CHAP. IV.

Sebastian had scarce entered, when Prince Abbas appeared; he came to inform him that, having received intelligence by a deserter from the enemy, of a new movement of the Basha, which it was important for him to frustrate, he should revert to his friend’s advice, and march at nightfall.

At this intelligence, Sebastian’s complexion suddenly altered: “why does your colour change?” asked Abbas, with surprize.

“The information troubles me,” replied his friend, “for I do not feel qualified to march so soon—I am not myself yet—indisposed—disturbed I know not how in my mind.”

“You do not forgive me, I fear,” returned Abbas, “for selfishly checking you in the career of glory;—knight, you wrong me, if you do not honour my motive; if you do not believe that I lament the necessity which forces me to attempt that, which your abler arm need only extend itself to seize.—Let me but redeem my fame, or lose a worthless, slighted life, a life that has now no charms,—since”—the Prince broke off abruptly, smothered a succession of sorrowful sighs, and turning aside his face, moved some steps away.

Sebastian guessed ill at his emotion, when concluding it to arise solely from a warrior’s disappointment, he warmly replied, “What fantastic stain does my Prince attach to himself? valour, judgment, numbers, what are they in war, but uncertain and deceiving things? victory after all is in the hand of Heaven; and when a commander has faithfully employed every faculty of his soul for the success of his army, he may stand acquitted not only to his conscience, but to his countrymen.—Go, however, brave Abbas, I envy not the laurels you are about to gather: your feelings are respected by one who has felt the pang of deserved self-reproach. It was my sad destiny to lose a memorable battle, to cause the deaths of thousands by a mixture of credulity and obstinacy. Yes!” Sebastian added, fixing his eyes upon the symbol of the cross he wore on his shield, “for the blood that flowed in torrents on that fatal day, I have no hope of pardon but from the sacred blood that was shed here.”

A ray of consolation shone on the face of Abbas at this avowal of the invincible stranger; “You must detail this disastrous story when we meet again,” he said, “now I must hasten away—believing that you were to accompany me, I have confided the care of Ispahan to Peri Nadir.—I see by your looks that a night’s repose is absolutely needful to you—join me when you are refreshed.”

Sebastian smiled assent: he looked at his friend, irresolute whether he should not confide to him the project for the night; but an instant’s reflection decided him to remain silent. Abbas might not see the necessity for such haste, and if so, Sebastian could not urge his weightiest reason, which was founded on an apprehension of the Prince’s failure; believing it imprudent to risk opposition, he exchanged a cordial embrace with him, and they parted.

As Abbas passed the portico of the Kiosk, he encountered Sebastian’s page: the boy slowly ascending the entrance steps, with his head bent down, saw not the Prince, who struck by his air and figure suddenly stopped: finding his way obstructed, Zaphna raised his eyes;—those eyes—that ivory throat—that complexion untinted by the faintest red, threw Abbas’s senses into tumults,—did he, or did he not see before him the woman for whom his soul languished?

The eagerness and astonishment of his countenance as he hastily bent forward and attempted to catch the arm of Zaphna, alarmed the object of his scrutiny; Zaphna’s heart died within him, he was on the point of sinking to the earth with grief and shame, when desperately rousing himself, he sprung past the Prince and gained the hall of the Kiosk.

Abbas’s first impulse was to follow; but recalling his scattered senses, and resolving not to accuse Sebastian till convinced beyond all sophistry to disprove, he tore himself from the scene, and ran with a madman’s haste to the abode of Maimuna.

He questioned her slaves and her women—he insisted upon being admitted to her presence—of conversing with her, at least a moment, from her window; he was told that Maimuna was sick and she could see no one. At this information Abbas’s jealous suspicion increased to madness; he commanded her favorite maid to be left alone with him, and giving the reins to his natural violence of character, enjoined her to say on her life whether her mistress were not with the foreign knight, disguised as a boy.

