The Knight of Malta Part 35

Endowed naturally with a n.o.ble and lofty spirit, he had directed all the powers of his soul toward one single aim, that of giving consolation, by imparting to his language that irresistible charm which won and comforted the afflicted.

And what a triumph it was for him, when his tender, sympathising words gave a little hope and courage to the poor slaves chained to their oars, when he saw their eyes, hard and dry from despair, turn to him moist with the sweet tears of grat.i.tude.

We are overwhelmed with admiration when we reflect upon those lives so unostentatiously devoted to one of the most exalted and most sacred missions of humanity. We are lost in wonder when we think of the sublime fort.i.tude of these men, voluntarily placed under the very cutla.s.ses of cruel pirates. We are speechless with amazement when we think of the men who risked their lives every day in order to exhort the slaves, whom barbarians oppressed with labours and tormented with blows, to patience and resignation. What unbounded self-sacrifice and long suffering were demanded of those Brothers of Mercy who went and ransomed, in the midst of the greatest perils, people whom in all probability they were never to see again.

The priest and the missionary enjoy, for a time at least, the good which they have accomplished, the grat.i.tude of those whom they have instructed, relieved, or saved; but the men who devoted themselves to the redemption of slaves held by pirates, were hardly acquainted with the captives whom they delivered, inasmuch as they left them for ever, after having given them the most precious of all boons, liberty!

Nevertheless, it was a joyous day for the Brothers of Mercy when those whom they had ransomed embarked for Ma.r.s.eilles, and there in the church offered solemn thanks to Heaven for their deliverance.

Little children clothed in white, holding green palms in their hands, accompanied them, and their tender hands removed the chains from the captives, a touching symbol of the mission of the Brothers of Mercy.

When Father Elzear appeared on the deck of the galley, all the chained slaves turned to him with a simultaneous movement.

At every step he took, the captives, Moor, Turk, or Christian, leaning beyond their benches, tried to seize his hands and carry them to their lips.

Although Father Elzear was accustomed to receive these evidences of respect and affection, he was never able to prevent tears coming to his eyes.

Never, perhaps, had his pity been more excited than to-day.

The weather was cold and gloomy, the horizon charged with tempest, the environage wild and solitary, and these poor creatures, the greater number of them accustomed to the hot sun of the Orient, were there half naked, s.h.i.+vering with cold, and chained perhaps for life to their benches.

Although the compa.s.sion of Father Elzear was equally divided among all, he could not help bestowing most pity upon those whose lots seemed to him the most desperate.

Since his departure from Malta, where he had joined his brother with ten captives that he had carried back to La Ciotat, he had observed a Moorish slave about forty years old, whose countenance betrayed an incurable sorrow.

No man of the crew fulfilled his painful task with more courage or more resignation. But as soon as the hour of rest arrived, the Moor crossed his vigorous arms, bowed his head on his breast, and thus pa.s.sed the hours in which his comrades tried to forget their captivity, in gloomy silence.

The captain of the mast on the galley, knowing the interest that this gentle and peaceable captive inspired in Father Elzear, approached the priest, and told him the Moor was about to suffer the usual punishment for insubordination.

That morning, this Moor, plunged in his profound and habitual reverie, had not responded to the commands of the overseer.

The officer reprimanded him sharply, and still the Moor sat in gloomy silence.

Incensed by this indifference, which he construed into an insult or a refusal to submit to service, the overseer struck him over the shoulders with the cowhide.

The Moor jumped up, uttered a savage roar, and threw himself on the overseer to the full length of his chain, throwing him down in the violence of his rage, and, but for several sailors and soldiers, would have strangled him.

The captive who raised his hand against one of the officers of the galley was subjected to terrible punishment.

He was to be stretched half naked on one of the largest cannon in the rambade, called the chase-gun, and two men, armed with sharp thongs, were to lash him until he lost consciousness.

This sentence had been p.r.o.nounced that morning on the Moor by the commander. Knowing the inflexible character of his brother, Elzear did not think of asking mercy for the offender; he only desired to soften the cruelty of the sentence by informing the captive himself.

The Moor had but recently embarked, and was utterly ignorant of the fate which awaited him. Father Elzear feared that, by informing him suddenly or sternly of the punishment he was about to undergo, the poor captive might give way to another outburst of fury, and thus incur additional suffering. Approaching him, he found him in that condition of torpor and melancholy into which he always sank when not in the exercise of his painful tasks. He wore, like the other galley-slaves, a mantle of gray stuff with a hood, and linen drawers; an iron band encircled one of his naked legs, and the chain by which he was fastened reached the length of an iron bar from the side of the bench. His hood, drawn over the fez or red wool cap which he wore, threw a transparent shade over his sunburnt face; he held his arms crossed over his breast; his fixed and open eyes seemed to look without seeing; his features were delicate and regular, and his whole exterior announced nothing except a man habituated to fatigue and hard labour.

Father Elzear, as did the greater number of the Brothers of Mercy, spoke Arabic fluently. He approached the captive gently, and, touching him lightly on the arm, woke him from his reverie.

As he recognised Father Elzear, who had always had for him a consoling word, the Moor smiled sadly, took the hand of the priest, and pressed it to his lips.

"My brother is always absorbed in his sorrows?" said Father Elzear, seating himself on the extremity of the bench, and taking the two hands of the slave in his own trembling, venerable hands.

"My wife and my child are far away," replied the Moor, sadly; "they do not know that I am a captive; they are waiting for me."

"My dear son must not lose all hope, all courage. G.o.d protects those who suffer with resignation. He loves those who love their own; my brother will see his wife and child again."

The Moor shook his head, then, with a sadly expressive manner, he lifted his right hand and pointed to the sky.

Father Elzear comprehended the mute gesture, and said:

"No, it is not up there that my brother will see again those whom he longs for. It will be here,--on the earth."

"I shall die too soon, father, so far from my wife and child; I shall not live to see them again."

"We ought never to despair of the divine mercy, my brother. Many poor slaves have said, like you, 'I shall never see my loved ones again,'

yet at this moment they are with their own, peaceful and happy. Often the galleys of religion exchange their captives; why, my brother, should you not be included some day in these exchanges?"

"Some day! Perhaps! That is my only hope," said the Moor, despondently.

"Poor, unhappy man! then why will you say 'never'?"

"My father is right. Never,--never--oh, that would be too horrible!

Yes,--perhaps,--some day!"

And a pathetic smile played upon the lips of the Moor.

Father Elzear hesitated to make the fatal confidence. Yet the hour was approaching and he resolved to speak.

"My brother has won the confidence of all by his gentleness and courage; why, then, this morning did he--"

Father Elzear could not continue.

The Moor looked at him, astonished.

"Why, this morning, instead of obeying the overseer's orders, did my brother strike him?"

"I struck him, father, because he struck me without cause."

"Alas! no doubt you were, as a little while ago, absorbed in your sad reflections; they prevented your hearing the overseer's orders."

"Did he give me orders?" asked the Moor, with a startled air.

"Twice, my brother; he even reprimanded you for not performing them.

Taking your silence for an insult, he then struck you."

"It must be as you say, father. I repent having struck the overseer.

I did not hear him. In dreaming of the past, I forgot the present. I saw again my little home in Gigeri; my little Acoub came to meet me. I was listening to his voice, and, raising my eyes, I saw his mother opening the blinds of our balcony."

Then, with these words, returning to his former position, the Moor bowed his head in heaviness and despondency, and two tears flowed down his bronzed cheeks, as he said, with a heartrending expression: "And then, nothing more,--nothing more."