Standard Selections Part 5

"Art thou mad, O Sall.u.s.t?" said the praetor, rising from his seat. "What means this raving?"

"Remove the Athenian. Quick! or his blood be on your head. Praetor, delay and you answer with your own life to the Emperor. I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of Apaecides. Room there--stand back--give way.

People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits. Room there for the priest Calenus."

"The priest Calenus,--Calenus," cried the mob. "Is it he?"

"It is the priest Calenus," said the praetor. "What hast thou to say?"

"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that the G.o.ds have raised me to proclaim his crime. Release the Athenian--he is innocent."

"A miracle--a miracle," shouted the people. "Remove the Athenian.

Arbaces to the lion!"

"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet," said the praetor.

"Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apaecides?"

"I do."

"Thou didst behold the deed?"

"Praetor--with these eyes--"

"Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time and place. Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard Calenus! Sall.u.s.t, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed."

"To the lion with the Egyptian!" cried the people.

With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In vain did the aedile command--in vain did the praetor lift his voice and proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage.

Arbaces stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.

"Behold!" he shouted with a voice which stilled the roar of the crowd; "behold the G.o.ds protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk, blackness,--the branches, fire,--a fire that s.h.i.+fted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.

There was a dead heart-sunken silence. Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb.

At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theater trembled; and beyond in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone! Over the crus.h.i.+ng vines,--over the desolate streets,--over the amphitheater itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in that agitated sea,--fell that awful shower! The crowd turned to fly--each das.h.i.+ng, pressing, crus.h.i.+ng, against the other.

Trampling recklessly over the fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous pa.s.sages; prisoner, gladiator and wild beast now alike freed from their confines.

Glaucus paced swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets, having learned that Ione was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled to release--to save her! Even as he pa.s.sed, however, the darkness that covered the heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he could guide his steps. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply!

He rescued her and they made their way to the sea, boarded a vessel and were saved from the wrath of Vesuvius.

Arbaces returned to his house to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. He found them not; all was lost to him. In the madness of despair he rushed forth and hurried along the street he knew not whither; exhausted or lost he halted at the east end of the Forum.

High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of fire. He advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a roof and pillar!--The lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an instant on the Imperial Statue--then s.h.i.+vered bronze and column! Down fell the ruin, echoing along the street, crus.h.i.+ng Arbaces and riving the solid pavement where it crashed! The prophecy of the stars was fulfilled!

So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii."

DORA

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora. Take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short; "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said, "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William, take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again."

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.s'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said, "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you.

You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pa.s.s'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again, "Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy, But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To G.o.d, that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more."

Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her, And Allan set him down, and Mary said, "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus, 'G.o.d bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd His face and pa.s.s'd--unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.

I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.

May G.o.d forgive me!--I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."