His high authority, his imperious tone, and above all, the fear of his vengeance, terrified the poor servant, she fell at his feet, confessing the truth of his supposition; but of her mistress’s motives for such imprudent conduct she was totally ignorant.

At this confirmation of his worst apprehension, fully as he had expected to receive it, Abbas lost all consciousness, and for a moment his limbs failed under him: it was but a moment of weakness; the anguish of a virtuous passion blighted in its fondest hope, yielded to the phrenzy of resentment: again the burning blood rushed to his cheek, again lightning darted from his eyes, and thunder spoke in his voice.

“Stir not hence on your peril!” he exclaimed, “I go to unmask that hypocrite who has betrayed Maimuna; guilty as she is, I will save her if possible.”

He broke away as he concluded, and taking the road to the Kiosk, was arrested by a woman meanly attired, who bending the knee to him, intreated him to listen to her for an instant—“I cannot stay, woman!—another time—carry your petition to the Sophi,—another time!”

The petitioner laid hold of his robe—“For the love of Ispahan, hear me great Prince!—I have something strange to tell—treason and that foreign knight.”

At these words Abbas was spell-bound—“What of that pernicious wretch!” he exclaimed incautiously. The tone in which he spoke encouraged the woman, and beckoning to a grove of trees that surrounded a fountain, he followed her there impatiently.

The short detail he then listened to set the seal to Sebastian’s fate. This woman, the wife of one of Sir Anthony Shirley’s Italians, had been weakly entrusted by her husband with their projected enterprize: terrified for her husband’s safety, which so hazardous a plan endangered, she took the resolution of disclosing all to Prince Abbas.

Half-detailed by the Italian, therefore imperfectly re-delivered by her, the story presented only a confused account of Sebastian’s intention to fly that night to a fortress of the Basha’s, and that love for some lady had occasioned him to take the step: occupied solely with the image of Mainuma, Abbas filled up the dark sketch as his distracted imagination prompted; he interrogated the woman afresh, and she with a weakness common to informers who are not complete in their information, answered as she saw most consonant with the train of his suspicions.

The Prince believed himself now in possession of a clue to his friend’s sudden wish of absenting himself from the army; love and mortified ambition had then sapped his virtues or displayed their hollowness; he considered him with horror and with hatred: disgrace, public shame, and an ignominious death, were the images which quickly rose to appease his furious passions.

Abbas had no doubt, but that acquainted with all his military plans, Sebastian meant to deliver him into the hands of the Basha; his whole conduct therefore must have been a tissue of falsehood from the commencement, and doubtless the throne or government of Persia, was to be the price of his successful treachery.—In order to make vengeance secure, he believed it right to let the traitor enter upon his base project.

Having stood ruminating awhile, he gave the woman his purse, and bidding her follow him, hastened to the palace.

The surprize of the Sophi exceeded that of his son; his indignation could not pass beyond that of Abbas: an order was immediately issued for several persons to watch the movements of Sebastian, and when he was fairly entered on his plan, and out of the city with his companions, to seize them all and cast them into a dungeon until the return of Prince Abbas.

Forced by duty, Abbas was now obliged to join his troops and commence his march: but his heart in tumults, his brain almost maddened by rage, disappointed love, betrayed friendship, made him ill able to conduct the army of Persia.

Meanwhile Sebastian’s soul respiring only the tenderest and most generous emotions, was anxiously waiting the signal for joining his associates: if his thoughts wandered from Aziek, they left her sweet image only to seek the throne of Almighty Power and Almighty Goodness; they did not leave her, since it was for her he prayed.

Night now had cast her sudden shadow over the city of Ispahan: armed with authority, and permitted to go whither he would, and at whatever hour, the Christian knight called his page, and accompanied by the Turkish soldier, (with whom he appeared conversing about the resources of Ibrahim) he traversed the streets, and passing one of the remotest gates, quickly joined his Italians, who with four stout horses waited at a short distance among some trees.

