Chapter IV

And how were passed the flying hours of that last day, granted to the young and the beloved, on earth? In desperate and wild, but vain appeals, to her love of life—in still more mournful entreaties by her devotion to them who were the joy of her existence, that she would suffer them to bear her confession of penitence and faith to the pasha.

It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one moment pleading her by every consideration, to take the words of the Mussulman upon her lips, even if her heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking God that He gave to her strength to remain firm in the face of every temptation. It was pitiful to see the hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours, clasping her hands within his own, and folding her so often to his bosom in a wordless embrace.

Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as have no other source but broken hearts; such sighs were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives utterance to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing; such prayers ascended, as the heart of man can alone conceive when every earthly hope has failed, when the terrors of death, and the more terrible agonies of life surround the helpless soul!

Once, when a chance word had called to mind the now almost forgotten, but despised and hated Orien Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing to Othniel the only cause she could conceive of his malice against her. But the reflection that such knowledge would only spur her beloved on to the committal of deeds which would end fatally to him, while it could not possibly avail even if made known to the prejudiced mind of the pasha, in securing her pardon and liberation—made her hesitate, and finally resolve in carrying that slight clue to the cause of her arrest, into the silence and oblivion of the grave.

Only once did she take the name of the accuser on her lips, and then it was to implore Othniel to forgive him his part in their calamity, and to leave him to the mercy of God.

And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all the evil passions which have to do with life, died that day within him—the future time, after that woful night on which he thought with agony, heaven with Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a thought of blessedness—a dream, a hope which the merciful spirit of God breathed into his soul when it laid in the dust of despair.

The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then came forth from the prison cell Othniel, and on his arm was leaning the stricken father, Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last upon the fair young idol which he worshiped with a reverence approaching that which he held for his Maker.

He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him on the iron door, which would open again ere long that she might be led forth to—death. He made no resistance as they went with him to his deserted dwelling. A sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have passed away—he even smiled as they led him through the cheerful rooms of the home that was always made blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was to be in one’s home again, away from the dark and frightful prison. There was a bird of splendid plumage caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion of which bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of Othniel in days long since gone by. The noise of the intruders on the silence of the house, startled the little warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious flood of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation of delight he threw himself upon the couch near by, and listened in rapt astonishment and joy to the exquisite songster.

Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and hastened away in the direction of the prison once more.

The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the mournful cause which brought them there.

A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his unutterable sorrow was too great to bear.

Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to the altar, was to be offered up.

Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged father, and for his unworthy self.

And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone, and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude had gone.

At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream, he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not pass.

Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black, hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength, he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings, until he stood with the great multitude.

For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consume her. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushed through the dense, astonished mass, that gave way right and left before him; past the ranks of vigilant soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of the awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the pale, loving, and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and destroyed by the hand of power.

In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her.

“Othniel!”

“Myrrah!”

None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone.

A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven, knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence.

The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.

There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher love, a loftier and purer faith.

They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames pressed closely on her lovely form, which he had but now clasped to his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom!

There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the father was sleeping the eternal sleep!

The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew.

And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer, for Myrrah’s parting counsel and entreaty had saved him from blood-guiltiness—and the life of Orien Fez was never required at his hands. But Othniel died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God is merciful—His will is best,” and the sands of the desert were his resting-place.