruin awaits you there. Even the 'devoted' shall fail. True is Citt Mary's warning. Allah will fight with the Christians. Leave Kerbogha to the decree of doom; leave to doom Richard Longsword. I have said it—ruin, woe awaits at Antioch. I have said it, and my warnings never fail!"
Iftikhar swore a great oath.
"Then by Allah that liveth and reigneth ever, they shall fail now! Let doom decree what it will, to Antioch I go, and to Gehenna speeds Richard Longsword!"
He turned on his heel, while she made no reply.
"Zeyneb," quoth he to the ever ready dwarf, "in your head are hid half my wits. You are a faithful servant. In my cause you would outwit Eblees' self. I declare, by the great name of Allah said thrice, when they proclaim Iftikhar the kalif, they shall proclaim Zeyneb the vizier."
The dwarf wagged his ears after his wont, to show how highly he prized such praise.
"In a few days," continued the grand prior, "I go to join Kerbogha. You know all my plans, my secrets. While at Antioch there may come to El Halebah from Alamont and our other strongholds messages needing instant despatch. You must answer. I give you this signet: seal them in Hassan Sabah's own name."
Iftikhar drew from his bosom a tiny silk bag, and took forth a ring set with a single emerald, worth an emir's treasure house.
"The ring of Hassan Sabah!" exclaimed the dwarf.
"Mashallah! is it not a talisman?" came the reply. "Graven with the sign of the 'dirk and the cord,' no Ismaelian dare refuse anything commanded by the bearer, whosoever he be, under pain of forfeit of the pearl-walled pavilion of Paradise. Even the bidding of a grand prior, except he be present in person to order otherwise, is over-ridden by a fisherman wearing this ring. Therefore guard as the apple of your eye. Place it in the strong box where I keep my gems; only wear the key about your neck."
The dwarf knelt and kissed his master's robe.
"Cid, you overwhelm me with your confidence! How may I requite?"
Iftikhar only laughed carelessly; the dwarf's eye roved round the room.
"Morgiana has seen and heard," suddenly he whispered.
The grand prior's answer was a second laugh. Then he added: "Morgiana? She would shed half her blood before twittering such a secret. Smell out greater dangers, my Zeyneb!"