It was then that Sebastian, who had hitherto preserved a thoughtful silence, which the agitated Zaphna did not appear inclined to break, turned towards him, and giving him a written paper, which the boy took and put into his breast, began to inform him of his destination: at this juncture a band of armed men, headed by an officer of Prince Abbas’s, rushed from behind a thicket, and sprung on the astonished party.

Seized before he could be aware of their approach, and ignorant of his crime, Sebastian knew it would be fruitless to attempt resistance; his calm undaunted air awed his captors; he listened with amazement to their accusation of perfidy; but perceiving the force of appearances, he simply requested to be taken either to the Sophi or to the English Ambassador.

Neither of these requests were granted; he was hurried back to Ispahan, brought to the state-prison, and there thrust into its vilest cell. Zaphna, whose senses had forsaken him at these terrible words—“the Prince of Persia denounces you as a traitor,” was also confined in a dungeon, and left there to weep the consequence of a fatal abandonment of woman’s law.

All these events passed with so much circumspection, secrecy, and promptitude, that not even Sir Anthony Shirley heard the news till the next day at noon: transfixed with horror, scarcely crediting his senses, and incapable of lightly attributing such unexampled baseness to the noble Portuguese, feeling too that not only his own honour was implicated, but the interest of his sovereign endangered by her ambassador’s indiscreet confidence, he lost no time in seeking an audience of the Sophi.

The aged monarch’s faculties had received a stimulus from these extraordinary circumstances, and he spoke with as much discrimination as vehemence, while he refused to permit an interview between Shirley and the foreigner, until the return of Prince Abbas.

Overwhelmed with regret and trouble, Sir Anthony retired, still wandering in a maze of contradictory fears, conjectures, and hopes.

Meanwhile Sebastian remained in his dungeon the prey of agonizing thoughts: his guards had informed him that he was accused of intending to betray the Persians, that his guilt was proved by the evidence of the Italians, who confessed that they were employed to attend him to the Basha’s fortress; and that the pretence of going to release a favorite lady, was rendered absurd by the circumstance of his being detected in carrying off a Persian woman. That crime alone deserved death, more especially since this woman was now known to be the object of Prince Abbas’s concealed attachment.

At this detail Sebastian gave himself up for lost: innocent as he was, circumstances had fatally conspired to give an air of falsehood to his conduct, and from whatever motive Maimuna had sought his protection, it was evident his life must pay the forfeit of her indiscretion. Not for himself, he alternately supplicated Heaven’s assistance, or wildly bewailed its hard decree; it was for Kara Aziek that he raved, for her who only lived in the fond hope of obtaining liberty and happiness from his hands.

One ray of consolatory expectation beamed on him; it proceeded from a knowledge of Abbas’s naturally noble character: perhaps even outraged love might not be powerful enough to harden so upright a heart against the impression of truth. If Sebastian were frankly to relate the story of his attachment, Abbas might eventually discover, that the friend in whom he had confided, had neither betrayed his mistress nor his King.

This expectation was soon destroyed: the first day closed, the second night was already far advanced, when tumultuous sounds were heard in the streets of Ispahan; confusion, consternation, sorrow, evidently reigned throughout the capital; murmurs and lamentations reached even to the dungeon of Sebastian: half-starting from the ground on which he was lying, he listened to catch some articulate sound, nothing was distinct; all was hurry and distress.

Divining part of the truth, his agitation became intolerable: Abbas, most likely, had been again defeated.—Mighty God! and Sebastian’s avenging arm was chained down by iron bolts! at this thought, the groan that burst from his great heart shook the wails of his cell: he pulled, he tugged his heavy chain; he essayed to tear up the ponderous staple by which it was rivetted to the stone pavement. Vain were all his efforts; again the noise increased—it approached—it was in the prison!

At the echo of several hasty steps passing his door, he demanded loudly what had happened? for a while no one attended to him; at length a person answered sternly, “the Prince is taken, the Sophi is dead—the people call aloud for your head!” the man moved away as he spoke, leaving Sebastian transfixed with an emotion to which no name could be given: it might be hope, it might be despair; Sebastian himself knew not which it was.

While yet motionless, he heard his name repeated vehemently without, and re-echoed through all the passages of the vaults; a moment after, the door of his cell flew open.

Prepared to meet instant death, the brave and unfortunate King roused himself to breast the torrent of popular fury; his whole soul was collected in his eyes, as he drew back like one who stations himself, and directed a steady look towards his murderers.

A croud rushed in; amongst these, he beheld Sir Anthony Shirley, and the still-disguised Maimuna: sinking at his feet, while some soldiers knocked off his fetters, she exclaimed, “you are free! hasten to rescue the Prince!”

The dream-like amazement of Sebastian suspended utterance, he looked round on the persons who filled the cell with an air which asked explanation; Sir Anthony Shirley with less agitation but equal haste briefly replied, that the paper found on Zaphna, added to her voluntary confession, and the testimony of him who had acted as interpreter between him and the Turkish prisoner, had cleared his reputation; that the people no longer doubted his fidelity, but trusted to him for succour in this their time of extremity.

Prince Abbas had been taken by a stratagem, with all his principal officers, and overcome with such news, the aged Sophi had expired of grief: the soldiers now called for their former general, and so far from thirsting for his blood, they swore not to unsheath a sword unless at his command.

On the wings of the wind, with a heart triumphing in the hope of again rescuing his friend, Sebastian broke through the crowd, and joined the diminished troops; a sword caught from the hand of a guard flamed in his grasp; his eyes communicated electric fire to every desponding individual: with one voice they hailed their war-genius, and marshalling around him, called on him to lead them to victory.

This spontaneous acquittal touched him sensibly: these people then, were better judges of his character than the man who believed himself his friend; but these people compared his actions without prejudice, and Abbas was blinded by jealousy.

Did Sebastian meditate what is called a noble revenge, when he traversed with the velocity of light, the tract of country which divided him from Abbas? no; his heart was only eager to prove its own integrity and to save his friend.

Animated by his example, the troops respired confidence and conquest: they ran rather than marched; and in a few hours came up with the Basha, who, evading the remnant of Abbas’s army, had made a skilful turn, and leaving a small force to amuse and keep them in check, was advancing rapidly upon Ispahan.

Inequality of numbers was now an atom; where everything must be lost, where everything is not risked, there remains no alternative. Sebastian drew up his little army in an advantageous position, which from the nature of the ground, rendered the enemy’s cavalry useless, and blocked out part of his infantry; there he offered, and he gave battle.

Who may doubt the success of loyalty and enthusiasm? Sebastian poured the tide of battle at will: his troops repulsed those of the Basha; attacked in their turn, broke through the thick squadrons, dispersed, drove, pursued, routed them!

The Basha himself fell by the hand of a Persian soldier: at this event the Turks and Syrians laid down their arms and terminated the contest.

Sebastian flew to their camp; he enquired for the Prince of Persia and was shewn a tent strictly guarded, where the soldiers delivered up their swords and led him in. Seated on the ground in a posture of sullen despair, he beheld Abbas; the Prince raised his eyes, the lightning that flashed from them announced his error: “what, traitor? escaped?” he started up as he spoke, and would have rushed upon his deliverer, but Sebastian wrested his arm, exclaiming in a voice that made itself obeyed, “hold Prince! there are some things which not even a friend may pardon:—I am your friend still.”

At this instant the tent was crouded with Persian officers and soldiers; some fell at their beloved monarch’s feet, some pressed forward to kiss his hand, while all expressed, in confused sentences, admiration of Sebastian. Abbas eagerly inquired the meaning of these eulogiums.

His royal father’s chief equerry, who had been present during the strange avowal of Maimuna, hastened to inform him, that one of the officers who had assisted in seizing the Christian, recollected a paper which, had been found on the page, and which though directed to Sir Anthony Shirley, he carried to the Sophi: this paper contained Sebastian’s narrative to the ambassador of his intended enterprize, and its motives. The Sophi astonished and bewildered sent for Shirley, and by his advice caused the man to be sought for, who had interpreted between the knight and the Turk; this man’s evidence was in strict conformity with the contents of the letter: nothing remained but to elucidate the mystery of Sebastian’s female page.

Maimuna was sent for; it was then, that wild with despair at having caused so much horror, the trembling girl sunk on her knees, and confessed that a hopeless passion for the Prince had prompted her to assume a disguise, and seek the protection of one with whom she thought herself assured of seeing Abbas: she protested that her wishes had not gone beyond that of ever being near him, and perhaps of succouring him if wounded. His apparent unobservance of her, (for how often does love thus painfully blind us to what we wish to see!) had persuaded her that she might be seen by him under any form without being recognized; since however he had discovered her, since it was Abbas who deemed her guilty of an unpardonable crime, she was willing to expiate her fault, and end her grief with her life.

This extraordinary recital was accompanied by an emotion too powerful for art to assume; her tears and blushes while she spoke of Prince Abbas, bore conviction to the Sophi, who pitying so excessive a passion, and moved by the memory of her dead father’s services, granted her forgiveness, and commanded all mention of her disguise to cease amongst his attendants.

The other companions of Sebastian having been separately re-examined, continued to bear the same testimony to the fidelity of their master—they were therefore honourably discharged, and the Sophi was just about to charge the impatient Shirley with an order for his gallant friend’s release, when a messenger arrived with the news of Prince Abbas’s capture.

At the first words spoken by this indiscreet person, the aged Sophi fell into the arms of an attendant, deprived of sense: he breathed again, but he spoke no more; his eyes were for awhile raised with anguish to Heaven, then weighed down by the hand of death, closed for ever!

When the officer who narrated these events came to this part of his recital, the young Sophi uttered a cry, and throwing himself on the earth, covered his head with his mantle; no one ventured to disturb his grief:—the tears of a virtuous son for a tender parent are precious in the sight of men and angels.

After awhile he raised himself with a serious but desolated air, and looked wishfully round for his friend; but he saw him not. Sebastian had disappeared the moment his own justification began; he had gone in search of Kara Aziek.

Trembling at every question he put to the Turks and Syrians, lest their answers should inflict a deadly wound, he hurried from tent to tent: at length one of the Basha’s officers confirmed the account given by Jusuf, and assured Sebastian that the Moorish lady with her attendants were still in the fortress of Ebhn Sait.—There was yet another question to ask, and again the lover’s heart died within him; the inquiry rose to his lips, and fell back.

After some efforts he was able to ask whether the Basha’s marriage had yet been solemnized?—“No—the Moorish lady had at first pleaded the rights of mourning; then followed the death of an European woman who accompanied her; and that event, united to the warlike anxieties which forcibly engrossed the Basha, had delayed his happiness; since that period she had suddenly proclaimed herself a Christian, and swore to die rather than unite her soul with that of an infidel.”

What became of Sebastian at this information?—a pang of joy (for it was joy even to agony,) seized his passionate and pious heart; he caught the arm of the man who spoke, and closing his eyes, exclaimed in a suffocated voice, “stop—stop—I can bear no more!”

A few moments recovered him; he moved his hand from the Mussulman’s arm, and rushing away, to a solitary spot, prostrated himself before that Saviour whose divine mission Aziek had at length acknowledged.

He wept in the fullness of virtuous satisfaction: her conversion, her safety, his late perilous situation, the triumph of his arms, the rescue of Abbas, those tumultuous changes of his fate from disgrace to exultation, from despair to transport, changes which had hurried and exhausted his soul—all flowed in these relieving tears. It might be said that this was the most delicious moment of Sebastian’s life.

Having indulged his emotion, he arose, and returned to find Prince Abbas: they met seeking each other.—Abbas abashed at sight of a man to whom he owed so much, and whom he had used so violently, stopped, drew back, and averting his head with a look of shame, timidly stretched out his arms: the generous Sebastian sprung forward and strained him to his breast; that embrace supplied the place of speech.

They remained silent for some time; at length preventing the faltering voice of the young Sophi, Sebastian exclaimed, “we part here, my friend, for awhile—you doubtless hasten to re-animate Ispahan—I fly to secure her, without whom I am nothing.—When thou seest her Abbas!—thou wilt confess—but no—it is her soul thou shouldst see, to make a love like mine lose its seeming madness.”

The Sophi answered by ordering his troops to follow at the command of Sebastian; he would not pain his noble friend by obstinately recurring to those thanks he wished to wave, but he grasped his hand while speaking, with an agitation of eye and limb, which left no doubt of his gratitude. The army then arranged themselves in the order of march, with their prisoners and their spoil, and headed by their new sovereign, took the road to Ispahan.

Sebastian selected a small band in case of resistance, and crossed the country to the fortress of Ebhn Sait.

As he ascended the steep heights leading to this interesting place, his heart alternately rushed forward and receded: how much did he still fear! for how much he loved!

The oriental architecture of the building, and the romantic scenery amongst which it stood, rendered its appearance rather beautiful than threatening: a few pieces of Turkish ordnance mounted the walls; these however were deserted; and as Sebastian approached, he beheld the gates open and the courts unguarded.—His hopes withered at once; he halted an instant, then recovering himself, gave some brief orders in case of being allured by a stratagem; he then led part of his troops into the interior.

No one was visible; they penetrated the passages and the chambers; all were abandoned.—Struck with grief and dismay Sebastian pronounced in a sorrowful tone the name of Kara Aziek; that well-known voice was answered by a cry of joy: a door hitherto unseen, flew open, and the object of all his hopes and fears springing from a couch on which she had been sleeping, flew towards him, and threw herself into his arms.

His animated air, the dress of the soldiers by whom he was surrounded, the very manner with which he held and embraced her, assured her that he came as a conqueror and a deliverer: her spirit had been long racked with various alarms; the dreadful scenes of war, and the more terrifying contests with the Basha’s rude passion, had completely subdued her, and she was no longer mistress of herself when she felt freedom and happiness on the breast of him she loved.

Her joy took the character of delirium: she wept, and smiled, and sobbed; repeated the same unconnected words again and again; held Sebastian with wild strength, and gazed at him with such a fixed yet troubled look, as a person might be supposed to give, who feared to behold another vanish into air.

This strange transport perhaps mixed a salutary alloy with that of Sebastian; he trembled for her delicately-constructed frame, and far from giving loose to his own feelings, was only assiduous to soften, and gently control hers.

By degrees her joy lost its fearfulness and its tumult, and settled into delightful certainty: she ceased to speak; but she remained leaning on the shoulder of her hero; at intervals raising his hand to her lips with an expression of happiness and gratitude in her eyes, as she lifted them towards heaven.

With what fulness of delight, with what tenderness, did Sebastian sit contemplating her, as their hearts only spoke to each other! The information of the Basha’s officer had taken away every sentiment of regret or self-blame at indulging an attachment which his bigotted tenets sometimes led him to condemn: it was now, that he felt privileged to pour his whole soul into hers,—to mix, to unite, to confound them indeed for ever.

While his arms encircled her, he thought no more of camps or of courts, of the world and its vain pageants; nay, he ceased to think of the beauteous body which enclosed the spirit he loved: he felt that spirit only, and believed that an eternity of such sweet and pure emotions as the present, would be an eternity of beatitude.

The Persian soldiers now re-entered, impatient for permission to sack the fortress and to return home; Sebastian roused himself, and moving with many a lingering look from Kara Aziek, hurried over the building to discover whether any Turks were concealed.—It was evident that these people had precipitately abandoned it on the news of their general’s defeat, (without caring for the women, whom they left as completely ignorant of their flight, as of the motive which prompted it) and had fled homewards.

Having ascertained their absence, and booty, Sebastian prepared litters for his beloved and her women, which they joyfully entered, and borne by soldiers, set forward on their way to the capital.